A few personal traumas probably didn't set me off to a great beginning for my trip. The planes and airports along the way were actually quite painless. Arriving in Miami and making it through customs and passport checks was also relatively easy. The lines moved quick enough and the questions weren't too imposing. I've gone through worse in New York.
I guess it really went downhill after arrival. The person who was supposed to meet us wasn't there. Our plane had come in a few hours late but one would expect people to check out that information- readily available as it is on all these fancy electronic monitors the airport is adorned with- and then wait. I had no contact information (I know, I know. I did try to secure this before leaving but it was impossible- chalk it up to one of those personal traumas I mentioned.) I finally managed to track down a number, buy a phone card and make contact. Of course, none of the pay phones in the lobby seemed to be working. I went back to the money exchange booth to have my newly purchased phone card checked out (working) and then went in search of more phones. The row of pay phones on the second level (down, as I came to find out that's what second level meant, not up as I had initially assumed) looked bright and shiny but also didn't work. (I did fly back to the US, right? Land of working systems and all things electronic???) I was beginning to miss Kinshasa dearly at this point- a mere two hours into my stateside vacation.
A nice guy at the money exchange booth on this level tried out the number I was trying to call on his own cell phone. Success. Sort of. The child who answered the phone didn't know where his mom was or her cell number but would call her to find out. Yeah, I was more than a bit confused a this point, but luckily I come from Kinshasa where using reason and logic is not necessarily the best way to solve a problem. I hung up and decided to call back in a few minutes.
I found a working pay phone eventually, made contact with the young boy who was now able to supply his mom's cell phone and transfer of the children was a go. Now on to find my ridiculously luxuriant hotel for the conference. I was definitely not feeling ready for five stars.
Upon check in, I found out that I was sharing a room (something neither I nor the roommate were expecting on this first night.) She kept talking about how she had traveled all day and I finally had to agree that yes, some of us came from even further away and had been traveling for several days (I left out the with four children part because I was on the edge of tears at this point. A very unwelcome welcome.) My key to the room didn't work and my luggage was nowhere to be found. Kinshasa was looking mighty comforting in comparison.
By the time I had navigated my way through all four buildings of the hotel and back to the main lobby and then back again to my room, I was pretty much on the edge of a break down. I could barely hold back tears as the bell boy handed me my bags. He knew enough not to wait for a tip and scampered off to deliver the rest of his luggage. Me? I ran out to the nearest Publix marveling at all the South Florida joggers with nothing to do but enjoy the leisurely life. Oh Western world take it easy on my senses.
I am at a loss as to how to address all of the people standing around to open doors and smile at me. My French is ever ready but useless and I can't seem to remember the English greetings. Mostly because no one is greeting anyone and they are all walking by caught up in their own worlds. Is it always like this?
I've finally arrived at my room, in isolation, surrounded by enough space and furnishings to accommodate several Congolese families. The bathroom is as big as my kitchen back home. It's so cold I have gone outside in search of warmth- and am even considering putting the heat on. I have been in these kinds of hotels before- mostly in Africa, where it should feel even more posh and oppressive than it does here, but somehow, on African land, I feel like my feet are firmly placed. Here, I am just completely unstable on these new American land legs.
26.6.12
23.6.12
Au rythm du pays
Now that it's finally time to leave, I still don't feel quite ready. Each year in Congo has been marked by some rhythm and this year, the rythm du pays. It's a common response to "Ca va?" and I tend to hear it more once the dry season has begun. In the rhythm of the country. I have come to understand it as meaning going with the ups and downs- but mostly it seems in reference to the downs. The struggles and constant battles for everyday survival the Congolese are so well known for.
I've come to accept so many things about the way life works here. I guess more than anything, year 4 has been about shedding my old rhythm and moving more in harmony with my environment. Unexpected waits don't seem to bother me so much anymore. Run ins with traffic police have been scarce, traffic "rules" are more apparent to me now and I can blend in with the flow seamlessly. I've become acquainted with most of the good shortcuts (there is nothing quite as satisfying as averting those Kinshasa traffic jams with a good back street trail.) I've learned enough of the language to usually get the gist of a conversation, even if I can't really respond yet. I don't hear those horrific cries of mondele so much (except those cute kids who live across the street. I have seriously been thinking of going over to tell them my name so when I walk outside I can listen to chants of Soumah......) I can't really explain that last one, perhaps I just don't notice it anymore. I am still clearly a mondele, but maybe it is just that when I do hear it, it doesn't bother me. Acceptance. I am the outsider here and will always be so, thanks to my luminescent white skin ( I don't think I actually glow in the dark but sometimes walking around at night can make me feel like I do.)
Au rythm du pays basically means life is hard here, and then sometimes it gets a little bit better. But it's never really a sure thing, the getting better part, and I guess that suits me. I always have been one to do things the hard way, learn life's good lessons long after I should have, stubbornly persist when maybe I shouldn't. Being here has become kind of comforting. We're all struggling for something. And even if I still dream of Guinea and aspire to dancing in Senegal, America seems to be calling to me less and less. When I walk out the door there, it's just going to be an ordinary day.
