"You, you and you." I transformed them all into doctors with a wave of my hand. "Go out and find an office." I indicated the desks and tables arranged around the classroom. My English students were studying words for the body and sickness. Half of them were to be the doctors who would set up shop and wait for their patients to arrive. The pairs were then instructed to practice lessons from the past by introducing themselves and giving some background information before explaining their symptoms.
As I circulated the room overhearing conversations and stopping to answer questions and make small corrections, I saw creativity and humor- colored in Congolese culture of course. One woman assured me her doctor was a witch. He had prescribed 5 different medicines along with some suspicious herbs to drink in a tea. All she had asked for was something to stop her diarrhea. I was impressed with the level of questioning about symptoms from her "doctor," though agreed the final recommendations seemed like overkill. She could always get a second opinion- an opportune moment to introduce this phrase. As they began to discuss the price, I moved on to another couple.
This doctor had suggested the patient see an ear, nose and throat specialist (oh, the English words I could never imagine bringing into the conversation. It's always so much more rich when they get to role play naturally.) However, the patient had only been experiencing nasal congestion for one day. I recommended a second opinion again, before paying such an enormous sum to an ENT. I'm not sure if the patients had insurance.
We moved to the round table to end our session with a final whole group discussion. I also wanted to take this time to introduce some idioms and phrases. We had decided we would look at one each session- particularly to improve the more advanced students English. I had found a few phrases relating to health. The particular page I had printed was full of color idioms ("in the pink" "feeling blue" "green with envy" etc.) I'd only intended to look at the few phrases dealing with health, but with their usual enthusiasm and insistence we ended up discussing all of the phrases.
This brought us to "black and white" as in certain issues are said to be black and white. Or more precisely, I counseled, most often this phrase is used to suggest an issue is not just black and white. I searched for an appropriate example.
"Stealing. Wrong or right?" I queried. Everyone seemed to readily agree that stealing was unacceptable. "But what if you are only 6 years old and live on the street with no one to help you. You're hungry and have no possibility to eat. Would it be ok to steal....?" I'd meant to add 'some bread or some small fruit' just to distinguish between mugging someone, but I was interrupted.
"Shegue," one of the women said. And with that word she seemed to close the subject. She wasn't seeing a child, her child, alone, cold, hungry, scared. That one word descended like a mask covering any sweet innocence with malicious intention. I simply don't believe it is there, even when they are giving me the finger and rocking my car until I think it might turn over. I don't yet have fear of them. Because I sense it is frustration and desperation that drive them. The shegue. What are they to do? How long can they endure the suffering of trying to survive every moment of every day?
"But if you had a family, hungry children at home and no way to feed them..." I tried to continue. Some others began to enter the debate and things got sticky. This is an excellent group for riling up. Our exchange is based on the fact that they are members of La Jeunesse pour Une Nouvelle Societe but they certainly seem to have a variety of views about how that society might function.
"So you see," I concluded trying to end the session, always a challenging task at best, " it's not black and white. It's a complicated issue...." They continued to discuss and murmur as they made their way into the night.
25.12.12
4.12.12
Dancing & Diving
At first glance, my two topics don't seem to have much in common. The events and even the main characters of each story are as different as I am from the citizens of my host country. But after some reflection, I've come to see the similarities between the two situations.
The first involves a concert at my favorite place, L'Halle de Gombe. They guys were psyched about seeing one of their favorite Guineen reggae stars. Elie Kamano was singing along with a Congolese singer- well, they shared the stage and at this point I can't really recall them singing a song together, but they did trade off the spotlight to each other. The music was quite lively from Elie and he had a clear message. Revolution. Apparently Elie is also know as "the general" and he made some jokes about out ranking his father, a bona-fide member of the Guineen military. But the jokes came later, in more private circumstances. On stage, he sang beautifully about the need for African consciousness and action. He said things many Congolese would be scared to say in public. In fact, while the audience clapped and screamed appreciation, very few were moved to dance.
Ousmane couldn't contain himself and made his way to the stage area within minutes. He was clearly caught up in reminiscence for his home country and over the top about hearing his language bursting from the speakers. He lost himself in wild dance movements and enthusiastic air guitar (complete with empty plastic soda bottle reminding me of the time we went to see Staff Bindi Billi.) Souleymane joined him within minutes also lost in his own reverie. Both of them were clearly in tune with the singer's message and punctuated each verse with a raised, pumping fist. Viva la revolution.
Kazadi couldn't resist joining his brothers up front for some all out dance expression, but he made sure to keep his back to the cameras. After the first few songs he moved his show off to the side and even to the back by the bleachers. "Too much filming," he told me as he continued to sway and sing and shout out encouragement. He also expressed disappointment in the lyrics by the woman singer. Apparently her message was shrouded in vague questions and disguised as a love song. "What kind of message is that?" His eyes filled with dismay. Later discussion revealed even more facts. No Congolese could actually get away with singing those words in public, and in fact, Elie has had a bit of a hard time singing those words in his own country. It seemed pure poetry to me to have him here singing on behalf of the Congolese and only fitting that other Africans would travel to Conakry to express what they could not on their own land. I was reminded of this story where
I came to see it as desperation. Which is the connection to my next story of the diving boys. It may have been on our way to the concert or another trip altogether (there have been several occurrences) when we first encountered the diving boys. They have replaced my little guys that used to sit along the median that divides the boulevard. I still recognize two of them, and they do know me. They are the two that hold their arms out trying to keep the others at a "polite" distance from the car as they ask for money.
"Mama American," they always begin while trying to hold off the pack. It's not an easy task but they do seem to have some control. Just as they seem to realize I am more likely to give over a few francs when I feel like it is my own decision and not by cohersion. Of course, there are often too many to hand out to individually and I am usually left imploring them to share. If they could find a way to live on the streets together, it would result in so much more. But that's a deep philosophy for kids who are just living minute by minute. They've developed a better tactic.
Diving in front of the car. The strategy is to crouch low in front of the wheel or even right in the middle of the car so the driver is unsure if it is safe to move forward. Cars behind don't really care for this strategy and begin honking, shouting and driving around. It definitely puts a damper on the giving spirit. But it is a sign of the level of their desperation. And so it is I came to conclude that the silent, sitting Congolese out for an evening on the town to listen to some reggae were not actually so far removed from the street kids of Kinshasa willing to do anything to gain a little bit of nothing.
The first involves a concert at my favorite place, L'Halle de Gombe. They guys were psyched about seeing one of their favorite Guineen reggae stars. Elie Kamano was singing along with a Congolese singer- well, they shared the stage and at this point I can't really recall them singing a song together, but they did trade off the spotlight to each other. The music was quite lively from Elie and he had a clear message. Revolution. Apparently Elie is also know as "the general" and he made some jokes about out ranking his father, a bona-fide member of the Guineen military. But the jokes came later, in more private circumstances. On stage, he sang beautifully about the need for African consciousness and action. He said things many Congolese would be scared to say in public. In fact, while the audience clapped and screamed appreciation, very few were moved to dance.
Ousmane couldn't contain himself and made his way to the stage area within minutes. He was clearly caught up in reminiscence for his home country and over the top about hearing his language bursting from the speakers. He lost himself in wild dance movements and enthusiastic air guitar (complete with empty plastic soda bottle reminding me of the time we went to see Staff Bindi Billi.) Souleymane joined him within minutes also lost in his own reverie. Both of them were clearly in tune with the singer's message and punctuated each verse with a raised, pumping fist. Viva la revolution.
Kazadi couldn't resist joining his brothers up front for some all out dance expression, but he made sure to keep his back to the cameras. After the first few songs he moved his show off to the side and even to the back by the bleachers. "Too much filming," he told me as he continued to sway and sing and shout out encouragement. He also expressed disappointment in the lyrics by the woman singer. Apparently her message was shrouded in vague questions and disguised as a love song. "What kind of message is that?" His eyes filled with dismay. Later discussion revealed even more facts. No Congolese could actually get away with singing those words in public, and in fact, Elie has had a bit of a hard time singing those words in his own country. It seemed pure poetry to me to have him here singing on behalf of the Congolese and only fitting that other Africans would travel to Conakry to express what they could not on their own land. I was reminded of this story where
"Young people in the eastern city of Goma took to the streets after popular folk musician Fabrice Mumpfiritsa was kidnapped after he refused to sing songs supporting Kabila. He was found three days later, legs and eyes bound and so badly beaten he had to be hospitalized."Ousmane and Kazadi spent a lot of backstage time with the group and eventually Elie and his crew were invited to our house for dinner the next night. I admired Elie for his persistence and dedication in spreading his message to other African countries (apparently DRC was one of 17 African countries on his tour) but remained caught in the idea of the power behind art. And the struggles of the Congolese to such an extent that they refused to dance.
I came to see it as desperation. Which is the connection to my next story of the diving boys. It may have been on our way to the concert or another trip altogether (there have been several occurrences) when we first encountered the diving boys. They have replaced my little guys that used to sit along the median that divides the boulevard. I still recognize two of them, and they do know me. They are the two that hold their arms out trying to keep the others at a "polite" distance from the car as they ask for money.
"Mama American," they always begin while trying to hold off the pack. It's not an easy task but they do seem to have some control. Just as they seem to realize I am more likely to give over a few francs when I feel like it is my own decision and not by cohersion. Of course, there are often too many to hand out to individually and I am usually left imploring them to share. If they could find a way to live on the streets together, it would result in so much more. But that's a deep philosophy for kids who are just living minute by minute. They've developed a better tactic.
Diving in front of the car. The strategy is to crouch low in front of the wheel or even right in the middle of the car so the driver is unsure if it is safe to move forward. Cars behind don't really care for this strategy and begin honking, shouting and driving around. It definitely puts a damper on the giving spirit. But it is a sign of the level of their desperation. And so it is I came to conclude that the silent, sitting Congolese out for an evening on the town to listen to some reggae were not actually so far removed from the street kids of Kinshasa willing to do anything to gain a little bit of nothing.
 |
| Elie at our house |
20.11.12
One truck and a bridge
I have no information about this situation. In the US, I would turn to the newspapers the next morning to find out the details. Here in Kin, there are newspapers but I don't read them much anymore. And I am unconvinced the answers to how this truck managed to be in that position would be found there. Better to strike up a conversation with passersby while taking the photo. Kin is known to be a city of rumors, but it is almost a necessity in a place where the most reliable news about what's going on inside the country comes from sources outside the country.
The biggest question, aside of course from what happened to the driver of this unfortunate vehicle (could he really still be stuck inside- a thought posed by a friend who reasoned nothing is unthinkable and with the cab smashed to such a degree, how could he possible have been extricated anyway?) the next biggest question is....how will this monstrous sculpture be removed....or perhaps will it be removed? I am remembering the hulking remains of crashed planes that line the airport runway.......supposing there is nowhere for them to go and no machine capable of removing or compacting the metal carcass. And so it remains, poised on the edge of the bridge like a giant child's gruesome toy haphazardly thrown off the edge of the road in an eerie game of Matchbox cars.
The biggest question, aside of course from what happened to the driver of this unfortunate vehicle (could he really still be stuck inside- a thought posed by a friend who reasoned nothing is unthinkable and with the cab smashed to such a degree, how could he possible have been extricated anyway?) the next biggest question is....how will this monstrous sculpture be removed....or perhaps will it be removed? I am remembering the hulking remains of crashed planes that line the airport runway.......supposing there is nowhere for them to go and no machine capable of removing or compacting the metal carcass. And so it remains, poised on the edge of the bridge like a giant child's gruesome toy haphazardly thrown off the edge of the road in an eerie game of Matchbox cars.
A small reminder
Goma is in the news again and it seems like nothing can be done to stop it. It is a recurring problem that captures little attention. The immediate repercussions in Kinshasa are small. Students in Kisangani have organized to demonstrate against the ongoing battle that has displaced thousands. This photo was posted on the LeCongolais FaceBook page with the following caption:
Students in Kinshasa from the teacher's college reportedly wanted to demonstrate but were prevented by police from gathering downtown. There may not be enough firepower in the east to control fighting, but in Kinshasa residents are caught in a stronghold. Anytime the possibility of organized and collaborating youth arises, the military come out in force.
As for those of us living comfortably on the grounds of TASOK, life continues much as usual. I sent Mohamed off to his dentist appointment with Souleymane. I finished up my schoolwork to the sounds of pouring rain and wondered if they would be able to find a taxi. Nabih played outside until he was soaking wet and we finally headed for home.
The rain continued and I had visions of Mohamed walking with an aching mouth and dampened shoes. I decided to check out a car and see if I could swoop out to offer them a ride home. As I approached the administration building where the cars are kept, I saw two blue Jeeps and the silver Everest out front. Luck, I thought. Oh then what a surprise when I went to grab a key and instead found this sign:
All the keys were missing and I was dumbfounded for a minute. The idea that I am living under the patronage of someone else is never far from me. My home is not my own, all my life changes must be reported, in a sense and approved (for contract purposes) and a loss of my job would mean a complete and total change of place. Sometimes it is easy to forget this interference in my independence and freedom. I have learned to adapt to reactions to life in the city and make my own careful way (just under the radar I hope.) I can never be far from the juxtaposition of being a foreigner (always a foreigner) protected, secured, privileged and therefore not exactly free. Thoughts on freedom I'll reserve for another post. The refugees fleeing their homes in Goma are not exactly free either, nor are their neighbors waiting for the rebellion to move in and overtake their town. Just a small reminder that freedom is relative. Freedom is as much an attitude and mental state as a physical situation.
"PHOTO DU JOUR : Le siège du PPRD brûlé ce matin par les étudiants pour dénoncer la "complicité" de Kabila dans l'agression du Rwanda à travers leurs poulains du M23. (Students have burned the PPRD building to denounce the complicity of President Kabila in the attacks on Goma by the M23 who are supported by Rwanda)"
Students in Kinshasa from the teacher's college reportedly wanted to demonstrate but were prevented by police from gathering downtown. There may not be enough firepower in the east to control fighting, but in Kinshasa residents are caught in a stronghold. Anytime the possibility of organized and collaborating youth arises, the military come out in force.
As for those of us living comfortably on the grounds of TASOK, life continues much as usual. I sent Mohamed off to his dentist appointment with Souleymane. I finished up my schoolwork to the sounds of pouring rain and wondered if they would be able to find a taxi. Nabih played outside until he was soaking wet and we finally headed for home.
