Sara Rich captures some other transitions one must make before becoming truly acclimated to the pace of life in Congo ( and the challenges of coming and going) on her blog Rice and Beans for the Soul. In the past four years, I have been grappling with many of these issues. Access to drinking water- and just water in general- getting used to dimmer lights - and often no lights at all- and the lack of consumer choices have all ranked near the top of my list. (I completely relate to splurging on a chocolate candy bar---and admit, in this last year, to becoming a bit confused about what constitutes an extravagant purchase. Is $8 for a box of cereal a bargain or a rip off? $10 strawberries....equaling out to $1 a piece....a snatch or a shrug? Of course, there was no doubt about the $4 head of broccoli- definitely a deal! and a one time purchase as such a great bargain could not be found twice, sadly.)
Beyond the material, there are other changes to adapt to in Congo. These differences are more philosophical and have to do with what we welcome into our lives. By welcome, I suppose I mean accept. Some ideas and concepts enter without choice or pleasure. But if I am choosing to stay in Africa, to live and work here, then there certain realities that must be accepted and in that sense, I am allowing them into my life. Many of these aspects- such as the lack of privacy surrounding nearly every moment of life- inspire opposing senses of intrigue and exasperation. Living in Africa also means infusing spirituality- in one form or another- into pretty much every corner of life. Taxi buses are adorned with "Travel in Christ" and "God's good hand." Stores along the roadside are named "Jehovah's Good Word Fashions" and "Jesus is Our Savior Boutique." It's not just in the naming of things, but also in the dialogue. Every conversation can be said to have two layers- the literal one and the one referring to past and present, seen and unseen, physical and spiritual. Trying to decipher which level we're on and which "reality" we are referring to can be another of those past times that is at once puzzling and slightly infuriating.
Welcoming death as a part of life has been one of the hardest things I have had to adjust to. In America, death is sequestered. It is an occasion revered and often resisted. There is surprise and anger. But here in Congo, death is something everyone seems to have experienced at least twice over. "What are you doing this evening?" is just as often answered, "Going to a funeral," as "Going to visit a friend for dinner." In all of my 33 years before coming to Africa, death had only touched my personal life twice- and both of those times were so much on the periphery they barely had the ability to touch me. Or should I say the first funeral was such a foreign and bizarre series of rituals that I couldn't even bring myself to go to the second, which quickly followed. I just don't have much experience with death and my first funeral, at the age of 20, seemed simply grotesque and bizarre. I had no foundation with which to understand the quiet, solemn staring at the body or the solitary tears choked back by the parents. None of it made sense to me. None of it touched me. A foreign affair.
But here in Africa, cemeteries meet the roadway. Traveling just outside the city center reveals graves springing up mere feet from houses, becoming part of the yard itself. Marker stones can be seen just across narrow paths that barely qualify as roads. And people perch on the edges, seek shade under the stone canopies and rest their tired, living bodies on the graves of those in peaceful slumber.
My first African funeral came as a shock. I found out about the passing in the middle of teaching my class. I was confused and troubled. My thoughts rotated from wondering what and how it could happen to dismay at the child left behind, along with her cousins who had now lost a second mother.
The wake itself was held in the hollowed theater of National Ballet. Asina Kititwa had been a long time member of the ballet and my teacher. Her casket sat adorned with wreaths and flowers while mourners made their way down the packed theater seats to give their respects. A group of women sat nearby the casket and every so often would jump up and begin wailing and caressing Asina's body. People shared stories of a life lived and celebrated together, though none made it through entirely before breaking down into tears and being helped off stage. Others sang and performed several beautiful dances in honor of Asina. The dancers resembled willow trees, fragile branches swaying in the breeze supported by strong and capable trunks as they danced and wept and poured their love and energy into their memories of performing together.