When I walked out my door today, I passed an army truck overflowing with singing soldiers. I saw another wedding at the communal building and I passed two funerals. I was saluted by one red beret carrying a terrifically impressive weapon. (I'm still not quite comfortable saluting back, being a common citizen, so I just tried to make my eyes respectfully wide and gave a small head nod and a smile.) I listened to the music of the street vendors clicking, clacking and calling out their wares. Someone even called me mademoiselle. Africa must be making me younger. I finally ended up at a graduation party for a six year old. They were celebrating her move to primary school. The music was loud, the food was plenty and the young boys were dancing joyously to their favorite Congolese hits. I marveled at the way they flawlessly performed the latest moves and I took sheer joy in their beauty and abandon. It could easily be a different story but that's what I left with. Images of children loving their life together. One good moment au rythm du pays.
I've come to accept so many things about the way life works here. I guess more than anything, year 4 has been about shedding my old rhythm and moving more in harmony with my environment. Unexpected waits don't seem to bother me so much anymore. Run ins with traffic police have been scarce, traffic "rules" are more apparent to me now and I can blend in with the flow seamlessly. I've become acquainted with most of the good shortcuts (there is nothing quite as satisfying as averting those Kinshasa traffic jams with a good back street trail.) I've learned enough of the language to usually get the gist of a conversation, even if I can't really respond yet. I don't hear those horrific cries of mondele so much (except those cute kids who live across the street. I have seriously been thinking of going over to tell them my name so when I walk outside I can listen to chants of Soumah......) I can't really explain that last one, perhaps I just don't notice it anymore. I am still clearly a mondele, but maybe it is just that when I do hear it, it doesn't bother me. Acceptance. I am the outsider here and will always be so, thanks to my luminescent white skin ( I don't think I actually glow in the dark but sometimes walking around at night can make me feel like I do.)
Au rythm du pays basically means life is hard here, and then sometimes it gets a little bit better. But it's never really a sure thing, the getting better part, and I guess that suits me. I always have been one to do things the hard way, learn life's good lessons long after I should have, stubbornly persist when maybe I shouldn't. Being here has become kind of comforting. We're all struggling for something. And even if I still dream of Guinea and aspire to dancing in Senegal, America seems to be calling to me less and less. When I walk out the door there, it's just going to be an ordinary day.
When I walked out my door today, I passed an army truck overflowing with singing soldiers. I saw another wedding at the communal building and I passed two funerals. I was saluted by one red beret carrying a terrifically impressive weapon. (I'm still not quite comfortable saluting back, being a common citizen, so I just tried to make my eyes respectfully wide and gave a small head nod and a smile.) I listened to the music of the street vendors clicking, clacking and calling out their wares. Someone even called me mademoiselle. Africa must be making me younger. I finally ended up at a graduation party for a six year old. They were celebrating her move to primary school. The music was loud, the food was plenty and the young boys were dancing joyously to their favorite Congolese hits. I marveled at the way they flawlessly performed the latest moves and I took sheer joy in their beauty and abandon. It could easily be a different story but that's what I left with. Images of children loving their life together. One good moment au rythm du pays.
20.6.12
A real artist
Beyond stocking up on good reads, preparing for the trek also involves making the rounds to say goodbye. I went to visit my painter friend today and check out the new work he has been producing. He is preparing for a trip to Gabon and was eager to talk about his project.
I caught a taxi pretty quickly just outside the gates and then spent a few long minutes in Kintambo mustering all my resistance to stay focused.(One singer for Zando with a particularly deep and melodious voice almost drew me in and swept me off to an entirely different part of the city.) A few soothing taxi rides and a long walk led me to the door of his workshop. He proudly showed me his drying paintings- beautiful homages to departing teachers from the Belgian school. What an amazing gift from the school. I snapped another bad phone photo of a painting in progress thinking our school might try something like that. It is traditional for schools to give a gift to teachers whose contracts have finished and Aicha works their image into an original piece of art to forever immortalize their stay in Congo.
I am always impressed with the amount of work Aicha turns out. He is like a painting machine. When I picked him up for the Gala exhibit at our school last month, he loaded several wet works into the car along with 6 or 7 dry pieces. He is always admonishing me to get busy so we can exhibit together. With only a week or so before that particular exhibit, he seemed to think I could create enough work in time to make it a duet.
Others have had a similar thought about my artwork. "Paint a lot and we can find a place to show (read- sell) it." I've tried explaining that for me, creating is more like childbirth. Long, laborious, painful yet satisfying. It takes so much of my energy and leaves me spent and exhausted. The thought of painting often conjures up resistance. Agony. I'm not even sure why I do it. Simply, because I can't NOT do it. I am compelled. But it has always been more therapeutic in nature. I give most of my work away as soon as it's finished- unable to bear looking at my expelled emotions.
So when Aicha asked me how my work was coming along on the canvas frames he had recently supplied me with ( remember this post....the price has been considerably lowered since our friendship has deepened) I set about explaining again the psychology behind my art. I'd just come from days immersed in a portrait painting which I then walked 7 kilometers to deliver in the name of purging myself from some devilish emotions. It seems to have worked pretty well.
But Aicha began to counsel me on the value of not giving everything away and presenting these raw emotions for the world to share. Yeah. "I do have something underway that isn't so traumatic," I informed him. "But that particular piece really needed to be far from me."
I guess that's the main difference between a painter for profit and art therapy. I think with practice I might evolve. But I am not really sure I want to.