The rain continued and I had visions of Mohamed walking with an aching mouth and dampened shoes. I decided to check out a car and see if I could swoop out to offer them a ride home. As I approached the administration building where the cars are kept, I saw two blue Jeeps and the silver Everest out front. Luck, I thought. Oh then what a surprise when I went to grab a key and instead found this sign:
All the keys were missing and I was dumbfounded for a minute. The idea that I am living under the patronage of someone else is never far from me. My home is not my own, all my life changes must be reported, in a sense and approved (for contract purposes) and a loss of my job would mean a complete and total change of place. Sometimes it is easy to forget this interference in my independence and freedom. I have learned to adapt to reactions to life in the city and make my own careful way (just under the radar I hope.) I can never be far from the juxtaposition of being a foreigner (always a foreigner) protected, secured, privileged and therefore not exactly free. Thoughts on freedom I'll reserve for another post. The refugees fleeing their homes in Goma are not exactly free either, nor are their neighbors waiting for the rebellion to move in and overtake their town. Just a small reminder that freedom is relative. Freedom is as much an attitude and mental state as a physical situation.
Secrets of Beauty
Pedicures, manicures, massages. All of these things belong to the world of pampering and indulgence that I know nothing about. However, wanting to seek out something special for the wedding celebration led me to investigate the art of henna. Henna has a solid history in use during weddings and other festive events. I was a bit surprised to learn about healing properties however, and especially love this quote:
Because I had my henna applied at a friend's house, I was left to awkwardly walk home with my hands held up, pointed out at elbows with palms spread wide to keep from accidentally touching anything.
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Once arriving, I was faced with my immense hunger and unusable hands. I appealed to my eldest son to feed me yogurt as I imagined the plush and pampered women of India relaxing on huge soft cushions surrounded by aunties and sisters and cousins. I began to understand the value of living in a house full of women. I do believe Mohamed's gentle yogurt feeding was a thousand times more sweet however. With each deliciously smooth spoonful I remembered feeding him in his infancy, orange sweet potatoes, green spinach and even creamy yogurt.
But forever practical (and the only female in a house full of men) I decided to forego eating more until I could feed myself. I went to lay down and "rest" feeling incredibly incapable and useless (but beautiful.....the exact combination of feelings I spent an entire lifetime trying to avoid.)
After several hours, the paste began to dry and crumble off. Every time I touched something, a shower of muddy brown flakes rained down onto the floor. I was completely appalled and traveled with dustpan and brush to sweep up the mess. I felt like a snake shedding her skin. Left behind was, admittedly, a beautiful pattern of floral lines and the all important darkened fingertips signifying a bride. I was happy with the effect and tried my best to keep as much of the coverings in place so the color would be dark and strong in the morning, when I was told it would be ok to wash. I slept with my arms held off the bed and imagined how much harder everything would be if I had been able to get my feet done the way I'd initially imagined. (Because I was at a friend's house and needed to walk home, getting my feet done proved impossible....my shoes and the walk through the damp grass would have ruined everything.)
In the morning, the bed was an ugly mess. Henna flakes were all over the pillow, the blankets and the floor. The real secret to beauty secrets is....there isn't much beautiful about them. I guess this is the "sacrifice" so many women make in the name of beauty. I swept everything up for a final time and happily went off to wash.
In the end, it was worth the waiting and helplessness. Many people remarked on my beautiful hands and I felt like a princess for a day. During a particularly hot drive to the store, a policeman pulled me over with the thought of "requesting" some "cash for a coke" but upon seeing my hands, the conversation changed dramatically and ended with an exchange of pleasantries rather than francs.
I continued searching for avocados and pineapples and began to lose patience. As a few words of mild anger passed my lips, I glanced at my hands gripping the steering wheel. "That's not very beautiful behavior," I thought and immediately searched to calm myself and match the graciousness of my palms. This seemed rather profound to me at the time and brings me back to my original quote about henna being applied to keep people in touch with their spirituality, their humanity towards others and the earth.
"Ancient Egyptians and many indigenous and aboriginal people around the world believed that the naturally derived red substances of ochre, blood and henna had qualities that improved human awareness of the earth’s energies. It was therefore applied to help people keep in touch with their spirituality."After having both hands liberally decorated, I can see the reason behind this statement. The woman who came to apply my henna was truly magical. She grasped my hand and began drawing with a pipette filled with henna. She gently squeezed out the dark brown mixture as she deftly drew designs. I was amazed that she used no reference, no pictures and no stencils. She seemed to draw quickly and effortlessly.
Because I had my henna applied at a friend's house, I was left to awkwardly walk home with my hands held up, pointed out at elbows with palms spread wide to keep from accidentally touching anything.
.jpg)
But forever practical (and the only female in a house full of men) I decided to forego eating more until I could feed myself. I went to lay down and "rest" feeling incredibly incapable and useless (but beautiful.....the exact combination of feelings I spent an entire lifetime trying to avoid.)
After several hours, the paste began to dry and crumble off. Every time I touched something, a shower of muddy brown flakes rained down onto the floor. I was completely appalled and traveled with dustpan and brush to sweep up the mess. I felt like a snake shedding her skin. Left behind was, admittedly, a beautiful pattern of floral lines and the all important darkened fingertips signifying a bride. I was happy with the effect and tried my best to keep as much of the coverings in place so the color would be dark and strong in the morning, when I was told it would be ok to wash. I slept with my arms held off the bed and imagined how much harder everything would be if I had been able to get my feet done the way I'd initially imagined. (Because I was at a friend's house and needed to walk home, getting my feet done proved impossible....my shoes and the walk through the damp grass would have ruined everything.)
In the morning, the bed was an ugly mess. Henna flakes were all over the pillow, the blankets and the floor. The real secret to beauty secrets is....there isn't much beautiful about them. I guess this is the "sacrifice" so many women make in the name of beauty. I swept everything up for a final time and happily went off to wash.
In the end, it was worth the waiting and helplessness. Many people remarked on my beautiful hands and I felt like a princess for a day. During a particularly hot drive to the store, a policeman pulled me over with the thought of "requesting" some "cash for a coke" but upon seeing my hands, the conversation changed dramatically and ended with an exchange of pleasantries rather than francs.
I continued searching for avocados and pineapples and began to lose patience. As a few words of mild anger passed my lips, I glanced at my hands gripping the steering wheel. "That's not very beautiful behavior," I thought and immediately searched to calm myself and match the graciousness of my palms. This seemed rather profound to me at the time and brings me back to my original quote about henna being applied to keep people in touch with their spirituality, their humanity towards others and the earth.
8.11.12
à distance
Many things happen from a distance....people blow kisses goodbye, keep up friendships through email and interview for jobs via Skype Video calling allows far away grandparents to "meet" their newest grandbaby, lets military moms and dads tell goodnight stories to their little ones and permits couples on opposite coasts (or sometimes even separated by oceans) to maintain their relationships- or even the most extreme: experiencing childbirth together.
Marriage is something I hadn't really considered as a long distance endeavor however. Not the "staying- together-though-distance-separates-us" kind of long distance marriage. I mean the kind where a marriage ceremony takes place but you aren't actually present. Yeah. This was news to me.
Apparently it is a common occurrence (or at least more common than I had previously thought, which was not at all.) Efforts to look more into this have lead mostly to military accounts or, in plain language, marriage by proxy. Neither link mentions African countries but I have been assured by Souleymane that this process is known to occur often in Senegal. There are a variety of reasons one might conduct a marriage by proxy and I suppose our reason is as good as any. We're both far from home.
I wanted all the details about how this magical day would take place with neither bride nor groom in attendance. Souleymane's uncle will be standing in for me and his father will be standing in for him. After arrival at the mosque there will naturally be some pleasantries. The family will exchange good greetings and news. There will be praying and more talking. Souleymane's uncle, Tonton Sao, will receive many words of advice about what it means to be a woman entering into marriage. He is expected to share this advice with me and remind me of passages from the Qu'ran that will guide me in my new role as wife. In a similar fashion, Souleymane's father will receive words of advice about what it means to be a good husband. His job is to make sure Souleymane is aware of the responsibilities of his new role. Afterward, there will be more praying and the formalizing of the contract. The family will move on to a small celebration. And just when I thought the whole thing couldn't get any more delightfully foreign, Souleymane mentioned that he hoped they would take photos. Photos? I wondered. Of what?
But of course it will be wonderful to have photos of his family and the mosque to represent the prayers and ceremony held on our behalf. What we will be doing that day? Much of the same. We will spend quiet family time together, praying, celebrating, being thankful for our union. And if we have friends around the globe, know that all are invited to raise a toast and celebrate with us.
We do plan a civil ceremony here in Kinshasa, a small party with friends in Congo and a larger affair once we can travel to Senegal this summer. But for now, we will enjoy the powerful thoughts and prayers of friends and family being sent out with intention and positivity which I imagine will meet in the cosmos and, once united, will rain back down on us in Kinshasa. We'll all be looking at the same stars and gazing at the same moon. This seems rather perfect too.
Marriage is something I hadn't really considered as a long distance endeavor however. Not the "staying- together-though-distance-separates-us" kind of long distance marriage. I mean the kind where a marriage ceremony takes place but you aren't actually present. Yeah. This was news to me.
Apparently it is a common occurrence (or at least more common than I had previously thought, which was not at all.) Efforts to look more into this have lead mostly to military accounts or, in plain language, marriage by proxy. Neither link mentions African countries but I have been assured by Souleymane that this process is known to occur often in Senegal. There are a variety of reasons one might conduct a marriage by proxy and I suppose our reason is as good as any. We're both far from home.
I wanted all the details about how this magical day would take place with neither bride nor groom in attendance. Souleymane's uncle will be standing in for me and his father will be standing in for him. After arrival at the mosque there will naturally be some pleasantries. The family will exchange good greetings and news. There will be praying and more talking. Souleymane's uncle, Tonton Sao, will receive many words of advice about what it means to be a woman entering into marriage. He is expected to share this advice with me and remind me of passages from the Qu'ran that will guide me in my new role as wife. In a similar fashion, Souleymane's father will receive words of advice about what it means to be a good husband. His job is to make sure Souleymane is aware of the responsibilities of his new role. Afterward, there will be more praying and the formalizing of the contract. The family will move on to a small celebration. And just when I thought the whole thing couldn't get any more delightfully foreign, Souleymane mentioned that he hoped they would take photos. Photos? I wondered. Of what?
But of course it will be wonderful to have photos of his family and the mosque to represent the prayers and ceremony held on our behalf. What we will be doing that day? Much of the same. We will spend quiet family time together, praying, celebrating, being thankful for our union. And if we have friends around the globe, know that all are invited to raise a toast and celebrate with us.
We do plan a civil ceremony here in Kinshasa, a small party with friends in Congo and a larger affair once we can travel to Senegal this summer. But for now, we will enjoy the powerful thoughts and prayers of friends and family being sent out with intention and positivity which I imagine will meet in the cosmos and, once united, will rain back down on us in Kinshasa. We'll all be looking at the same stars and gazing at the same moon. This seems rather perfect too.
19.10.12
État Civil
Paperwork is always a pain. There is nothing pleasurable about filling out forms and trying to find the supporting documents. Filling out forms in a foreign language is even more stupefying. Add in the foreign country/African culture factor and the usual doldrums of completing paperwork become a mysterious walk through a baffling land.
Preparing for marriage begins with paperwork. Frankly speaking, the US Embassy is hard to get to. Not physically- they have several locations around town and all are quite accessible. The problem is communication. They never seem to respond to email....or if they do, it could be months later. Remembering my advice to Souleymane about other contacts he had been trying to make, I decided to hop in the car and go downtown to ask for an appointment in person. Kinshasa does not run by phone or by internet but by face to face contact.
Passport in hand to prove my American-ness, I approached the security guard to inquire about making an appointment. He pointed out a flyer on the wall and indicated a phone number. I spoke with the man who answered and informed him that I was actually outside the door. He promised to talk with a guard and ask them to let me in. Wow. Appointment confirmed in less than a minute.
Once inside, I found the man behind the counter to be very helpful and pleasant. This is only my second experience at the embassy, in need of documents, and both times (once the appointment has been secured) have proven to be full of efficiency and politeness. Although he wasn't exactly sure what document I needed, he felt certain he could draw up a form and have it ready for me by the next morning, maybe even later that same day. He took my number and promised to call.
A mere two hours later, I received his confirmation call and made my way back to the embassy to retrieve the paper. It turned out to be exactly what I needed. A notice of non-empechement de marriage, meaning the embassy has no problems with me getting married as long as I follow the local rules.
This led to a trip to the maison de commune in Ngaliema to verify, again, the exact procedures and paperwork needed. The woman we spoke with was very friendly and remembered Souleymane right away. She invited us into the office to look at some more forms. The office had window shutters and door open with no screens. Every so often a breeze would waft past, blessing us with a moment of cool air. There were four desks crowded in there and the one we were beckoned to was actually a table stuck behind the door.
There was only one chair left and Mama Lily offered it to me. She began to explain some of the papers we needed. She even began to fill one out for us. We happily went along with this procedure until she informed us each of those papers would be $36. It hardly seemed possible. The Attestation de Residence was a badly copied form that asked merely for our name and address. Mama Lily didn't even ask for any ID, although we offered it to her at certain points for ease of spelling.
We decided to get the project du marriage paper instead as it was only $5. It has been interesting to me to hear this "project of marriage" mentioned several times. I suppose the undertaking of marriage is something like a project, but I simply never considered it quite that way. This paper outlined all of the things we would need and Mama Lily suggested we fill it out at home and bring it back when we had decided on a date. We tried to foresee all the of the questions we might have about the form before leaving the bureau and made many inquiries in hopes of achieving clarity and understanding. We never arrived at the reasoning behind buying a case of sucre, beer and whisky. Who would be drinking that and why should they benefit from our special occasion?
Filling out that form later in the evening became a project of its own. We had many questions about the parental consent part of the form (really?) and neither of us had full information about our dads. (Where did they work and when was their exact birth date? Ah yes....children of divorce.) I was stumped by the very first question which had a place to fill in your name followed by etat civil_______________. I thought the only answer here could be single (after all, if I were already married I wouldn't be filling out this form, would I?) Only later it occurred to me that in some cultures, I might actually already be married and still be filling out this form. Wow. That certainly opened my eyes a bit. I asked Souleymane what the procedure for plural marriage was in Dakar. Apparently when you get married there, you are requested to sign either monogamy or polygamy and then, if you sign monogamy, you must stick with that decision.