I caught a taxi pretty quickly just outside the gates and then spent a few long minutes in Kintambo mustering all my resistance to stay focused.(One singer for Zando with a particularly deep and melodious voice almost drew me in and swept me off to an entirely different part of the city.) A few soothing taxi rides and a long walk led me to the door of his workshop. He proudly showed me his drying paintings- beautiful homages to departing teachers from the Belgian school. What an amazing gift from the school. I snapped another bad phone photo of a painting in progress thinking our school might try something like that. It is traditional for schools to give a gift to teachers whose contracts have finished and Aicha works their image into an original piece of art to forever immortalize their stay in Congo.
 |
| A teacher (and her parrot) amidst symbols of the school and country |
Others have had a similar thought about my artwork. "Paint a lot and we can find a place to show (read- sell) it." I've tried explaining that for me, creating is more like childbirth. Long, laborious, painful yet satisfying. It takes so much of my energy and leaves me spent and exhausted. The thought of painting often conjures up resistance. Agony. I'm not even sure why I do it. Simply, because I can't NOT do it. I am compelled. But it has always been more therapeutic in nature. I give most of my work away as soon as it's finished- unable to bear looking at my expelled emotions.
So when Aicha asked me how my work was coming along on the canvas frames he had recently supplied me with ( remember this post....the price has been considerably lowered since our friendship has deepened) I set about explaining again the psychology behind my art. I'd just come from days immersed in a portrait painting which I then walked 7 kilometers to deliver in the name of purging myself from some devilish emotions. It seems to have worked pretty well.
But Aicha began to counsel me on the value of not giving everything away and presenting these raw emotions for the world to share. Yeah. "I do have something underway that isn't so traumatic," I informed him. "But that particular piece really needed to be far from me."
I guess that's the main difference between a painter for profit and art therapy. I think with practice I might evolve. But I am not really sure I want to.
A Good Read
Preparing for the annual trek across the ocean means stocking up on reading material. Experience tells me the planes will be long, the layovers fraught with early morning awake hours and children too hyped up and overstimulated for much sleep to occur.
I've spent the early part of my vacation painting furiously, writing frequently and reading frivolously. I have a weakness for crime novels. After gorging on these potato chip reads, I am ready for something real. On the heels of lost loves, deception and dissolved friendships, I am looking for novels of substance by women with insight. I am searching for empowerment and strength of the kind inspired by early college days when exposure to new ideas was breath taking and profound. Ah, but where to find such depth of work?
Internet searches have done little to offer illumination. I realize I don't want to read any more accounts of ethnic heritage, having none myself. I am not interested in strong families and supportive friends, living in the isolation of Africa. So what is left to make a woman strong?
I found some solace in Falling Under by Danielle Young-Ullman which seemed to reach inside me and grip my soul. Books about painters often seem to do that. The only other one I can remember having such a hold was White Oleander (my ability to remember the title after some ten years of my first reading speaks volumes. I am never good at titles and authors....) Unsurprisingly, both of these feature lonely, tormented spirits on the edge of self-destruction. Luckily, art serves as their savior.
What I found in Falling Under were recounts of emotions I never imagined anyone else could feel. And that's why we listen to stories. We are searching for a connection to others and reassurance that what we're going through is something countless others have experienced before. The undying strength of the African oral traditions have at their base a human desire to assure ourselves that people before us have walked these roads and persevered. They strive to comfort, inspire and educate. Yes, we can learn from the errors of others- or of ourselves. Yes, we can make better choices. Yes, the path we are on is the journey we are meant to undertake.
Good literature serves to impart the messages of our ancestors with poetry and prose that creates images we cannot deny. It captures the essence of who we are and unravels the mystery of the individual. Nothing we feel or endure is unique.
But it is also about recognizing the stages of life we pass through. I see the young kids, spending their days on the street and remember when it was me searching for shelter, bouncing and tumbling about trying to pull loose ends together. I talk to college students and remember those days, when my eyes were opened and the world held out its hand to me. I see young couples and remember building family foundations- only to watch them crumble away I look at new mothers and remember being enraptured with the fragile wonders occurring daily- only to see them grow and declare their independence. So I've arrived at this new stage- occasionally feeling the patience that comes with age, the acceptance that comes from fighting long and hard and well to attain some semblance of life, and the desire not to rest- to keep searching, keep envisioning, keep moving forward. If only I could find the direction.
And so begins the search for myself in a good read. Stocking up on novels for the trip across the ocean to that other part of me.
I've spent the early part of my vacation painting furiously, writing frequently and reading frivolously. I have a weakness for crime novels. After gorging on these potato chip reads, I am ready for something real. On the heels of lost loves, deception and dissolved friendships, I am looking for novels of substance by women with insight. I am searching for empowerment and strength of the kind inspired by early college days when exposure to new ideas was breath taking and profound. Ah, but where to find such depth of work?
Internet searches have done little to offer illumination. I realize I don't want to read any more accounts of ethnic heritage, having none myself. I am not interested in strong families and supportive friends, living in the isolation of Africa. So what is left to make a woman strong?
I found some solace in Falling Under by Danielle Young-Ullman which seemed to reach inside me and grip my soul. Books about painters often seem to do that. The only other one I can remember having such a hold was White Oleander (my ability to remember the title after some ten years of my first reading speaks volumes. I am never good at titles and authors....) Unsurprisingly, both of these feature lonely, tormented spirits on the edge of self-destruction. Luckily, art serves as their savior.
What I found in Falling Under were recounts of emotions I never imagined anyone else could feel. And that's why we listen to stories. We are searching for a connection to others and reassurance that what we're going through is something countless others have experienced before. The undying strength of the African oral traditions have at their base a human desire to assure ourselves that people before us have walked these roads and persevered. They strive to comfort, inspire and educate. Yes, we can learn from the errors of others- or of ourselves. Yes, we can make better choices. Yes, the path we are on is the journey we are meant to undertake.