There was not a place to make such a decision on our form but we'd already had that conversation. We continued filling out the marriage contract to the best of our ability. The last page was completely confusing to me. None of the French words were ones I knew and I simply couldn't make any sense of it. Finally, after reading a few times, Souleymane was able to explain. It was the part of the contract referring to the DOT - wikipedia describes the dot as a gift to the family of the bride from the husband, also known as the bride price. In some countries, the future bride can make demands of her hoped-for husband about what this dot should actually be. We laughed as Souleymane and Ousmane traded dot stories from Guinea and Senegal. Most often, this is not discussed beforehand but is something the husband offers at the ceremony to the father of the bride. Depending on the offer, father reactions can be quite comical.
Ousmane was ready to jump in and accept my dot....whatever it might be.....but cannot stand in to be my witness. This is the last complication I seem to be having. According to the rules, my witness must be someone older than me. This has turned out to be an oddly difficult requirement to fulfill. Most of my friends and acquaintances here in Kin are younger than me, something I have once been criticized for but mostly pay no attention to. Added to that is the fact that it is difficult to actually know a person's age here. Age seems so fluid and relative in Africa. It most often appears a matter of convenience and choice, not stark reality.
So I am left to consider....finding a witness and pondering a dot.....
Preparing for marriage begins with paperwork. Frankly speaking, the US Embassy is hard to get to. Not physically- they have several locations around town and all are quite accessible. The problem is communication. They never seem to respond to email....or if they do, it could be months later. Remembering my advice to Souleymane about other contacts he had been trying to make, I decided to hop in the car and go downtown to ask for an appointment in person. Kinshasa does not run by phone or by internet but by face to face contact.
Passport in hand to prove my American-ness, I approached the security guard to inquire about making an appointment. He pointed out a flyer on the wall and indicated a phone number. I spoke with the man who answered and informed him that I was actually outside the door. He promised to talk with a guard and ask them to let me in. Wow. Appointment confirmed in less than a minute.
Once inside, I found the man behind the counter to be very helpful and pleasant. This is only my second experience at the embassy, in need of documents, and both times (once the appointment has been secured) have proven to be full of efficiency and politeness. Although he wasn't exactly sure what document I needed, he felt certain he could draw up a form and have it ready for me by the next morning, maybe even later that same day. He took my number and promised to call.
A mere two hours later, I received his confirmation call and made my way back to the embassy to retrieve the paper. It turned out to be exactly what I needed. A notice of non-empechement de marriage, meaning the embassy has no problems with me getting married as long as I follow the local rules.
This led to a trip to the maison de commune in Ngaliema to verify, again, the exact procedures and paperwork needed. The woman we spoke with was very friendly and remembered Souleymane right away. She invited us into the office to look at some more forms. The office had window shutters and door open with no screens. Every so often a breeze would waft past, blessing us with a moment of cool air. There were four desks crowded in there and the one we were beckoned to was actually a table stuck behind the door.
There was only one chair left and Mama Lily offered it to me. She began to explain some of the papers we needed. She even began to fill one out for us. We happily went along with this procedure until she informed us each of those papers would be $36. It hardly seemed possible. The Attestation de Residence was a badly copied form that asked merely for our name and address. Mama Lily didn't even ask for any ID, although we offered it to her at certain points for ease of spelling.
We decided to get the project du marriage paper instead as it was only $5. It has been interesting to me to hear this "project of marriage" mentioned several times. I suppose the undertaking of marriage is something like a project, but I simply never considered it quite that way. This paper outlined all of the things we would need and Mama Lily suggested we fill it out at home and bring it back when we had decided on a date. We tried to foresee all the of the questions we might have about the form before leaving the bureau and made many inquiries in hopes of achieving clarity and understanding. We never arrived at the reasoning behind buying a case of sucre, beer and whisky. Who would be drinking that and why should they benefit from our special occasion?
Filling out that form later in the evening became a project of its own. We had many questions about the parental consent part of the form (really?) and neither of us had full information about our dads. (Where did they work and when was their exact birth date? Ah yes....children of divorce.) I was stumped by the very first question which had a place to fill in your name followed by etat civil_______________. I thought the only answer here could be single (after all, if I were already married I wouldn't be filling out this form, would I?) Only later it occurred to me that in some cultures, I might actually already be married and still be filling out this form. Wow. That certainly opened my eyes a bit. I asked Souleymane what the procedure for plural marriage was in Dakar. Apparently when you get married there, you are requested to sign either monogamy or polygamy and then, if you sign monogamy, you must stick with that decision.
There was not a place to make such a decision on our form but we'd already had that conversation. We continued filling out the marriage contract to the best of our ability. The last page was completely confusing to me. None of the French words were ones I knew and I simply couldn't make any sense of it. Finally, after reading a few times, Souleymane was able to explain. It was the part of the contract referring to the DOT - wikipedia describes the dot as a gift to the family of the bride from the husband, also known as the bride price. In some countries, the future bride can make demands of her hoped-for husband about what this dot should actually be. We laughed as Souleymane and Ousmane traded dot stories from Guinea and Senegal. Most often, this is not discussed beforehand but is something the husband offers at the ceremony to the father of the bride. Depending on the offer, father reactions can be quite comical.
Ousmane was ready to jump in and accept my dot....whatever it might be.....but cannot stand in to be my witness. This is the last complication I seem to be having. According to the rules, my witness must be someone older than me. This has turned out to be an oddly difficult requirement to fulfill. Most of my friends and acquaintances here in Kin are younger than me, something I have once been criticized for but mostly pay no attention to. Added to that is the fact that it is difficult to actually know a person's age here. Age seems so fluid and relative in Africa. It most often appears a matter of convenience and choice, not stark reality.
So I am left to consider....finding a witness and pondering a dot.....
14.10.12
Franco-creativity
Symphonie des arts is a beautiful garden filled with art and sculpture and peacocks tucked down the side streets of Kintambo magasin. It's on the list of sites to visit during the new teacher tour and I don't think I have been back since...maybe just once.
Searching for capoeira spots lead me to investigate the dance studio located within. And of course, I could not help but be distracted by the art. The path into the Symphonie is lined with plants and trees and hidden birds. The entrance hints at a taste of the magic that awaits inside.
Paintings and sculptures line the walkways. Visitors are lead into a store that is overflowing with more paintings and crafts such as pillowcases, napkin sets and table sculptures. There could never be enough Sundays to view everything on display.
A back exit leads into yet another exquisite garden area. The only thing I was allowed to photograph was this natural beauty.
The artists exhibit area was simply breathtaking. The amount of work created for the Francophonie was astonishing. Many artists incorporated the official logo and there plenty of roosters and okapis dancing, shaking hands and enjoying meals or games together. (Apparently the rooster represents France and the okapi...well, that one seems more obvious to me.) Presidential portraits were also popular as well as other important players in the francophonie game.
My favorite artist incorporated bits of fabric and magazine pictures into energetic forms of women dancing, carrying vegetables and other daily activities. He had two larger than life paintings at the end of the exhibit area, just by a small stage, that were mesmerizing in their expression and size. I felt like I could melt into the tableau and be lost in paradise.
Each artist was afforded a small, individual exhibit area and standing before each space one could be completely immersed in their particular style and message. Oil paintings with broad strokes of bold color filled one area, while careful pen and ink drawings of Congolese masks completed another.
I went back a second day simply because it is an exhibit that deserves to be enjoyed. I was the only visitor on both occasions and continue to marvel at the melancholy of having so much art in such an exotic location void of crowds and spectators. Souleymane, who had accompanied me both times and eventually (of course) struck up a conversation with the owner, suggested that the presidents in attendance would be interested to see the homage presented here and I don't doubt he is right. While I found the work to be overwhelmingly beautiful and inspiring, I wonder what will become of it. Such an outpouring of creativity.....sequestered it seems.
Other artists, such as those selling at the Marche de Valeur, experienced a different kind of sequestration. Their entire area of stalls and exhibitions was moved back several meters and then surrounded by a large blue opaque fence. Every time an event of importance happens in Kinshasa, this particular group of artists seems to get pushed into the shadows. I continue to wonder why they aren't seen as a source of pride and a bit of culture to be capitalized on. Other "ugly" areas around town were more aesthetically hidden away with large banners covering up normally exposed crumbling buildings and other areas of disrepair.
Art has so many purposes it seems and that is never more evident than in Africa.
Searching for capoeira spots lead me to investigate the dance studio located within. And of course, I could not help but be distracted by the art. The path into the Symphonie is lined with plants and trees and hidden birds. The entrance hints at a taste of the magic that awaits inside.
Paintings and sculptures line the walkways. Visitors are lead into a store that is overflowing with more paintings and crafts such as pillowcases, napkin sets and table sculptures. There could never be enough Sundays to view everything on display.
A back exit leads into yet another exquisite garden area. The only thing I was allowed to photograph was this natural beauty.
The artists exhibit area was simply breathtaking. The amount of work created for the Francophonie was astonishing. Many artists incorporated the official logo and there plenty of roosters and okapis dancing, shaking hands and enjoying meals or games together. (Apparently the rooster represents France and the okapi...well, that one seems more obvious to me.) Presidential portraits were also popular as well as other important players in the francophonie game.
My favorite artist incorporated bits of fabric and magazine pictures into energetic forms of women dancing, carrying vegetables and other daily activities. He had two larger than life paintings at the end of the exhibit area, just by a small stage, that were mesmerizing in their expression and size. I felt like I could melt into the tableau and be lost in paradise.
Each artist was afforded a small, individual exhibit area and standing before each space one could be completely immersed in their particular style and message. Oil paintings with broad strokes of bold color filled one area, while careful pen and ink drawings of Congolese masks completed another.
I went back a second day simply because it is an exhibit that deserves to be enjoyed. I was the only visitor on both occasions and continue to marvel at the melancholy of having so much art in such an exotic location void of crowds and spectators. Souleymane, who had accompanied me both times and eventually (of course) struck up a conversation with the owner, suggested that the presidents in attendance would be interested to see the homage presented here and I don't doubt he is right. While I found the work to be overwhelmingly beautiful and inspiring, I wonder what will become of it. Such an outpouring of creativity.....sequestered it seems.
Other artists, such as those selling at the Marche de Valeur, experienced a different kind of sequestration. Their entire area of stalls and exhibitions was moved back several meters and then surrounded by a large blue opaque fence. Every time an event of importance happens in Kinshasa, this particular group of artists seems to get pushed into the shadows. I continue to wonder why they aren't seen as a source of pride and a bit of culture to be capitalized on. Other "ugly" areas around town were more aesthetically hidden away with large banners covering up normally exposed crumbling buildings and other areas of disrepair.
Art has so many purposes it seems and that is never more evident than in Africa.
franco-flop
The Francophonie summit has apparently been around for awhile. Its main page states the organization was created in 1970. The mission: "...to embody the active solidarity between its 75 member states and governments (56 members and 19 observers), which together represent over one-third of the United Nations’ member states and account for a population of over 890 million people, including 220 million French speakers."
Active solidarity strikes me as one of those vague phrases that could mean any of a number of things. And so, while Kinshasa has been submerged in preparation and anticipation of the summit, I have been wondering what the exact purpose and proposed outcomes will be. I admit to not keeping up politically as much as perhaps I should and so remain in the dark a bit. My observations are completely personal. I have no sense of the meetings between dignitaries or any possible benefits this might actually bring to Kinshasa. Maybe it is enough to consider it just as another festival come to town, closing eyes to the problems and poverty and providing a chance for some to revel in frivolity and joy, if only for a weekend.
The streets have been cleared and cleaned, creating a ghost town reminiscent of the election period. Robocops line the streets and intersections. I dream of a photo with these police decked out in their fullest battle gear and sympathize with the heavy hotness they wear all day. Taxis, pedestrians and any other rituals of daily life have been sequestered to the side streets. Roads to school are blocked off ("for your security" one officer tried to convince me. I argued a bit that separating me form my home hardly seemed to be in my best, secure interests but he was having none of my questions. "Can't you leave me with all of these questions?" he kept saying, when all I reasonably wanted to know was how to gain access to my house.)
I was attracted by events at the Botanical garden/Zoo area and tried to make my way downtown. It began with a small melt down from the kids- who did not want to travel by taxi or by foot. I had envisioned a day of walking and sight-seeing and possibly life size marionettes. The kids stayed home and I continued on the journey- though I never actually arrived at the gardens. I was still feeling positive as there were a few more days left to the celebrations and I had hoped to enjoy a film en plein air.....an advertisement I had received in my inbox promised movies on the lawn and made me reminiscent of summer nights at home.
We all packed into a small green car with no power steering and made our way through the nighttime streets of Kin in search of the zoo. It was a lot farther than I had remembered (good thing the walking journey from the day before never worked out because it would have been miles and miles of heat and complaining.) After a few wrong turns and several inquiries from pedestrians and police, we finally arrived at the zoo. It was dark and empty. Though a few other cars pulled in at the same, there was no clear direction about the location of the film. We found some vendors left over from their daytime exhibitions and after more roundabout conversations eventually determined that the promised movie en plein air would not actually be showing. It seemed too great a disappointment to simply return home so we made our way over to N'ice Cream for cold cone relief. I had been looking forward to a different kind of event to fill the Kinshasa night.
The National Ballet performance has been rescheduled three times, each time to a different location. I would love to go in search of this performance, and had also been eager to check out the promise of a marionette show at 9 am. But knowing Kinshasa, I remain doubtful about whether these events will actually happen. Patience and flexibility are needed, for certain. But the possible disappointment makes it all seem less worth it. Better to devise our own version of Francophonie...... fête a la maison. And just enjoy the extra day off from school, the quiet, easy to navigate streets and the colorful flags floating in the wind.
5.10.12
Une Conteuse...
It began in the most normal of ways....with a phone call. I wasn't acquainted with the caller, however, and realizing that my number was somehow "out there" in the world of Kinshasa artists was both pleasing and somewhat disconcerting at the same time. I still am not clear exactly how my cell number fell into the hands of the storyteller, marionettist, painter, illustrator, jewelry maker and all around artist who arranged a meeting with me last week. But so it was one afternoon I found myself welcoming S.Konde, conteur, into my classroom.