Good literature serves to impart the messages of our ancestors with poetry and prose that creates images we cannot deny. It captures the essence of who we are and unravels the mystery of the individual. Nothing we feel or endure is unique.
But it is also about recognizing the stages of life we pass through. I see the young kids, spending their days on the street and remember when it was me searching for shelter, bouncing and tumbling about trying to pull loose ends together. I talk to college students and remember those days, when my eyes were opened and the world held out its hand to me. I see young couples and remember building family foundations- only to watch them crumble away I look at new mothers and remember being enraptured with the fragile wonders occurring daily- only to see them grow and declare their independence. So I've arrived at this new stage- occasionally feeling the patience that comes with age, the acceptance that comes from fighting long and hard and well to attain some semblance of life, and the desire not to rest- to keep searching, keep envisioning, keep moving forward. If only I could find the direction.
And so begins the search for myself in a good read. Stocking up on novels for the trip across the ocean to that other part of me.
19.6.12
Best Deal in Town
As with most good things in life, it took me awhile to stumble upon the pizza cone. I have no excuse really, since it has been the rage in Kinshasa for awhile now. I like to take my time with new fads, make sure they'll stick around long enough to make it worthwhile. O'Poeta is the popular pizza joint here in town and I've gone there a few times. I've even received the ultimate compliment from the kids on occasion when serving up my own home-baked pizza. "This is even better than O'Poeta."
A "new" location opened up much closer to home, just past Kintambo magasin. I have to say "new" because I'm sure it's been there for at least a year now, maybe longer. And I have been eyeing the pizza cone for at least that long as well. There are even O'Poeta trucks which I've noticed parked in Kintambo and Bandal....serving the pedestrian on the go.
The pizza cone is exactly what it sounds like- sort of. It has all the traditional (or even nontraditional if you are so bold) ingredients usually associated with pizza baked into a cone-like shape. It took me awhile and some inquisitive interrogation of one of the bakers to determine that it was not actually an ice cream cone kind of thing but just pizza dough baked into a mold. I still wasn't sold on the idea.
Today however, I have been converted. After a hot day at Congo Loisirs- the sparse playground sporting those three and four wheel bicycle contraptions the kids call go-carts (a far cry from the go- carts of my youth that included motors and helmets,) I decided to take the kids for a cone. I thought it would be less expensive than the $20 pie that wouldn't likely fill four ravenous bellies.
Not only did the pizza cone fill my stomach more than a slice, it came with a surprising price tag. When I got the bill, it was half what I expected. No wonder these things were so popular. You can purchase this neat little snack for a mere $2.50. I wasn't aware you could buy any substantial food item for less than $9.00. (Ok, it's definitely not a chicken burger and fries...and you might need 2 for those growing athletes....but I am still impressed by the price.)
Of course, I have been intrigued about the origin of the pizza cone (who thinks up these ideas anyway?!) never having heard of it outside Kin. An infamous google search turned up a few different theories about the history of the cone. I tend to believe it was a European thing first. The idea seems to stem from a need to eat on the go- an aspect of Western culture I truly don't miss. I am a huge fan of "sit down and eat your food, enjoy every bite." And I admit to formerly being one of those grab a coffee and a bagel on the way to work kind of people- happily reformed. I find it hard to even eat a candy bar in the car. It might have to do with the feeling that people are always watching- people who are probably hungry themselves. Or that at any moment someone is likely to come knocking on my window asking for whatever I might have----yes, even my half eaten candy bar.
It is more likely related to the fact that I just don't see many people walking and eating. Even though there are a number of street sellers offering bread and peanut butter or bread and sausage....it seems like people stop to sit and eat, even if it means perching on the concrete edge of a lamppost block. I believe in this. I believe in giving my full attention to a meal- no matter how small. The plastic blue chairs that seem to sprout from the ground and spring up in unlikely places do even more to make it possible to sit for a minute and enjoy a snack and some conversation. Because food should never be eaten alone. That's the other thing I've come to believe in. Food always tastes better if you have someone to share it with. And for the price of a cone, you can easily buy one for a friend.
 |
| A "brick" oven at the "new" location |
A "new" location opened up much closer to home, just past Kintambo magasin. I have to say "new" because I'm sure it's been there for at least a year now, maybe longer. And I have been eyeing the pizza cone for at least that long as well. There are even O'Poeta trucks which I've noticed parked in Kintambo and Bandal....serving the pedestrian on the go.
The pizza cone is exactly what it sounds like- sort of. It has all the traditional (or even nontraditional if you are so bold) ingredients usually associated with pizza baked into a cone-like shape. It took me awhile and some inquisitive interrogation of one of the bakers to determine that it was not actually an ice cream cone kind of thing but just pizza dough baked into a mold. I still wasn't sold on the idea.
 |
| The pizza cone making machine |
Today however, I have been converted. After a hot day at Congo Loisirs- the sparse playground sporting those three and four wheel bicycle contraptions the kids call go-carts (a far cry from the go- carts of my youth that included motors and helmets,) I decided to take the kids for a cone. I thought it would be less expensive than the $20 pie that wouldn't likely fill four ravenous bellies.