He had come to present some slideshows and videos of his work at various programs and schools around Kinshasa in hopes of securing a program at our school. The timing was quite perfect as it landed during the preparations for Congo Week and we soon struck up a deal to offer our students some exposure to wooden beadwork and jewelry making. Just before leaving he asked me if I was a theater person. We'd already discussed my art experiences as a painter and so I mentioned that I was also a dancer. "And what is dance but a performance of stories and expression?" I said. I wasn't sure this totally qualified me as a "theater person" but it seemed like a reasonable response. I have been enjoying offering drama to students as an after school activity and frequently direct my own classes through a variety of performances. But again, this does not qualify me as an actress in any way. I remained noncommittal.
"I want to present a theater project for you," he told me and promised to send the details. Our next meeting involved me translating for a fellow teacher who wanted to capitalize on his storytelling experience and include it in a project with her 9th graders. As that discussion came to a close, S.Konde presented me with a French book of African tales, some parables and short video clips of other storytellers he had worked with. He told me to choose 2 stories, 1 to be animated and 1 to be told with my accompanying illustrations or paintings.
Apparently he has some performances lined up for December with his theater group and would like me to present with them. He showed me the program, complete with my name followed by the illustrious title of "Conteuse." Wow.
He has displayed such confidence in my ability (based on what premise I've yet to discover) that I am left feeling flattered and challenged all at once. Of course, I must rise to his expectations. But am I really a storyteller? Of the griot quality? It is not a theatrical performance conducted with the support of a troupe, as I expected, but 20-30 minutes of me holding the stage on my own, a vision that has never once filled my head as a possibility. I keep hearing him remark how he would like to profit from my moment in Kinshasa and work together. And I wonder if I might not like to profit from this moment as well and experience an entirely new form of presentation.
What else to do but seize the moment and follow this path down an unexpected road of entertaining, educating and expressing using, as a medium, pieces of myth and legend and history to awaken consciousness and inspire youth? Perhaps a storyteller will be born.....
He had come to present some slideshows and videos of his work at various programs and schools around Kinshasa in hopes of securing a program at our school. The timing was quite perfect as it landed during the preparations for Congo Week and we soon struck up a deal to offer our students some exposure to wooden beadwork and jewelry making. Just before leaving he asked me if I was a theater person. We'd already discussed my art experiences as a painter and so I mentioned that I was also a dancer. "And what is dance but a performance of stories and expression?" I said. I wasn't sure this totally qualified me as a "theater person" but it seemed like a reasonable response. I have been enjoying offering drama to students as an after school activity and frequently direct my own classes through a variety of performances. But again, this does not qualify me as an actress in any way. I remained noncommittal.
"I want to present a theater project for you," he told me and promised to send the details. Our next meeting involved me translating for a fellow teacher who wanted to capitalize on his storytelling experience and include it in a project with her 9th graders. As that discussion came to a close, S.Konde presented me with a French book of African tales, some parables and short video clips of other storytellers he had worked with. He told me to choose 2 stories, 1 to be animated and 1 to be told with my accompanying illustrations or paintings.
Apparently he has some performances lined up for December with his theater group and would like me to present with them. He showed me the program, complete with my name followed by the illustrious title of "Conteuse." Wow.
He has displayed such confidence in my ability (based on what premise I've yet to discover) that I am left feeling flattered and challenged all at once. Of course, I must rise to his expectations. But am I really a storyteller? Of the griot quality? It is not a theatrical performance conducted with the support of a troupe, as I expected, but 20-30 minutes of me holding the stage on my own, a vision that has never once filled my head as a possibility. I keep hearing him remark how he would like to profit from my moment in Kinshasa and work together. And I wonder if I might not like to profit from this moment as well and experience an entirely new form of presentation.
What else to do but seize the moment and follow this path down an unexpected road of entertaining, educating and expressing using, as a medium, pieces of myth and legend and history to awaken consciousness and inspire youth? Perhaps a storyteller will be born.....
30.9.12
American Culture?
Upon returning to Kinshasa this summer, I embarked on a quest to fill up my evenings with exercise. It turns out many people search for this outlet, as there isn't much else to do in Kin (night life aside.) I've heard this same story repeated by many of the newcomers joining existing classes. Do you think you'll come back? I ask. And that's when they confess, "Probably. I am new to Kin and there's just not much to do." Of course, it depends on perspective. Those arriving from the smaller, distant (and more beautiful?) cities of Congo often remark on how there is so much more going on in Kin than where they've come from. Hard to imagine.
Leisure time isn't spent shopping or going to movies (although the Hall de Gombe has offered free Saturday animation films for kids this month.) Some people find it easy enough to go out on the river or take small trips on the weekends to outdoorsy type places which offer picnicking and views of nature. But exercise classes offer a place to be social, meet new people and improve your health. So what could be better than that?
A few recent personal explosions have resulted in a drastic change in my exercise routine and I was feeling flabby and gray. Getting soft. When an invitation to yoga passed my email box, I hungrily agreed to try it out (again.) The yoga circuit, like many things in Kin, hoovers on the edge of becoming a clique. The previous classes I went to were at someone's house and people seemed to know each other well. I felt like an intruder, or at least, like I needed someone else to get me in the door. The vibe depends heavily on the atmosphere of the house and the people present. There is often dinner or snacks together afterwards. Sounds cozy enough....unless you suffer from "social fitting in-ness," like me.
This class was being offered at the American Cultural Center, a neutral place I figured. Getting in required putting our name on a list and bringing photo id. I went with a friend and found the class to be everything I could happily participate in. No judgement, no competition, and modern music.
It was my first trip to the American Cultural Center, though I believe I have seen a photo or two on the embassy web page about certain ceremonies held there, none of which qualify for my definition of culture. I guess I am more aligned with #4 while the American embassy seems to be aligned with #2.
Because the Hall de Gombe (the French Cultural Center) is one of my favorite places to view events, I couldn't help but compare the two. I've "friended" the Hall de Etoile (center in Lubumbashi) and the Institute Francais du Mali, both of which are constantly posting music and art events. One Planet Travel has this to say about the purpose of the cultural center in Mali. And I pretty much agree with this version of sharing and developing culture.
So I was disappointed to find the American culture tucked behind guards and barbed wire. Clearly no music events were going on here. It took a few minutes for the guards to check our id's and contact someone within to come and escort us to the center. Our photo cards were replaced with visitor badges alerting us to the need of an escort where ever we traveled within (and even to get out.) I was feeling a bit jealous of French system of setting up a cafe, a stage- an artistic mecca so to speak- that invites local artists and foreign visitors to present their talents to the community at large.
In contrast, American culture seemed protected and reclusive. Hidden away for only the privileged to partake in. What's so great about American culture? I silently protested. Why aren't we supporting and promoting local artists, collaborations between countries through art and an altogether friendlier view of
the culture? Ironically, the American Embassy has hosted their few music and dance collaborations at the French cultural center.
I had to concede that maybe we are just presenting the truth. American culture is often closed off and unaccepting of others. We're kind of egotistical and selfish. It's the American way or the highway.
While I greatly enjoyed the yoga class and returned the following week (and plan to continue returning, because, of course, there isn't much to do in Kin) I remain disappointed in the country's continuation of elitism. Culture is meant to be shared, celebrated and developed. Not hidden away behind barbed wire and electric scanning devices. Maybe I would feel better if they just changed the name to better reflect this statement: Our objective is to help you better understand the United States, its politics, society and values. The American Propaganda Center, perhaps? The Elitist American Viewpoint Center? or maybe just, The Only Center that Matters? We could call it TOC-MAT......everyone loves a good acronym.
Leisure time isn't spent shopping or going to movies (although the Hall de Gombe has offered free Saturday animation films for kids this month.) Some people find it easy enough to go out on the river or take small trips on the weekends to outdoorsy type places which offer picnicking and views of nature. But exercise classes offer a place to be social, meet new people and improve your health. So what could be better than that?
A few recent personal explosions have resulted in a drastic change in my exercise routine and I was feeling flabby and gray. Getting soft. When an invitation to yoga passed my email box, I hungrily agreed to try it out (again.) The yoga circuit, like many things in Kin, hoovers on the edge of becoming a clique. The previous classes I went to were at someone's house and people seemed to know each other well. I felt like an intruder, or at least, like I needed someone else to get me in the door. The vibe depends heavily on the atmosphere of the house and the people present. There is often dinner or snacks together afterwards. Sounds cozy enough....unless you suffer from "social fitting in-ness," like me.
This class was being offered at the American Cultural Center, a neutral place I figured. Getting in required putting our name on a list and bringing photo id. I went with a friend and found the class to be everything I could happily participate in. No judgement, no competition, and modern music.
It was my first trip to the American Cultural Center, though I believe I have seen a photo or two on the embassy web page about certain ceremonies held there, none of which qualify for my definition of culture. I guess I am more aligned with #4 while the American embassy seems to be aligned with #2.
Because the Hall de Gombe (the French Cultural Center) is one of my favorite places to view events, I couldn't help but compare the two. I've "friended" the Hall de Etoile (center in Lubumbashi) and the Institute Francais du Mali, both of which are constantly posting music and art events. One Planet Travel has this to say about the purpose of the cultural center in Mali. And I pretty much agree with this version of sharing and developing culture.
So I was disappointed to find the American culture tucked behind guards and barbed wire. Clearly no music events were going on here. It took a few minutes for the guards to check our id's and contact someone within to come and escort us to the center. Our photo cards were replaced with visitor badges alerting us to the need of an escort where ever we traveled within (and even to get out.) I was feeling a bit jealous of French system of setting up a cafe, a stage- an artistic mecca so to speak- that invites local artists and foreign visitors to present their talents to the community at large.
In contrast, American culture seemed protected and reclusive. Hidden away for only the privileged to partake in. What's so great about American culture? I silently protested. Why aren't we supporting and promoting local artists, collaborations between countries through art and an altogether friendlier view of
the culture? Ironically, the American Embassy has hosted their few music and dance collaborations at the French cultural center.
I had to concede that maybe we are just presenting the truth. American culture is often closed off and unaccepting of others. We're kind of egotistical and selfish. It's the American way or the highway.
While I greatly enjoyed the yoga class and returned the following week (and plan to continue returning, because, of course, there isn't much to do in Kin) I remain disappointed in the country's continuation of elitism. Culture is meant to be shared, celebrated and developed. Not hidden away behind barbed wire and electric scanning devices. Maybe I would feel better if they just changed the name to better reflect this statement: Our objective is to help you better understand the United States, its politics, society and values. The American Propaganda Center, perhaps? The Elitist American Viewpoint Center? or maybe just, The Only Center that Matters? We could call it TOC-MAT......everyone loves a good acronym.
2.9.12
Money Matters
I don't remember much about My Ishmael except for the basic premise- a talking ape who delivers profound wisdom about how the world went wrong. What I remember most about reading this book was the idea that locking up all the food was the one of the first errors. It seemed so simple and so basically rooted in fact that I wonder how we miss it. The solution to our problems. As with every solution that seems so obvious, the answers lie in human nature gone awry- greed, power, lust for control.
Since I was 10, I have been confused by the concept of money. I never could understand why life just didn't work like Monopoly- everyone starts off with equal amounts of money. But more than money, I always dreamed of having a little bit of land to put a simple house on. And in the area where I grew up, there seemed to be such an abundance of land, my desire appeared more than reasonable. I even resorted at one point to taking books out of the library on building my own cabin. I thought I could do it. Just plant a little cabin in the middle of the woods and build a life. That was my dream back then and I still find it to be a sweet idea.
I have accepted that I am not a business person or an economist. I don't love numbers or understand investments. And, while I have developed a slightly more sophisticated understanding of the money systems of the world than I had when I was ten, I still believe that problems can't be resolved with cash. I used to spend long nights wondering why governments wouldn't just print enough money for everyone- though I now see that distributing large bundles of crisp new bills would only bring their value down, I don't really understand how they got to be valuable in the first place.
As my class begins to examine the history of Africa and the resources of Congo, I am even left to ponder how gold became seen as a valuable material to have. Why do we place such importance on things that can't directly contribute to our survival? Why did we ever lock up the food to begin with and start trading it for things we can't actually use?
Perhaps these are the thoughts that led me to refuse my first offer of the newly minted 1,000 Congolese franc. I was stocking up on nuts and spices at my favorite Indian store when I was offered the bill as part of my change. Without thinking, I shook my head and backed away. "Don't you have any francs?" I asked. Later reflection helped me to see that my attitude towards the new money wasn't really based on anything solid- just a general mistrust of something unknown. I want the new bills to have been around awhile before I begin participating in the system. I suspect there are plenty of Congolese who feel the same way. Of course, they have more experience with money being printed, handed out and immediately devalued. I've heard this story too, and perhaps the legacy living in my unconscious is what prompted me to refuse the 1,000 franc.
I'm not sure what this says about me. Still can't tell if I was acting with real world caution or old world myth. But I am always happy to accept the small candies offered when a 50FC is not available or even the odd pack of tissues I received once in place of my 200 FC change. Because what is money anyway, expect a means to get me the things I really need?
Since I was 10, I have been confused by the concept of money. I never could understand why life just didn't work like Monopoly- everyone starts off with equal amounts of money. But more than money, I always dreamed of having a little bit of land to put a simple house on. And in the area where I grew up, there seemed to be such an abundance of land, my desire appeared more than reasonable. I even resorted at one point to taking books out of the library on building my own cabin. I thought I could do it. Just plant a little cabin in the middle of the woods and build a life. That was my dream back then and I still find it to be a sweet idea.
I have accepted that I am not a business person or an economist. I don't love numbers or understand investments. And, while I have developed a slightly more sophisticated understanding of the money systems of the world than I had when I was ten, I still believe that problems can't be resolved with cash. I used to spend long nights wondering why governments wouldn't just print enough money for everyone- though I now see that distributing large bundles of crisp new bills would only bring their value down, I don't really understand how they got to be valuable in the first place.
As my class begins to examine the history of Africa and the resources of Congo, I am even left to ponder how gold became seen as a valuable material to have. Why do we place such importance on things that can't directly contribute to our survival? Why did we ever lock up the food to begin with and start trading it for things we can't actually use?
Perhaps these are the thoughts that led me to refuse my first offer of the newly minted 1,000 Congolese franc. I was stocking up on nuts and spices at my favorite Indian store when I was offered the bill as part of my change. Without thinking, I shook my head and backed away. "Don't you have any francs?" I asked. Later reflection helped me to see that my attitude towards the new money wasn't really based on anything solid- just a general mistrust of something unknown. I want the new bills to have been around awhile before I begin participating in the system. I suspect there are plenty of Congolese who feel the same way. Of course, they have more experience with money being printed, handed out and immediately devalued. I've heard this story too, and perhaps the legacy living in my unconscious is what prompted me to refuse the 1,000 franc.