Not only did the pizza cone fill my stomach more than a slice, it came with a surprising price tag. When I got the bill, it was half what I expected. No wonder these things were so popular. You can purchase this neat little snack for a mere $2.50. I wasn't aware you could buy any substantial food item for less than $9.00. (Ok, it's definitely not a chicken burger and fries...and you might need 2 for those growing athletes....but I am still impressed by the price.)
 |
| The pizza cone is easily eaten just like an ice cream cone, but all warm and filling with no danger of a brain freeze |
Of course, I have been intrigued about the origin of the pizza cone (who thinks up these ideas anyway?!) never having heard of it outside Kin. An infamous google search turned up a few different theories about the history of the cone. I tend to believe it was a European thing first. The idea seems to stem from a need to eat on the go- an aspect of Western culture I truly don't miss. I am a huge fan of "sit down and eat your food, enjoy every bite." And I admit to formerly being one of those grab a coffee and a bagel on the way to work kind of people- happily reformed. I find it hard to even eat a candy bar in the car. It might have to do with the feeling that people are always watching- people who are probably hungry themselves. Or that at any moment someone is likely to come knocking on my window asking for whatever I might have----yes, even my half eaten candy bar.
It is more likely related to the fact that I just don't see many people walking and eating. Even though there are a number of street sellers offering bread and peanut butter or bread and sausage....it seems like people stop to sit and eat, even if it means perching on the concrete edge of a lamppost block. I believe in this. I believe in giving my full attention to a meal- no matter how small. The plastic blue chairs that seem to sprout from the ground and spring up in unlikely places do even more to make it possible to sit for a minute and enjoy a snack and some conversation. Because food should never be eaten alone. That's the other thing I've come to believe in. Food always tastes better if you have someone to share it with. And for the price of a cone, you can easily buy one for a friend.
18.6.12
From South Korea, with Love
I can't remember how long it's been there. It is gnarled and dark and appears to have been forged with the first dawn of time. I drive by it several times a day and marvel at its ugliness. Apparently it was a gift. I had to stop the other day and actually walk up to read the plaque to believe this. Who would give such a thing and even worse, how do you receive something so monstrous?
To be fair, I mentioned my thoughts to a friend and she didn't exactly agree. While she didn't go so far as to proclaim beauty, she did state that she never thought of it as ugly. "Looks like a wrestling statue....or something." I snapped a few (bad) photos with my phone, which can't really do justice to the artwork. But it's a dark sculpture and I am not even sure I could capture it with my regular camera.
There are a few leg like structures that melt into each other. Faces jut out at odd angles and all seem in agony. The sculpture is coarse and rough and forged with darkness. It stands just across from the grounds of Camp Tshatshi, a military camp that surrounds our school. It is near the entrance to the old "zoo" which, legend has it, used to boast wild animals like zebras and elephants. Apparently in tough times, the zoo was loosed and all the big game were eaten. The community registration building of Ngaliema rests just behind the statue. People come here for any number of legal documents and weddings can be viewed on most weekends. It's an odd juxtaposition.
The plaque declares this a 50-years-of-independence gift to the Congolese people, who have endured terrible hardships and wishes them solidarity in the face of a radiant future. Grand words for such a bleak statue. I have read recently about the phenomenon of "dark tourism" - sites of mass death that draw in visitors. Congo certainly has a history of its own holocaust and could join its peers in erecting some kind of memorial to honor the tragedies of history that have taken place here. The statue seems to kind of fit in with this theory. It's the only one I can come up with that really makes any sense. Of course, I guess any site in DRC would be more of a living, breathing work of art- as the tragedies haven't quite ended yet.
To be fair, I mentioned my thoughts to a friend and she didn't exactly agree. While she didn't go so far as to proclaim beauty, she did state that she never thought of it as ugly. "Looks like a wrestling statue....or something." I snapped a few (bad) photos with my phone, which can't really do justice to the artwork. But it's a dark sculpture and I am not even sure I could capture it with my regular camera.
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| The general outline is apparent, that's really all you can see driving by as well |
 | |||
| The round nodules are faces contorted in pain |
The plaque declares this a 50-years-of-independence gift to the Congolese people, who have endured terrible hardships and wishes them solidarity in the face of a radiant future. Grand words for such a bleak statue. I have read recently about the phenomenon of "dark tourism" - sites of mass death that draw in visitors. Congo certainly has a history of its own holocaust and could join its peers in erecting some kind of memorial to honor the tragedies of history that have taken place here. The statue seems to kind of fit in with this theory. It's the only one I can come up with that really makes any sense. Of course, I guess any site in DRC would be more of a living, breathing work of art- as the tragedies haven't quite ended yet.
12.6.12
The color of water
Words are powerful. They hold the ability to sway minds, to build and topple governments and to become a seed of suspicion. They also hold the ability to right wrongs and take away scary dreams in the night. Words give us the ability to share our lives with others by shaping images, describing our feelings and sometimes even creating realities we wish into existence.
I am endlessly fascinated by the way words change in different languages and the way we use them to describe our surroundings. Anyone taking up a second tongue can recognize the poetic quality of learning the origin of foreign phrases. I just recently read an account in Night Studies..... by Benjamin Madison in which he learns the Oron language and becomes captivated by word for fireflies. Which is also the word for stars...when coupled with the word for moon. He takes it to mean the stars are the moons fireflies, poetic enough, until you stop to wonder which word came first. Maybe the fireflies are the stars of the earth. Either way, it's enough to give you pause and make you wonder why English has to have words for both.