I'm not sure what this says about me. Still can't tell if I was acting with real world caution or old world myth. But I am always happy to accept the small candies offered when a 50FC is not available or even the odd pack of tissues I received once in place of my 200 FC change. Because what is money anyway, expect a means to get me the things I really need?
Finding Anna
Saturdays are full of trying to find all 6 of the Orper centers. I feel dangerously close to a Where's Waldo maze. I have the directions to two of them well memorized and am working on the rest. It requires me contacting Theo and trying to arrange a meeting with him or someone else to show me the way. The previous Saturday no one was available and so I decided to go back to the day center for girls and work with them. It was a very different feel from the first visit.
There were quite a few less girls present and the ones who were there were exhausted. They lifted themselves slowly from the benches where they had been sprawled out in a light slumber. They shuffled up to the school room and sat down. We made self portraits and I tried to encourage them to be fanciful. Draw yourself however you like, add wings, blue hair, etc. The interpreter left shortly after we began drawing and I relied on Christelle to help me understand some of the younger girls. They needed encouragement to add missing arms, legs, noses. Some struggled with heads and necks. Their feelings of powerlessness were evident in all that the figures lacked. I asked them to put their figures in an environment after they finished. While some girls added houses or chickens, or even other people creating a small family, many just wrote the name of a market they like to frequent or the neighborhood where they spend their time.
The older girls finished in about an hour and wanted to return downstairs to fixing their hair and napping. This pattern was quickly taken up by the others so we had a sharing session where each girl presented their work and then retreated. Three girls were left, three who really enjoyed drawing and asked for paper after paper. Eventually they tired of drawing large fish and taught me secret handshakes and clapping games. I had fun with them but was affected by the tiredness that permeated the center. I missed little Anna and Jolie. No one could tell me where they were, and no one seemed to have the energy to care.
Theo contacted me first the following Saturday and arranged for me to meet someone at the girls' day center who would then accompany me to the other center for girls- where they live. Maison Irebu- the day center for girls- was again nearly empty. The kids who were there were all sleeping. I grew more and more confused about the purpose of the center. What is the reasoning behind being a mere day center and not offering full living services? I had been deeply disturbed by the absence of Anna and wondered how she could have been let to leave...how could any of them be let to wander outside, onto the streets?
IN the courtyard I was warmly greeted by Mama Cluadine. She directed me to an older gentleman sitting by the office. He was going to bring me to Chez Mama Suzanne, home for girls. "I make the soap for the center," he told me as we drove. Once we approached the blue walls, I remembered visiting the place on the rounds I had taken with Theo during my introduction. The children had been away on a vacation of sorts, getting fresh air on a retreat.
When the doors were opened and I drove in, I saw a dark blue minivan and a small group of well dressed people. They appeared to be touring the center and I soon found out they were parishioners from the church that founded the center. The kids had been gathered in the covered cement area reserved for large group gatherings. Blue plastic chairs had been placed in a circle and they waited patiently for the visitors to return.
I sat in the small office looking out onto the courtyard, waiting for the Mama in charge of the center to finish with her unexpected guests and make arrangements with me. Another woman sat with me and we made small talk about my program and discussed how the other centers were doing. It soon became apparent that guests intended on speaking to the girls, praying together and handing out food. After listening for a bit to the songs and the sermons, I decided it would be better to return next week. They had begun to call girls to the middle of the circle - for what purpose I wasn't entirely sure. I suddenly found everything very odd, realizing that the story for many street children began with condemnation by the church. I wondered how they felt about being preached to and given charity by yet another institution spouting words of love and obedience to Jesus.I wondered if it all wasn't a confusing mess to them. Just as I was looking around at their faces, I spotted her. Anna sitting snug in between two older girls. To be sure, I asked the older mama who had joined us if she knew the young girl's name. "Little Anna?" she asked me. Yes!
Happiness covered my face. I clapped and thanked God, thanked them and felt such relief and joy to know they had transferred her over here and she was no longer lost on the streets. It was only 12:00 when I left but I already knew that finding Anna meant my Saturday could only be a day of success and good feelings.
There were quite a few less girls present and the ones who were there were exhausted. They lifted themselves slowly from the benches where they had been sprawled out in a light slumber. They shuffled up to the school room and sat down. We made self portraits and I tried to encourage them to be fanciful. Draw yourself however you like, add wings, blue hair, etc. The interpreter left shortly after we began drawing and I relied on Christelle to help me understand some of the younger girls. They needed encouragement to add missing arms, legs, noses. Some struggled with heads and necks. Their feelings of powerlessness were evident in all that the figures lacked. I asked them to put their figures in an environment after they finished. While some girls added houses or chickens, or even other people creating a small family, many just wrote the name of a market they like to frequent or the neighborhood where they spend their time.
The older girls finished in about an hour and wanted to return downstairs to fixing their hair and napping. This pattern was quickly taken up by the others so we had a sharing session where each girl presented their work and then retreated. Three girls were left, three who really enjoyed drawing and asked for paper after paper. Eventually they tired of drawing large fish and taught me secret handshakes and clapping games. I had fun with them but was affected by the tiredness that permeated the center. I missed little Anna and Jolie. No one could tell me where they were, and no one seemed to have the energy to care.
Theo contacted me first the following Saturday and arranged for me to meet someone at the girls' day center who would then accompany me to the other center for girls- where they live. Maison Irebu- the day center for girls- was again nearly empty. The kids who were there were all sleeping. I grew more and more confused about the purpose of the center. What is the reasoning behind being a mere day center and not offering full living services? I had been deeply disturbed by the absence of Anna and wondered how she could have been let to leave...how could any of them be let to wander outside, onto the streets?
IN the courtyard I was warmly greeted by Mama Cluadine. She directed me to an older gentleman sitting by the office. He was going to bring me to Chez Mama Suzanne, home for girls. "I make the soap for the center," he told me as we drove. Once we approached the blue walls, I remembered visiting the place on the rounds I had taken with Theo during my introduction. The children had been away on a vacation of sorts, getting fresh air on a retreat.
When the doors were opened and I drove in, I saw a dark blue minivan and a small group of well dressed people. They appeared to be touring the center and I soon found out they were parishioners from the church that founded the center. The kids had been gathered in the covered cement area reserved for large group gatherings. Blue plastic chairs had been placed in a circle and they waited patiently for the visitors to return.
I sat in the small office looking out onto the courtyard, waiting for the Mama in charge of the center to finish with her unexpected guests and make arrangements with me. Another woman sat with me and we made small talk about my program and discussed how the other centers were doing. It soon became apparent that guests intended on speaking to the girls, praying together and handing out food. After listening for a bit to the songs and the sermons, I decided it would be better to return next week. They had begun to call girls to the middle of the circle - for what purpose I wasn't entirely sure. I suddenly found everything very odd, realizing that the story for many street children began with condemnation by the church. I wondered how they felt about being preached to and given charity by yet another institution spouting words of love and obedience to Jesus.I wondered if it all wasn't a confusing mess to them. Just as I was looking around at their faces, I spotted her. Anna sitting snug in between two older girls. To be sure, I asked the older mama who had joined us if she knew the young girl's name. "Little Anna?" she asked me. Yes!
Happiness covered my face. I clapped and thanked God, thanked them and felt such relief and joy to know they had transferred her over here and she was no longer lost on the streets. It was only 12:00 when I left but I already knew that finding Anna meant my Saturday could only be a day of success and good feelings.
When is a taxi not a taxi.....?
The most frequently asked question regarding taxis in Kinshasa is....how do you know which ones are taxis? Picking out the ones that are not taxis is oftentimes easier. Large SUV's, tinted windows, thick, solid tires. These are not usually signs of an African taxi. The taxi buses are a cinch....even when not painted in the traditional blue and yellow, they have people hanging their heads out the windows and the money guy leaning out the side door with a wad of francs carefully organized in his fist.
Cars come in all shapes, sizes and marks. Determining taxi from regular roadster can be challenging. The driver usually has one hand out the window making whichever hand signal identifies the area he covers. This is helpful in determining taxis from non-taxis. There also tends to be a lot of beeping involved, another helpful sign.
On Sundays I generally take a taxi to my dance class downtown. Sunday is a quiet day in Kinshasa and transport is relatively easy (or at least it has been so far.) The only sticky place is the road right outside the school gates. Sometimes it might be necessary to walk down to the corner and then down again to the larger road in order to find a cab. Usually this is not the case.
Today was a gray sky day in Kinshasa. It rained in the early morning hours, leaving the ground wet and the air cool. Several large cars flew past me- a sign that they are probably not a taxi, or at the very least, a full one. The street was empty. When another car came zooming by I held out my hand and waved it up and down, indicating I wanted to go to magasin, the Kintambo circle. The driver didn't exactly come to a screeching halt, but he did stop much further down the road and reversed back to where I was.
I noticed some boxes in the back window and a thought was born. A small thought that perhaps should have been given more attention. Taxis never have personal items- unless they belong to the passengers. The back door was locked, or at least it didn't open. This is not terribly uncommon in taxis. Usually the driver or an inside passenger will open it from the inside, in the case of broken door handles and other oddities that plague Kinshasa cabs. The car was empty, however, and so I sat in the front.
There are no telling clues in the inside of a cab. No meter, no name badge, no radio to dispatch. This car was decorated with flags on the windshield and stickers on the dashboard. Loud music played and I wondered. The thought was taking root. It's stereotypical to say that all Kinshasa taxis have cracked windshields, broken speedometers, fuel gauges permanently on empty and door panels ripped out exposing wires and other inner workings that lends a feeling of being inside a radio. Some taxis do have plush seats and handles to roll down the windows still attached.
The driver introduced himself and asked a few questions. Polite enough, though it can be difficult to be the receiver of a barrage of what feels like personal information. My name, where I work, where I live, what I am going to Kintambo for. I guess it passes for small talk. It was pleasant enough and when I asked him to drop me at the customary taxis area, he refused my money. "Have a nice Sunday," he said. Which is when I really knew it wasn't a taxi. He continued on down the boulevard.
Just when a few friends had left me feeling disappointed and losing faith in Congolese men and their ability to be truthful and loyal, someone drives by, offers me a ride, refuses my money- and doesn't ask for my phone number. A nice little addition to my Sunday, with a splash of perspective.
Cars come in all shapes, sizes and marks. Determining taxi from regular roadster can be challenging. The driver usually has one hand out the window making whichever hand signal identifies the area he covers. This is helpful in determining taxis from non-taxis. There also tends to be a lot of beeping involved, another helpful sign.
On Sundays I generally take a taxi to my dance class downtown. Sunday is a quiet day in Kinshasa and transport is relatively easy (or at least it has been so far.) The only sticky place is the road right outside the school gates. Sometimes it might be necessary to walk down to the corner and then down again to the larger road in order to find a cab. Usually this is not the case.
Today was a gray sky day in Kinshasa. It rained in the early morning hours, leaving the ground wet and the air cool. Several large cars flew past me- a sign that they are probably not a taxi, or at the very least, a full one. The street was empty. When another car came zooming by I held out my hand and waved it up and down, indicating I wanted to go to magasin, the Kintambo circle. The driver didn't exactly come to a screeching halt, but he did stop much further down the road and reversed back to where I was.
I noticed some boxes in the back window and a thought was born. A small thought that perhaps should have been given more attention. Taxis never have personal items- unless they belong to the passengers. The back door was locked, or at least it didn't open. This is not terribly uncommon in taxis. Usually the driver or an inside passenger will open it from the inside, in the case of broken door handles and other oddities that plague Kinshasa cabs. The car was empty, however, and so I sat in the front.
There are no telling clues in the inside of a cab. No meter, no name badge, no radio to dispatch. This car was decorated with flags on the windshield and stickers on the dashboard. Loud music played and I wondered. The thought was taking root. It's stereotypical to say that all Kinshasa taxis have cracked windshields, broken speedometers, fuel gauges permanently on empty and door panels ripped out exposing wires and other inner workings that lends a feeling of being inside a radio. Some taxis do have plush seats and handles to roll down the windows still attached.
The driver introduced himself and asked a few questions. Polite enough, though it can be difficult to be the receiver of a barrage of what feels like personal information. My name, where I work, where I live, what I am going to Kintambo for. I guess it passes for small talk. It was pleasant enough and when I asked him to drop me at the customary taxis area, he refused my money. "Have a nice Sunday," he said. Which is when I really knew it wasn't a taxi. He continued on down the boulevard.
Just when a few friends had left me feeling disappointed and losing faith in Congolese men and their ability to be truthful and loyal, someone drives by, offers me a ride, refuses my money- and doesn't ask for my phone number. A nice little addition to my Sunday, with a splash of perspective.
18.8.12
Anna & Jolie
I continue to reflect on the days I spent with the girls. I am still thinking about them, 2 in particular but really the children as a group. I found myself locked in twice, once while we were still playing and someone had gone off to the market. The second time both of the workers had returned and so I am not sure exactly how it is we found ourselves locked in. I was ready to leave and calls for the key produced nothing. I sat down next to the girls who were helping carry my stuff to the car and we sang and danced and played drums on the containers. We talked and laughed and I learned a lot of Lingala in those 20 minutes.
Jolie is an older girl, somewhere between 11-14 I would guess, and has the most French. She served as my translator for the most part on Sunday when there was no one else around. With shaven hair and an erect posture she exuded a certain grace and patience. Kindness. Jolie is intelligent and thoughtful, the kind of girl you would be proud to call your daughter. Anna is a little cutie that appears about 4 but is probably actually closer to 6. She is spunky and fierce and I saw her devilishly tearing around a corner, fleeing one of the girls she had irritated in some way. The pesky little sister.
The problem for me is that, for the most part, these children aren't orphans. Many of them have homes and families, siblings, aunts and uncles, parents. And I can't help but look at Anna and wonder how it is her mother, her father, her aunties---someone---isn't thinking of her, wondering where she is and losing sleep over her absence in the house.
This Ramadan has been especially difficult for me as I've encountered something like a crisis of faith. I have been struggling to put together the pieces that make sense to me and figure out exactly what I can believe in, without doubt. Or maybe doubt is a constant part of having faith. But this struggle only further serves to create a distance between me and families like those of Anna. Often the families have been told by their church that the child is a sorcerer and I just can't imagine having that much faith in something. I can't imagine giving my life over to anyone who would tell me to put my child out. And I don't understand how sleep comes at night.
But I am learning that sometimes understanding is not the path. The folks at ORPER have a program based on reintegration. They work to move kids from the day centers to the home centers and back to their families. It is an arduous process. I don't know how many of the children who are returned end up back on the streets. As always, I land in the middle when trying to determine what is the best placement for kids like these. The cynical part of me believes someone who could be convinced to throw their child away once could be convinced to do it again. The optimist in me believes perhaps there are families out there grateful to have been given a second chance and have their eyes opened to the treasure they have. But I haven't stopped thinking about Anna since I met her three weeks ago. And I know where she is. Most likely her family remains in the dark. They just turned their backs and walked away..... Ramadan mubarak but it's not really a happy eid. I am struggling with this....
Jolie is an older girl, somewhere between 11-14 I would guess, and has the most French. She served as my translator for the most part on Sunday when there was no one else around. With shaven hair and an erect posture she exuded a certain grace and patience. Kindness. Jolie is intelligent and thoughtful, the kind of girl you would be proud to call your daughter. Anna is a little cutie that appears about 4 but is probably actually closer to 6. She is spunky and fierce and I saw her devilishly tearing around a corner, fleeing one of the girls she had irritated in some way. The pesky little sister.
The problem for me is that, for the most part, these children aren't orphans. Many of them have homes and families, siblings, aunts and uncles, parents. And I can't help but look at Anna and wonder how it is her mother, her father, her aunties---someone---isn't thinking of her, wondering where she is and losing sleep over her absence in the house.
This Ramadan has been especially difficult for me as I've encountered something like a crisis of faith. I have been struggling to put together the pieces that make sense to me and figure out exactly what I can believe in, without doubt. Or maybe doubt is a constant part of having faith. But this struggle only further serves to create a distance between me and families like those of Anna. Often the families have been told by their church that the child is a sorcerer and I just can't imagine having that much faith in something. I can't imagine giving my life over to anyone who would tell me to put my child out. And I don't understand how sleep comes at night.
But I am learning that sometimes understanding is not the path. The folks at ORPER have a program based on reintegration. They work to move kids from the day centers to the home centers and back to their families. It is an arduous process. I don't know how many of the children who are returned end up back on the streets. As always, I land in the middle when trying to determine what is the best placement for kids like these. The cynical part of me believes someone who could be convinced to throw their child away once could be convinced to do it again. The optimist in me believes perhaps there are families out there grateful to have been given a second chance and have their eyes opened to the treasure they have. But I haven't stopped thinking about Anna since I met her three weeks ago. And I know where she is. Most likely her family remains in the dark. They just turned their backs and walked away..... Ramadan mubarak but it's not really a happy eid. I am struggling with this....
Looking for the white lady
"I have lost the road. I turned by the bakery, but now I am not sure exactly which turn off I should take." I was talking to Mama Annette, whom I'd never met in person and trying to find out how to get to the center for boys just outside of Bandal. She said she would send some of the kids to find me. I had already traveled a considerable way down the road and wondered if I had gone too far.
"But how will they know me?" I queried, still not quite solid in my belief that everything always works out (no matter how many times it does, there remains a lingering doubt.)
"Well, first, you're white." Did something in my voice give me away? I took a quick glance around the dusty dirt road and confirmed that I was, in fact, the only white person in sight.
"I am in a blue car," I said just in case some other mondele showed up in the meantime. I turned the car around and headed back towards the bakery. Then I turned around again and waited by the side of the road for some strange kids to find me. After a few minutes, I spotted them running towards me, waving their hands with smiles exploding from their faces. Did I really think somehow we would miss each other?
They happily jumped in the car and we set off in search of the center a block away. I've begun an art therapy program for the ORPER centers in Kinshasa. There are six houses, with one dedicated to serving girls, one for the youngest boys and the other four for the older boys. One day a week we draw and color and paint. On Sundays we play games and build with legos.
The boys were full of energy and eager to begin. They drew with concentration and careful thought. Mama Annette told me several of the boys had just arrived in the last day or so and were still getting used to routines. The care and nurturing here was evident. She began by asking them all to make sure their noses were clean which I found amusing and considerate all at the same time.
We began by designing their names. Some of the boys needed help writing and I did my best to try and spell some of the more unique names. I'm at their mercy. One little boy told me his name was Dieu (God) and so, thinking perhaps Dieudonne (God given), which is a common name in Kinshasa, I went ahead and wrote it on his paper. With some discussion we eventually added Mbaya. Dieu Mbaya. Pierrence and Moshubaye were some other names I sounded out.
Each boy presented his picture and explained some of the items he'd chosen to add. There were lots of flags of Congo, "Angola" (they said this but the flags didn't show the colors of Angola) and a green, yellow and black flag that I couldn't quite discern the significance of. There were houses and cars and snakes. One boy showed the story of how he had run away from his parents. After each presentation, the boys clapped and whooped for each other. Pride and happiness filled the room. I couldn't keep the smile from my own face even as the energy took a bit of a chaotic turn.
Our next project was to work in teams and draw random lines with a black marker. Then the boys spent time using crayons to fill in the spaces they had created. It is fascinating to watch how the different teams organize themselves. Inevitably there is a team that ends up with clearly divided areas. There are teams that work together to coordinate colors and teams that just randomly fill in wherever and however they wish. Each group came up with a name for their design and presented it to the group. Mama Annette asked them to explain why they had chosen a particular name and it turned almost into a school lesson. They said things like, "Banana because they are filled with vitamins and vitamins are important."or "Okapi, it is the pride of Congo." and " Ferme because when you don't have enough to eat, your stomach is closed." Profound thoughts from 7 and 8 year olds.
There are several challenges when going to the centers, one of which is figuring out how to work with the educators. My two experiences have been incredibly positive and the women have helped to translate for me, teach me a few words and maintain order.
On Sundays, the "auxillary" staff are present. They are not the trained workers but fill ins so the regular staff can have a day of rest. They may let the routines slide a bit and be a little less involved in doling out morale and encouraging good behavior. But in general, I felt like the kids were lucky to be in such a positive place.
I couldn't help comparing them to the girls at the center I had visited the week before. The girls were calmer, appeared more tired and worn out. They are at a day center and this may be part of the reason. While there are sleeping quarters, the girls can come and go. There was a greater range of ages and on my first visit, I was introduced to the president, vice president and secretary. They did the same activities but with shyness and less exuberant energy. Their drawings were full of food (pineapples and fish) and the pestle and mortar used for grinding. They talked about preparing food and listening to the radio. Some of them talked about fashion. They all seemed to name their group pictures after countries (carte de Amerique, carte de Congo, carte de Angola, etc.)
The second day at their center, we built with legos and pattern blocks. They learned how to play Jenga and Connect Four. They had a lot of questions about my hair- most of the younger girls appear boy like because thier hair is so short. One girl sported some beads just in the front-"Rhianna," she told me, after the famous pop star.) They offered to fix me up and I sadly had to tell them that the dreds don't actually come out. The courtyard is not covered and we were in the sun for much of the time. They alternated between sleeping and building lazily. I watched one young girl who appeared to be mentally retarded do most of the work washing cups and dishes. I really wanted to call her over and tell her to play but wasn't quite ready to over rule established routines. This was quite different from Mama Annette who told me about one of the boys that seemed a little slow in speaking, but now she noticed he was quite intelligent with the art we were doing. She also remarked about how coordination in some of the children could be improved and I felt like I had a good supporter in her.
The program involves me rotating around to all of the six centers - which means it will be a long time before I get back to the girls. I had such a good time talking with those girls and laughing together I thought I wanted to insist on staying at just one place. Then I met the boys today and we had a different kind of fun. So I see, maybe the rotation is good for awhile. All the kids can benefit from making art and playing games with the white lady, Mama Soumah. And I am learning more Lingala and how to have my own real exploding smile.
"But how will they know me?" I queried, still not quite solid in my belief that everything always works out (no matter how many times it does, there remains a lingering doubt.)
"Well, first, you're white." Did something in my voice give me away? I took a quick glance around the dusty dirt road and confirmed that I was, in fact, the only white person in sight.
"I am in a blue car," I said just in case some other mondele showed up in the meantime. I turned the car around and headed back towards the bakery. Then I turned around again and waited by the side of the road for some strange kids to find me. After a few minutes, I spotted them running towards me, waving their hands with smiles exploding from their faces. Did I really think somehow we would miss each other?
They happily jumped in the car and we set off in search of the center a block away. I've begun an art therapy program for the ORPER centers in Kinshasa. There are six houses, with one dedicated to serving girls, one for the youngest boys and the other four for the older boys. One day a week we draw and color and paint. On Sundays we play games and build with legos.
The boys were full of energy and eager to begin. They drew with concentration and careful thought. Mama Annette told me several of the boys had just arrived in the last day or so and were still getting used to routines. The care and nurturing here was evident. She began by asking them all to make sure their noses were clean which I found amusing and considerate all at the same time.
We began by designing their names. Some of the boys needed help writing and I did my best to try and spell some of the more unique names. I'm at their mercy. One little boy told me his name was Dieu (God) and so, thinking perhaps Dieudonne (God given), which is a common name in Kinshasa, I went ahead and wrote it on his paper. With some discussion we eventually added Mbaya. Dieu Mbaya. Pierrence and Moshubaye were some other names I sounded out.
Each boy presented his picture and explained some of the items he'd chosen to add. There were lots of flags of Congo, "Angola" (they said this but the flags didn't show the colors of Angola) and a green, yellow and black flag that I couldn't quite discern the significance of. There were houses and cars and snakes. One boy showed the story of how he had run away from his parents. After each presentation, the boys clapped and whooped for each other. Pride and happiness filled the room. I couldn't keep the smile from my own face even as the energy took a bit of a chaotic turn.
Our next project was to work in teams and draw random lines with a black marker. Then the boys spent time using crayons to fill in the spaces they had created. It is fascinating to watch how the different teams organize themselves. Inevitably there is a team that ends up with clearly divided areas. There are teams that work together to coordinate colors and teams that just randomly fill in wherever and however they wish. Each group came up with a name for their design and presented it to the group. Mama Annette asked them to explain why they had chosen a particular name and it turned almost into a school lesson. They said things like, "Banana because they are filled with vitamins and vitamins are important."or "Okapi, it is the pride of Congo." and " Ferme because when you don't have enough to eat, your stomach is closed." Profound thoughts from 7 and 8 year olds.
There are several challenges when going to the centers, one of which is figuring out how to work with the educators. My two experiences have been incredibly positive and the women have helped to translate for me, teach me a few words and maintain order.
On Sundays, the "auxillary" staff are present. They are not the trained workers but fill ins so the regular staff can have a day of rest. They may let the routines slide a bit and be a little less involved in doling out morale and encouraging good behavior. But in general, I felt like the kids were lucky to be in such a positive place.
I couldn't help comparing them to the girls at the center I had visited the week before. The girls were calmer, appeared more tired and worn out. They are at a day center and this may be part of the reason. While there are sleeping quarters, the girls can come and go. There was a greater range of ages and on my first visit, I was introduced to the president, vice president and secretary. They did the same activities but with shyness and less exuberant energy. Their drawings were full of food (pineapples and fish) and the pestle and mortar used for grinding. They talked about preparing food and listening to the radio. Some of them talked about fashion. They all seemed to name their group pictures after countries (carte de Amerique, carte de Congo, carte de Angola, etc.)
The second day at their center, we built with legos and pattern blocks. They learned how to play Jenga and Connect Four. They had a lot of questions about my hair- most of the younger girls appear boy like because thier hair is so short. One girl sported some beads just in the front-"Rhianna," she told me, after the famous pop star.) They offered to fix me up and I sadly had to tell them that the dreds don't actually come out. The courtyard is not covered and we were in the sun for much of the time. They alternated between sleeping and building lazily. I watched one young girl who appeared to be mentally retarded do most of the work washing cups and dishes. I really wanted to call her over and tell her to play but wasn't quite ready to over rule established routines. This was quite different from Mama Annette who told me about one of the boys that seemed a little slow in speaking, but now she noticed he was quite intelligent with the art we were doing. She also remarked about how coordination in some of the children could be improved and I felt like I had a good supporter in her.
The program involves me rotating around to all of the six centers - which means it will be a long time before I get back to the girls. I had such a good time talking with those girls and laughing together I thought I wanted to insist on staying at just one place. Then I met the boys today and we had a different kind of fun. So I see, maybe the rotation is good for awhile. All the kids can benefit from making art and playing games with the white lady, Mama Soumah. And I am learning more Lingala and how to have my own real exploding smile.
12.8.12
year five
Things seem to be going wrong in that colossal way that leaves no room for doubt about future direction. If I was waiting for a theme to emerge this year, irony appears to have shown herself from head to tail. If I had hoped and prayed for signs to guide me, they've been succinctly answered.
I am trying to remember when doors close, windows open and every opportunity begins with an ending. And actually, it's no longer feeling suffocating but liberating. I am learning to laugh at the turn of events and bizarre predicaments my life is bringing forth. Perhaps all of those capoeira classes meant to find find balance and inner strength have paid off.
Despite the departure of my kickboxing instructor, Kinshasa has come through and provided a vast new array of exercise activities to fill my evenings. I wonder how I will have time for classroom planning and homework.
I have vowed (again) not to let my working life take over, but any teacher will tell you how nearly impossible that is. It's not a neat and tidy job that ends at a precise hour when all the papers can be stacked and declared finished. Rather, it is a never ending search to improve, to motivate, to enlighten and to cherish the process of learning. I find myself at a moment when my own personal learning and growth is offering up new pathways and possibilities.
Salue, year five. I embrace the challenges and new directions you are offering.
I am trying to remember when doors close, windows open and every opportunity begins with an ending. And actually, it's no longer feeling suffocating but liberating. I am learning to laugh at the turn of events and bizarre predicaments my life is bringing forth. Perhaps all of those capoeira classes meant to find find balance and inner strength have paid off.
Despite the departure of my kickboxing instructor, Kinshasa has come through and provided a vast new array of exercise activities to fill my evenings. I wonder how I will have time for classroom planning and homework.