And while my Lingala lessons have somehow become discontinued (all for the sake of the revolution I suppose) I am still left with memories of the battle that ensued over the word for green. My Lingala teacher has been quite excellent at giving me the many variations on spoken Lingala, Kinshasa Lingala, written Lingala and 'country' Lingala. There is, of course, variations on all of those variations depending on which generation you're in. He tries to fit those in as well. As you might have guessed, my lessons are slow going. I write things down in order to "see" them better in my mind, but then the spoken version is usually some kind of contraction and so seeing the word in my head isn't really much help. Immersion seems like the only solution.
But I still find pleasure in hearing those poetic turns of phrase and the explanations that he provides. We were working on colors. As always, there was a mix of French and even some forgetting altogether. Then we stumbled across the word for green. Mayi ya pondu. Water from leaves. The artist in me can see exactly how this might come about. Making dyes and cooking. What better way to describe green than the way it could actually be made. I could just imagine how a fabric soaked in pondu could produce a comforting, leafy green color. Or perhaps it came from the green stained fingers of women working hard to wash and rinse and prepare this staple food for their families.
But of course, I like to check things out. So I began to ask around. And that's when the firestorm started. Mayi ya fireworks. One of my close friends insisted that surely there was a word for green. Green, the most popular and predominant color found in nature, surely had to have it's own name. There was pembe for white and motane for red and moyindo for black (blue has long been forgotten.) While he couldn't actually supply the word for green, he was certain it existed. I continued to ask around.
I heard a funny story about women in the marketplace who'd come to calling everything 'mayi ya...' as in 'give me that skirt, no the mayi ya bleu one.' I liked this story because it gave credence to the whole color of leaves theory and added some patriotic pride as the women, apparently also forgetting the word for blue, wanted to add in something of Lingala to make their shopping authentic. But that wasn't really enough to convince my friend. At the next family gathering, somehow the subject came up. No one could provide an alternative but it still didn't convince my friend. In fact, he was even more convinced that they were all just siding with me in deference to the funny foreigner and would agree to pretty much anything I suggested.
Like so many of my Lingala lessons, I am torn between fascination at the merging of languages and sadness at the loss of words. But I am always left wishing English were a bit more poetic. Although, I must guess that words used over and over again lose their potency. Or do they? Can you really insult your mother-in-law when you are constantly calling her "ma belle mere?" Maybe if we kept repeating these phrases of beauty they would turn into phrases of truth. Maybe we could all benefit from spending more time noticing the color of water running through leaves.
I am endlessly fascinated by the way words change in different languages and the way we use them to describe our surroundings. Anyone taking up a second tongue can recognize the poetic quality of learning the origin of foreign phrases. I just recently read an account in Night Studies..... by Benjamin Madison in which he learns the Oron language and becomes captivated by word for fireflies. Which is also the word for stars...when coupled with the word for moon. He takes it to mean the stars are the moons fireflies, poetic enough, until you stop to wonder which word came first. Maybe the fireflies are the stars of the earth. Either way, it's enough to give you pause and make you wonder why English has to have words for both.
And while my Lingala lessons have somehow become discontinued (all for the sake of the revolution I suppose) I am still left with memories of the battle that ensued over the word for green. My Lingala teacher has been quite excellent at giving me the many variations on spoken Lingala, Kinshasa Lingala, written Lingala and 'country' Lingala. There is, of course, variations on all of those variations depending on which generation you're in. He tries to fit those in as well. As you might have guessed, my lessons are slow going. I write things down in order to "see" them better in my mind, but then the spoken version is usually some kind of contraction and so seeing the word in my head isn't really much help. Immersion seems like the only solution.
But I still find pleasure in hearing those poetic turns of phrase and the explanations that he provides. We were working on colors. As always, there was a mix of French and even some forgetting altogether. Then we stumbled across the word for green. Mayi ya pondu. Water from leaves. The artist in me can see exactly how this might come about. Making dyes and cooking. What better way to describe green than the way it could actually be made. I could just imagine how a fabric soaked in pondu could produce a comforting, leafy green color. Or perhaps it came from the green stained fingers of women working hard to wash and rinse and prepare this staple food for their families.
But of course, I like to check things out. So I began to ask around. And that's when the firestorm started. Mayi ya fireworks. One of my close friends insisted that surely there was a word for green. Green, the most popular and predominant color found in nature, surely had to have it's own name. There was pembe for white and motane for red and moyindo for black (blue has long been forgotten.) While he couldn't actually supply the word for green, he was certain it existed. I continued to ask around.
I heard a funny story about women in the marketplace who'd come to calling everything 'mayi ya...' as in 'give me that skirt, no the mayi ya bleu one.' I liked this story because it gave credence to the whole color of leaves theory and added some patriotic pride as the women, apparently also forgetting the word for blue, wanted to add in something of Lingala to make their shopping authentic. But that wasn't really enough to convince my friend. At the next family gathering, somehow the subject came up. No one could provide an alternative but it still didn't convince my friend. In fact, he was even more convinced that they were all just siding with me in deference to the funny foreigner and would agree to pretty much anything I suggested.
Like so many of my Lingala lessons, I am torn between fascination at the merging of languages and sadness at the loss of words. But I am always left wishing English were a bit more poetic. Although, I must guess that words used over and over again lose their potency. Or do they? Can you really insult your mother-in-law when you are constantly calling her "ma belle mere?" Maybe if we kept repeating these phrases of beauty they would turn into phrases of truth. Maybe we could all benefit from spending more time noticing the color of water running through leaves.
Brought Up by War
It seems hard to believe I'd never really noticed it before. I mean, sure, I've seen it all around town and even every morning here on campus, but I've never really noticed it. The military salute. It is a common greeting here in Kinshasa. One of the atelier was fond of giving me a full on, heel clicking salute every time he saw me. I was never truly sure of the appropriate response. It's not every day someone stops dead in their tracks, clicks their heels together and salutes you (well, it's not everyday unless you happen to live in Kinshasa, in which case, it could be several times a day.) This salute always struck me as a funny, odd quirky kind of thing, coming as it did, from one of the older workers. Since his retirement in December, I haven't actually been so formally saluted by anyone else. There is another one of the crew who likes to give a curt hand wave up by his head when he sees you from a distance. Now that I stop to reflect, quite a few of them do a similar thing.
But what really got me thinking about this formal greeting happened yesterday as I was following a motorcycle on my way to pick up Mohamed. An older man on the street recognized the guy on the back of the bike and called out to him. The guy raised his hand to his head and extended his arm in such a long salute I was relieved he was not driving. From the back of a motorcycle speeding down the bumpy road, his arm held an air of freedom. But the more I thought about it, and the more salutes I noticed on my way back home, I realized this gesture speaks of nothing like freedom. I suppose it is intended to give an air of respect to the receiver. But all I can see is a country that's been brought up by war.
But what really got me thinking about this formal greeting happened yesterday as I was following a motorcycle on my way to pick up Mohamed. An older man on the street recognized the guy on the back of the bike and called out to him. The guy raised his hand to his head and extended his arm in such a long salute I was relieved he was not driving. From the back of a motorcycle speeding down the bumpy road, his arm held an air of freedom. But the more I thought about it, and the more salutes I noticed on my way back home, I realized this gesture speaks of nothing like freedom. I suppose it is intended to give an air of respect to the receiver. But all I can see is a country that's been brought up by war.
11.6.12
Perfect start to summer
Kinshasa is home to something like 9 million people---and no Central Park. Luckily, our campus pretty much functions as the central park for many families. There is a walking trail, a pool and 42 acres of trees and grass. A perfect get away. Unless you happen to live here. Then the get away aspect turns into something like the stay home aspect. It's still definitely sweet and perfect but for those days when you just want to go out, Kinshasa can be challenging. In my former life, I was a playground junkie. We knew all the playgrounds in a 50 mile radius and often packed up picnics and headed out to spend the day. There is a magical quality to being away from home and outside that seems to quiet all sibling squabbles and induce a sense of joy for life.
So it was that yesterday had us heading off for Mbudi Nature, a sculpture park, restaurant and natural area by the river. There is a small fee to get in but it is completely worth it. Mbudi hosts the best sleeping spot in Kin.
A cool breeze comes in off the river and I didn't battle one black fly or mosquito the entire time. It is one of the few places where I can sit outside completely undisturbed. No shouts of "mondele," no requests for cash, just the melodic "tink-tink" of workers pounding off rocks to sell. There are tons of boulders for the kids to climb and sand to play in or kick a ball around. There is often a wedding going on and plenty of well dressed people trying to make their way gracefully down the slope to get to the water.
A young man in one line of families stopped to ask if he could take my photo. It was a slightly odd proposition, a turn on the usual mondele snapping photos of random Congolese....it's happened a few times since being in Africa. The very funny moments in Lubumbashi when hotel patrons started standing just by my chair as their friend snapped a photo, to a young couple who wanted to pose with some teachers during a getting to know you lunch, and now this young man. I didn't ask for 500 franc, though I did let him take the photo. There was a moment of doubt afterward as I wondered what exactly he planned to do with a picture of me (and yes, I had to tell myself voodoo, black magic and other spells were not likely at the top of his list.) But it did feel odd to have a piece of me going off with him in his phone....
So it was that yesterday had us heading off for Mbudi Nature, a sculpture park, restaurant and natural area by the river. There is a small fee to get in but it is completely worth it. Mbudi hosts the best sleeping spot in Kin.
A young man in one line of families stopped to ask if he could take my photo. It was a slightly odd proposition, a turn on the usual mondele snapping photos of random Congolese....it's happened a few times since being in Africa. The very funny moments in Lubumbashi when hotel patrons started standing just by my chair as their friend snapped a photo, to a young couple who wanted to pose with some teachers during a getting to know you lunch, and now this young man. I didn't ask for 500 franc, though I did let him take the photo. There was a moment of doubt afterward as I wondered what exactly he planned to do with a picture of me (and yes, I had to tell myself voodoo, black magic and other spells were not likely at the top of his list.) But it did feel odd to have a piece of me going off with him in his phone....
 |
| Kin version of a playground- huge black rocks to scramble over and conquer |
10.6.12
A Year Like That
I'm told every teacher has one of those years. A year like I just finished. Its a year that makes you reconsider your profession. A group of kids whose chemistry mixes with yours in such a way you want to run screaming from the classroom and hide in the hills. Its the kind of year that makes you question yourself as an educator and wonder what exactly you could have been thinking to begin such a path in the first place. This powerful year erases all the beautiful moments of learning and laughing that came before and leaves you struggling to get out bed each morning. Yeah, it was that kind of year.