I have vowed (again) not to let my working life take over, but any teacher will tell you how nearly impossible that is. It's not a neat and tidy job that ends at a precise hour when all the papers can be stacked and declared finished. Rather, it is a never ending search to improve, to motivate, to enlighten and to cherish the process of learning. I find myself at a moment when my own personal learning and growth is offering up new pathways and possibilities.
Salue, year five. I embrace the challenges and new directions you are offering.
23.7.12
Cultivating a culture
Three times a week we meet at 8 am. With the sleepiness still in our eyes, we begin warming up our bodies. In a circle we grab hands and gently pull outward using the force of others to awaken and stretch our muscles. I've had the amazing opportunity to study with Jacques and his company during this break from school. With the addition of 5 new dancers, we've become a respectable sized group. I enjoy watching the younger girls as they learn the rhythms of their country. They laugh and posture a lot. I can see that some of the steps are hard for them, and others....well, they just seem to come straight from the soul. They love to dance and it shows- in between moments of shyness that flash here and there as they experiment with new ways to move. It's a bit of lightheartedness added to the class, even if they are sometimes reprimanded for being cavalier.
Our studio is an outdoor stage on a small plot of land just outside Kintambo. The stage is small but serves as a cultural arena, offering a home to theater, dance and other performers. During class, Jacques gives pointers on technique and style. He is the king of this domain and walks around the small concrete area, kicking at stray pebbles and imploring us to have more energy, more force and more flexibility. "Présence!" he is known to shout. He tells us, here on stage, with the audience out there, we are all royalty and must act like it. It'sintimidating empowering to say the least.
The répétition is interspersed with small lectures about the background of dances from the tribes of Bas-Congo and Bandundu. He encourages the girls to remain dedicated and put forth effort, citing examples from his troupe who have traveled abroad- the ultimate success. I can see the smile reach their eyes as they consider this future. "You," he tells them, "you can travel to Belgium and Spain. You can take this piece of your culture with you and share and teach the world. But me? I'm staying here in Kinshasa. Someone has to train the youth." He tells us he dreams of dance schools, starting in Kinshasa and branching out across the country. "But you- you will travel and find your future." It's a bit more inspiring in the French and Lingala mix he uses to talk with them, and the natural energy he pours forth as a teacher. Being immersed in the Lingala doesn't allow me to understand every word, but I usually have the general meaning and often times even catch the humor.
But the class is not all inspiration. There is plenty of beratement to go around when the jump isn't high enough or you're slightly off rhythm. Ironically, this is what I came looking for. After 10 years of West African dance, I am ready to expand. I want to be pushed as a dancer in order to do some growing of my own. I notice Jacques still tends to lower his voice a notch and speak slightly more softly when correcting me. Perhaps it is adapting to our differences in culture, or maybe he is showing me a small bit of respect (I admit to being the oldest one in the room...) but I am trying to wean him off of this. I don't want special treatment, I want to dance. Eventually, that becomes a language of its own.
I am curious to see the others grow, to watch the changes from beginner student to the well formed artist that I know will come. The examples are before us, the members of his group, the others who have branched off and started their own companies. One girl in particular has the shine, the allure to draw in the eyes and captivate an audience. She dances well and requires only discipline and training. During rehearsal today, I could see her as she has the potential to become. And it was beautiful.
In between pushing us, there's time to talk to our small audience of children that come to watch. Jacques tells them in 10 more years, they will be up here, replacing us. The dancers of tomorrow. I feel a warm and comfortable privilege to witness this art being passed on and promised to a new generation.
Seven hours later finds me in the midst of yet another cultural exchange. This time I am caught up in capoeira. We've had two guest teachers this week developing our strength and technique. Yanni has been bringing his nieces and nephews which amounts to a lofty crew, along with many of his students from Limete. After a grueling warm up that has my thighs screaming for mercy we are usually divided into groups. Today I had a chance to work with the advanced students, struggling to keep up and maintain my balance. This class uses mostly Portuguese to call out the movements and my oft forgotten Spanish is slightly useful here. But generally, I have my eyes on Ninja or Yanni, our regular instructors, trying to follow along.
The style of teaching here is all encouragement. I suppose it must be, for trust to develop. And when facing an opponent in the roda, there must be trust. "Isso," is a common phrase, most often uttered by Yanni in a strong and gentle voice, eliciting courage and expressing compliments for a move well executed (or even a move well tried, as is the case most often with me.) I have yet to find my confidence in capoeira even as I am ever more in love with the grace and fluidity of movement.
The focus on technique slowed us down today to a somewhat more manageable pace. Even the roda at the end was calm, an aesthic choreography of combatants rather than the energetic flying leaps and kicks that Yanni and Ninja are so well known for. Surrounded by Congolese, learning a discipline that has its roots in their heritage has helped me to find a connection, a sense of place in this foreign land. I still can't manage to remember enough of a sequence to enter the roda voluntarily, but once again I find myself feeling privileged to witness the passing on of an art form and to be present for this cultivating of a culture that has been neglected for so long.
As I'm writing this, I remember to be grateful for the teachers in my life. Pushing me outside my comfort zone, challenging me to become more than I am and supporting me in my search for balance. But mostly, for inspiring hope in the future generations.
Our studio is an outdoor stage on a small plot of land just outside Kintambo. The stage is small but serves as a cultural arena, offering a home to theater, dance and other performers. During class, Jacques gives pointers on technique and style. He is the king of this domain and walks around the small concrete area, kicking at stray pebbles and imploring us to have more energy, more force and more flexibility. "Présence!" he is known to shout. He tells us, here on stage, with the audience out there, we are all royalty and must act like it. It's
 |
| The Taramc office at the back of the seating area (filled with infamous white plastic chairs during performances) |
The répétition is interspersed with small lectures about the background of dances from the tribes of Bas-Congo and Bandundu. He encourages the girls to remain dedicated and put forth effort, citing examples from his troupe who have traveled abroad- the ultimate success. I can see the smile reach their eyes as they consider this future. "You," he tells them, "you can travel to Belgium and Spain. You can take this piece of your culture with you and share and teach the world. But me? I'm staying here in Kinshasa. Someone has to train the youth." He tells us he dreams of dance schools, starting in Kinshasa and branching out across the country. "But you- you will travel and find your future." It's a bit more inspiring in the French and Lingala mix he uses to talk with them, and the natural energy he pours forth as a teacher. Being immersed in the Lingala doesn't allow me to understand every word, but I usually have the general meaning and often times even catch the humor.
But the class is not all inspiration. There is plenty of beratement to go around when the jump isn't high enough or you're slightly off rhythm. Ironically, this is what I came looking for. After 10 years of West African dance, I am ready to expand. I want to be pushed as a dancer in order to do some growing of my own. I notice Jacques still tends to lower his voice a notch and speak slightly more softly when correcting me. Perhaps it is adapting to our differences in culture, or maybe he is showing me a small bit of respect (I admit to being the oldest one in the room...) but I am trying to wean him off of this. I don't want special treatment, I want to dance. Eventually, that becomes a language of its own.
I am curious to see the others grow, to watch the changes from beginner student to the well formed artist that I know will come. The examples are before us, the members of his group, the others who have branched off and started their own companies. One girl in particular has the shine, the allure to draw in the eyes and captivate an audience. She dances well and requires only discipline and training. During rehearsal today, I could see her as she has the potential to become. And it was beautiful.
In between pushing us, there's time to talk to our small audience of children that come to watch. Jacques tells them in 10 more years, they will be up here, replacing us. The dancers of tomorrow. I feel a warm and comfortable privilege to witness this art being passed on and promised to a new generation.
Seven hours later finds me in the midst of yet another cultural exchange. This time I am caught up in capoeira. We've had two guest teachers this week developing our strength and technique. Yanni has been bringing his nieces and nephews which amounts to a lofty crew, along with many of his students from Limete. After a grueling warm up that has my thighs screaming for mercy we are usually divided into groups. Today I had a chance to work with the advanced students, struggling to keep up and maintain my balance. This class uses mostly Portuguese to call out the movements and my oft forgotten Spanish is slightly useful here. But generally, I have my eyes on Ninja or Yanni, our regular instructors, trying to follow along.
The style of teaching here is all encouragement. I suppose it must be, for trust to develop. And when facing an opponent in the roda, there must be trust. "Isso," is a common phrase, most often uttered by Yanni in a strong and gentle voice, eliciting courage and expressing compliments for a move well executed (or even a move well tried, as is the case most often with me.) I have yet to find my confidence in capoeira even as I am ever more in love with the grace and fluidity of movement.
The focus on technique slowed us down today to a somewhat more manageable pace. Even the roda at the end was calm, an aesthic choreography of combatants rather than the energetic flying leaps and kicks that Yanni and Ninja are so well known for. Surrounded by Congolese, learning a discipline that has its roots in their heritage has helped me to find a connection, a sense of place in this foreign land. I still can't manage to remember enough of a sequence to enter the roda voluntarily, but once again I find myself feeling privileged to witness the passing on of an art form and to be present for this cultivating of a culture that has been neglected for so long.
As I'm writing this, I remember to be grateful for the teachers in my life. Pushing me outside my comfort zone, challenging me to become more than I am and supporting me in my search for balance. But mostly, for inspiring hope in the future generations.
Surviving laser tag
I have an idea. I'm told the next step is to write it up in a business plan, which I might actually attempt. It's not one of those ideas that will change the world, or one I even feel close to my heart, but it is a simple thought for a business. And it could actually work- were there to be a viable business partner. It's just something I have been keeping around in the back of my mind- for awhile now.
So as Mohamed and I were chatting one night over a late lunch (or perhaps an early dinner, depending on which time zone we are counting ourselves in) I had my mind in that direction- the direction of fun and frivolity. Because not all things in Congo have to be about developing hospitals for the maimed and wounded or plans to reign in children off the street and somehow put a stop to the accusations of witchcraft and sorcery. Sometimes people are just looking for a way to spend a Friday night.
Mohamed was telling me about some of the things he did on his summer vacation in Florida. Although the temperatures seemed to prohibit much outside play, he did venture off to a nearby park a few times and had an exhilarating experience driving go-carts (the real kind, with motors.) I thought of the few places here in Kinshasa where you can go to ride a quad, probably the closest thing to a motorized go-cart to be found in the city, and the tragic story of a teenage death I'd heard about. The young rider was celebrating her birthday and had just called out to her dad to show off her new driving skills when she revved too fast and hit enough of a bump to throw her off the machine, which landed on top of her. There seems no end to the go-cart tragedy stories including one I'd heard of as a kid. It began as a small accident in which a girl had bumped into another car. Both riders appeared fine with only minor stomach pains. Much later, one of them was brought to the hospital where she died from internal injuries. Urban myth perhaps but this story about a Muslim mom made the news as did others about teens and children in unfortunate accidents involving go carts. Considering the level of safety consciousness generally present here in Kin, motorized go-carts are probably not the best business plan.
The highlight of the trip to the go-cart park, however, was the laser tag section. It sounded as if the arena was outside, with Mohamed and his brothers hiding behind trees and ducking under bushes. I was reminded of the roller skating rink I had gone to as a teen. Somewhere between the time I stopped going and the time I brought my own children there, they'd installed a laser arena. It was all strobe lights and loud music. I never really checked it out. Emmanual Jal has me pretty much convinced that war games aren't really games. But for a minute I was thinking about my business plan for a skating rink here in Kin and wondering what other attractions might help it grow. Perhaps a minute is even too long to describe the time it took for this thought to really land.
Because as Mohamed described the game, his face morphed into the face of the young Congolese fleeing their homes, running through darkness filled with fear and the sound of gunshots. I could only imagine this game to be a cruel irony- a recreation of a real life event. The juxtaposition of this image with that of so many American children enjoying a carefree day "shooting" their friends was more than I could really process. "You know, for some people that's a reality," I began. Mohamed and I had yet another one of those talks....not the "eat-your-food-because-some-child-is-starving-in-Africa" talk but a real discussion. About how people live and the complexities that war brings to ordinary boys like him. (Although, I must say Mohamed gets the starving children perspective. I have had more than one discussion with teachers and lunchroom monitors about his over zealous preaching to classmates who dare to head to the bin with so much as a scrap of food on their plate....)
We talk about war and its consequences. We talk about reasons why people fight and what they hope to gain by it. We even talk about what happens to the towns and villages that get caught up in the midst of the conflicts. Our talks are full of questions and suppositions and sometimes child like solutions.
But Mohamed almost always seems to end with a shrug and "I know. But this isn't real." He seems to see a distinct difference between his gaming and others reality. Perhaps it is too much too expect that he would empathize enough to swear off war and gun play. After all, it really is one of those situations we cannot imagine ever intruding into our lives.
What I have noticed - and appreciated- about entertainment here in Kin is that it is generally simple. Play spaces for children often resemble little more than what can be found in an average American backyard. And Kinois pay to bring their children for play, for parties and for weekend amusement. So, it seems the best business plan will follow this model. A skating rink, simply put outdoors, with some of those trademark blue plastic chairs and a table or two. And maybe a pizza cone truck nearby. Of course, the loud music is probably a must. It is Kinshasa, after all. But for now, it seems best to leave the strobe lights and laser attacks to the children of the West, who have the luxury to play out the war games that other children are trying to survive.To be sure, most Kinshasa kids have no real experience with war either- and would probably love a game of laser tag as much as Mohamed. But the irony of families paying for a real live war game is just too much, and I certainly don't want to be the one sponsoring it. Friday night fun and birthday bashing needn't imitate the woes of the country.
So as Mohamed and I were chatting one night over a late lunch (or perhaps an early dinner, depending on which time zone we are counting ourselves in) I had my mind in that direction- the direction of fun and frivolity. Because not all things in Congo have to be about developing hospitals for the maimed and wounded or plans to reign in children off the street and somehow put a stop to the accusations of witchcraft and sorcery. Sometimes people are just looking for a way to spend a Friday night.
Mohamed was telling me about some of the things he did on his summer vacation in Florida. Although the temperatures seemed to prohibit much outside play, he did venture off to a nearby park a few times and had an exhilarating experience driving go-carts (the real kind, with motors.) I thought of the few places here in Kinshasa where you can go to ride a quad, probably the closest thing to a motorized go-cart to be found in the city, and the tragic story of a teenage death I'd heard about. The young rider was celebrating her birthday and had just called out to her dad to show off her new driving skills when she revved too fast and hit enough of a bump to throw her off the machine, which landed on top of her. There seems no end to the go-cart tragedy stories including one I'd heard of as a kid. It began as a small accident in which a girl had bumped into another car. Both riders appeared fine with only minor stomach pains. Much later, one of them was brought to the hospital where she died from internal injuries. Urban myth perhaps but this story about a Muslim mom made the news as did others about teens and children in unfortunate accidents involving go carts. Considering the level of safety consciousness generally present here in Kin, motorized go-carts are probably not the best business plan.
The highlight of the trip to the go-cart park, however, was the laser tag section. It sounded as if the arena was outside, with Mohamed and his brothers hiding behind trees and ducking under bushes. I was reminded of the roller skating rink I had gone to as a teen. Somewhere between the time I stopped going and the time I brought my own children there, they'd installed a laser arena. It was all strobe lights and loud music. I never really checked it out. Emmanual Jal has me pretty much convinced that war games aren't really games. But for a minute I was thinking about my business plan for a skating rink here in Kin and wondering what other attractions might help it grow. Perhaps a minute is even too long to describe the time it took for this thought to really land.
Because as Mohamed described the game, his face morphed into the face of the young Congolese fleeing their homes, running through darkness filled with fear and the sound of gunshots. I could only imagine this game to be a cruel irony- a recreation of a real life event. The juxtaposition of this image with that of so many American children enjoying a carefree day "shooting" their friends was more than I could really process. "You know, for some people that's a reality," I began. Mohamed and I had yet another one of those talks....not the "eat-your-food-because-some-child-is-starving-in-Africa" talk but a real discussion. About how people live and the complexities that war brings to ordinary boys like him. (Although, I must say Mohamed gets the starving children perspective. I have had more than one discussion with teachers and lunchroom monitors about his over zealous preaching to classmates who dare to head to the bin with so much as a scrap of food on their plate....)
We talk about war and its consequences. We talk about reasons why people fight and what they hope to gain by it. We even talk about what happens to the towns and villages that get caught up in the midst of the conflicts. Our talks are full of questions and suppositions and sometimes child like solutions.
But Mohamed almost always seems to end with a shrug and "I know. But this isn't real." He seems to see a distinct difference between his gaming and others reality. Perhaps it is too much too expect that he would empathize enough to swear off war and gun play. After all, it really is one of those situations we cannot imagine ever intruding into our lives.
What I have noticed - and appreciated- about entertainment here in Kin is that it is generally simple. Play spaces for children often resemble little more than what can be found in an average American backyard. And Kinois pay to bring their children for play, for parties and for weekend amusement. So, it seems the best business plan will follow this model. A skating rink, simply put outdoors, with some of those trademark blue plastic chairs and a table or two. And maybe a pizza cone truck nearby. Of course, the loud music is probably a must. It is Kinshasa, after all. But for now, it seems best to leave the strobe lights and laser attacks to the children of the West, who have the luxury to play out the war games that other children are trying to survive.To be sure, most Kinshasa kids have no real experience with war either- and would probably love a game of laser tag as much as Mohamed. But the irony of families paying for a real live war game is just too much, and I certainly don't want to be the one sponsoring it. Friday night fun and birthday bashing needn't imitate the woes of the country.
18.7.12
The story of a box....
"I'm on the edge here. Don't do this to me." I was talking directly to the change machine who was refusing to eat my slightly crumpled dollar bill. It was turning out to be one of those ridiculous moments that make up the proverbial straw that brought the camel down. I'd arrived at the airport happy to be on my homeward journey only to discover my bags were going to cost $400 more than I had anticipated. Somehow I missed this nifty baggage chart and assumed all extra bags were merely $25. Being a frequent international flyer had left me paying more attention to weight than to number.
I thought briefly about the contents of my luggage- an entire year's worth of clothing and supplies for me and the boys- and deemed it all necessary. I laughed at the US Airways clerk and made some comment about only in America (I'd noticed these two things, the laugh and the "God loves America but no one else does" line popping forth more frequently. Sure signs that my departure was well overdue.) I handed her my debit card, quickly calculating how much might be left to get us through to the next payday. Declined. Oh boy. We had some conversation and ultimately I took my confusion off in search of an ATM. No luck there landed me on the phone with my bank, watching the minutes quickly turn to an hour at the risk of missing my flight. The discussion with the visa dept. led me to several other extensions and finally to a whole new bureau. It bordered on surreal, what was happening to me. Except of course, I truly was stuck in an airport 300 miles from my children and 6,000 miles from home with no way to access my own money that sat comfortably in a bank in upstate NY. Merde. Wild images of being homeless in Philadelphia ran across my mind as I tried to formulate a solution. Nothing came to me. I'd missed my flight and made my way back to reschedule. Step one appeared clear at least.
By the time I returned to the check-in desk, the clerk had moved my bags onto a push cart and called the police. God does love America. "You were gone so long," she explained, as if that explained anything. I gave her my smile and laugh. "I'll need a new flight," I told her and she booked me onto the next plane with ease, terrorist fears and abandoned bag issues now abated I suppose. I was then faced with the task of managing my luggage, which I hadn't quite figured out how to compile on the push cart. I was always left with one extra bag. The ingenious design of the push cart requires one to hold the handle down (or up, I could never quite be clear on which) in order to release the breaks. Impossible to do while holding another bag. In addition to that, it seemed the disease afflicting the Miami payphones had stretched out to Philly and the ones in closest reach just didn't work.
So it was I found myself talking to the change machine hoping for enough coins to call a friend to save me from disaster (again.) And my remaining dollar bill was just too crumpled to be accepted. I was completely on the edge of breaking down, despite my best attempts at deep breathing and calm self-talk. One angel was eyeing me from a nearby bench and soon offered up a crisp new bill, which the machine hungrily devoured. Coins in hand I began the unwieldy task of maneuvering my bags across the long hall to the other side of the airport where the payphones were working (hopefully.) Tears were no longer threatening to fall, they were sneaking down my face like defiant teenagers refusing to believe I had everything under control. People stared at me, watching me struggle, but no one offered to intervene. I had become an airport spectacle, a momentary diversion from their own travel dilemmas.
Until the angel appeared again. He pushed the cart to the phones and inquired several times about why I was crying. His tone indicated that every moment is a virtual gift and hence tears should ever be shed. I managed to pull out a smile, fix it into place and reassure him that I would be fine. In doing so, I managed to convince myself as well.
I spent several hours people watching and wondering about the stories filling other lives. Overhearing snatches of conversations reassured me that I was not the only one to be caught in the throes of mistakes from the past.
Fortunately, I had only one more stateside airport to get through before I would feel securely on my way. Landing in Miami was a welcome step closer to my final destination. I grabbed another luggage cart with renewed determination to make all of my things fit. While I was unable to achieve this on my own, a kindly Jamaican airport employee sized up the situation and quickly reversed the pieces to my puzzle. He sent me off towards the elevator with a stacked cart and some doubt about actually fitting inside. "No,no, you'll make it, " he assured me.
I did manage to lug my things up and out to the curbside where I flagged down a shuttle to a nearby hotel. Baggage problem put to bed for the night, I had a happy reunion with my boys.
The biggest problem was not my suitcases but a large bike box I had created to transport the latest exercise equipment needed to accommodate those long, sunny Kinshasa days. It wasn't heavy, just awkward and impossible to carry with anything else.
We made our final arrival at the airport five hours early, ready to check our bags (and box) one last time and settle down for an airport picnic. The shuttle driver dropped us off on the curb and I could see the AirFrance check-in counter from where I stood. Hope restored. We just had to get there, less than 100 feet away. The boys each took a few bags and I waited with the last two sacks and the box. As Nabih came back and grabbed one of the bags, it was the first time I realized my problem was uniquely American.
An African woman would have easily gathered that box up, placed it firmly on her head- leaving both hands free to grab an additional suitcase (or two!) and gracefully made her way over to the check- in line. Feeling woefully inadequate, I could only stare across at the distance wondering how I would ever make it. I resorted to sliding the box with my hands and pushing the bag with my feet in an unsuccessful attempt at covering ground. I was caught up in remembering the conversation I had had several nights before when packing up the bike.
We'd been debating the usefulness of a handle. I wanted to tie some string around the box to allow for a grabbing point. This idea was ultimately vetoed with the thought that there was always someone around to help when you're traveling. Wondering at this faulty logic, I continued my slow maneuvering towards where the boys had placed the rest of our things.
Two men began discussing between themselves whether or not I needed help. One seemed convinced I was fine and the other suspected a hand might be in order. While they carried on their strange debate a young Hispanic dad walked over, picked up my bag and dropped it by the boys without a word, leaving me free to now grab up the box and join my children. We had about half an hour to wait before the counter opened. This part did not pose a problem in the least. We know how to do airport waits.
I spent a few minutes feeling competent and accomplished. With the help of friends and traveling strangers, we'd made it. But our story was not quite over. Because one handle on the suitcase wouldn't retract and the box had been inspected by the Miami TSA on the way down from Philly. They'd neglected to return it to its beautifully wrapped state and the check in agent had some concerns about accepting it in its current half-wrapped condition........
Oh yeah, God does love America.
I thought briefly about the contents of my luggage- an entire year's worth of clothing and supplies for me and the boys- and deemed it all necessary. I laughed at the US Airways clerk and made some comment about only in America (I'd noticed these two things, the laugh and the "God loves America but no one else does" line popping forth more frequently. Sure signs that my departure was well overdue.) I handed her my debit card, quickly calculating how much might be left to get us through to the next payday. Declined. Oh boy. We had some conversation and ultimately I took my confusion off in search of an ATM. No luck there landed me on the phone with my bank, watching the minutes quickly turn to an hour at the risk of missing my flight. The discussion with the visa dept. led me to several other extensions and finally to a whole new bureau. It bordered on surreal, what was happening to me. Except of course, I truly was stuck in an airport 300 miles from my children and 6,000 miles from home with no way to access my own money that sat comfortably in a bank in upstate NY. Merde. Wild images of being homeless in Philadelphia ran across my mind as I tried to formulate a solution. Nothing came to me. I'd missed my flight and made my way back to reschedule. Step one appeared clear at least.
By the time I returned to the check-in desk, the clerk had moved my bags onto a push cart and called the police. God does love America. "You were gone so long," she explained, as if that explained anything. I gave her my smile and laugh. "I'll need a new flight," I told her and she booked me onto the next plane with ease, terrorist fears and abandoned bag issues now abated I suppose. I was then faced with the task of managing my luggage, which I hadn't quite figured out how to compile on the push cart. I was always left with one extra bag. The ingenious design of the push cart requires one to hold the handle down (or up, I could never quite be clear on which) in order to release the breaks. Impossible to do while holding another bag. In addition to that, it seemed the disease afflicting the Miami payphones had stretched out to Philly and the ones in closest reach just didn't work.
So it was I found myself talking to the change machine hoping for enough coins to call a friend to save me from disaster (again.) And my remaining dollar bill was just too crumpled to be accepted. I was completely on the edge of breaking down, despite my best attempts at deep breathing and calm self-talk. One angel was eyeing me from a nearby bench and soon offered up a crisp new bill, which the machine hungrily devoured. Coins in hand I began the unwieldy task of maneuvering my bags across the long hall to the other side of the airport where the payphones were working (hopefully.) Tears were no longer threatening to fall, they were sneaking down my face like defiant teenagers refusing to believe I had everything under control. People stared at me, watching me struggle, but no one offered to intervene. I had become an airport spectacle, a momentary diversion from their own travel dilemmas.
Until the angel appeared again. He pushed the cart to the phones and inquired several times about why I was crying. His tone indicated that every moment is a virtual gift and hence tears should ever be shed. I managed to pull out a smile, fix it into place and reassure him that I would be fine. In doing so, I managed to convince myself as well.
I spent several hours people watching and wondering about the stories filling other lives. Overhearing snatches of conversations reassured me that I was not the only one to be caught in the throes of mistakes from the past.
Fortunately, I had only one more stateside airport to get through before I would feel securely on my way. Landing in Miami was a welcome step closer to my final destination. I grabbed another luggage cart with renewed determination to make all of my things fit. While I was unable to achieve this on my own, a kindly Jamaican airport employee sized up the situation and quickly reversed the pieces to my puzzle. He sent me off towards the elevator with a stacked cart and some doubt about actually fitting inside. "No,no, you'll make it, " he assured me.
I did manage to lug my things up and out to the curbside where I flagged down a shuttle to a nearby hotel. Baggage problem put to bed for the night, I had a happy reunion with my boys.
The biggest problem was not my suitcases but a large bike box I had created to transport the latest exercise equipment needed to accommodate those long, sunny Kinshasa days. It wasn't heavy, just awkward and impossible to carry with anything else.
We made our final arrival at the airport five hours early, ready to check our bags (and box) one last time and settle down for an airport picnic. The shuttle driver dropped us off on the curb and I could see the AirFrance check-in counter from where I stood. Hope restored. We just had to get there, less than 100 feet away. The boys each took a few bags and I waited with the last two sacks and the box. As Nabih came back and grabbed one of the bags, it was the first time I realized my problem was uniquely American.
An African woman would have easily gathered that box up, placed it firmly on her head- leaving both hands free to grab an additional suitcase (or two!) and gracefully made her way over to the check- in line. Feeling woefully inadequate, I could only stare across at the distance wondering how I would ever make it. I resorted to sliding the box with my hands and pushing the bag with my feet in an unsuccessful attempt at covering ground. I was caught up in remembering the conversation I had had several nights before when packing up the bike.
We'd been debating the usefulness of a handle. I wanted to tie some string around the box to allow for a grabbing point. This idea was ultimately vetoed with the thought that there was always someone around to help when you're traveling. Wondering at this faulty logic, I continued my slow maneuvering towards where the boys had placed the rest of our things.
Two men began discussing between themselves whether or not I needed help. One seemed convinced I was fine and the other suspected a hand might be in order. While they carried on their strange debate a young Hispanic dad walked over, picked up my bag and dropped it by the boys without a word, leaving me free to now grab up the box and join my children. We had about half an hour to wait before the counter opened. This part did not pose a problem in the least. We know how to do airport waits.
I spent a few minutes feeling competent and accomplished. With the help of friends and traveling strangers, we'd made it. But our story was not quite over. Because one handle on the suitcase wouldn't retract and the box had been inspected by the Miami TSA on the way down from Philly. They'd neglected to return it to its beautifully wrapped state and the check in agent had some concerns about accepting it in its current half-wrapped condition........
Oh yeah, God does love America.
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