The kids in my class needed absolute structure and military type discipline- neither of which even remotely describe me or my teaching style. I'm used to handing power over to the students and helping them grow into it. I'm used to tossing out ideas and having the kids eagerly scramble to gobble them up and turn them into themes of their own design.
There wasn't much scrambling this year. It was more like being in one of those horrible tv sitcoms. (distant memories of my musical class from last year that would break into song and dance their way to the garbage can were now only a passing mirage on their way to some middle school class. Wait...I wanted to call out after them as they laughed their way past my classroom, I belong with you guys!) These kids were vicious- full of images that friends are really enemies (frienemies, they were fond of calling each other) to fight with and make up again over and over. All year long. They scratched each other, berated their teammates during softball games, stuck their middle fingers up at visiting 7 year olds during a soccer match and went through each other's desks throwing out their books and supplies.
They weren't motivated to do much more than pass notes and tell secrets about each other. This negative energy spread quickly, over powering the rest of the class. Even "good kids" who'd come in with gentle spirits were soon talking back to our classroom assistant and giggling with glee over the power they thought they held. Oh, and like any good teacher I tried all kinds of team building exercises-- from a kickboxing class to push them out of their comfort zone to writing appreciation notes to each other every morning to our final affirmation books intended to create gentler, kinder students of them all. They never arrived at running the class themselves, as fifth graders in the past had done and they never designed and presented their own community change project- we were still too busy working on personal change for that.
Professionally we in the elementary team had taken on a lot of curriculum work as well. Meetings into the night and writing...so much team writing, searching for the perfect words to describe all the learning we'd hoped to impart. It was the most satisfying part of the year, creating strong documents that would stand long after we ourselves had gone.
But it did require enormous amounts of time and energy. Back in the beginning, when we were attempting to redesign our report cards to accurately reflect what we wanted parents and future teachers to really know about our students, we'd decided to put in a few evening hours. Collectively. One of our teachers had just returned with a new baby and was feeling hesitant. I myself had just returned with 2 teenagers, new to our family. It was a huge transition. During the conversation about whether or not it was fair for all of us to try and decide unanimously about whether to stay or not, the teacher with the new baby was feeling put upon. He didn't want to be the only one to say no, and after all, he was the only one with small kids at home. (Well, there was me, but somehow I didn't count.)
Yeah. Apparently adding two new children to our family wasn't much of a thing because they were older (any parent of a teenager can tell you they're really just like toddlers in big bodies- still trying to do things they shouldn't, getting into all the things you told them not to and pushing the limits of all boundaries--only with a more complicated vocabulary than, "No." ) I spent a lot of time pondering this situation. I didn't count? Really? I am one of two single moms here on campus and have spent most of this year wondering if I hadn't taken on more than was humanely possible.
I do spend most of my time estranged from colleagues. Campus living is one of those blessing/curse arrangements and while my kids usually end up on the blessing side, more often I hoover somewhere between. I try to think most of the reason I am not invited to events or house parties is because I have all of these kids to take care of. And I am getting better at crossing the divide between personal and professional relationships. But there is more that separates us than just family make-up. Most often, I am completely ok with that and tend to see it as my own design. Its always hard to know exactly how other people see you, but this comment really shed light on that. Somehow, the things I've taken on here just don't seem to mean as much. And that's how I am ending this year. Wondering what it all means and what exactly am I doing here?
The kids in my class needed absolute structure and military type discipline- neither of which even remotely describe me or my teaching style. I'm used to handing power over to the students and helping them grow into it. I'm used to tossing out ideas and having the kids eagerly scramble to gobble them up and turn them into themes of their own design.
There wasn't much scrambling this year. It was more like being in one of those horrible tv sitcoms. (distant memories of my musical class from last year that would break into song and dance their way to the garbage can were now only a passing mirage on their way to some middle school class. Wait...I wanted to call out after them as they laughed their way past my classroom, I belong with you guys!) These kids were vicious- full of images that friends are really enemies (frienemies, they were fond of calling each other) to fight with and make up again over and over. All year long. They scratched each other, berated their teammates during softball games, stuck their middle fingers up at visiting 7 year olds during a soccer match and went through each other's desks throwing out their books and supplies.
They weren't motivated to do much more than pass notes and tell secrets about each other. This negative energy spread quickly, over powering the rest of the class. Even "good kids" who'd come in with gentle spirits were soon talking back to our classroom assistant and giggling with glee over the power they thought they held. Oh, and like any good teacher I tried all kinds of team building exercises-- from a kickboxing class to push them out of their comfort zone to writing appreciation notes to each other every morning to our final affirmation books intended to create gentler, kinder students of them all. They never arrived at running the class themselves, as fifth graders in the past had done and they never designed and presented their own community change project- we were still too busy working on personal change for that.
Professionally we in the elementary team had taken on a lot of curriculum work as well. Meetings into the night and writing...so much team writing, searching for the perfect words to describe all the learning we'd hoped to impart. It was the most satisfying part of the year, creating strong documents that would stand long after we ourselves had gone.
But it did require enormous amounts of time and energy. Back in the beginning, when we were attempting to redesign our report cards to accurately reflect what we wanted parents and future teachers to really know about our students, we'd decided to put in a few evening hours. Collectively. One of our teachers had just returned with a new baby and was feeling hesitant. I myself had just returned with 2 teenagers, new to our family. It was a huge transition. During the conversation about whether or not it was fair for all of us to try and decide unanimously about whether to stay or not, the teacher with the new baby was feeling put upon. He didn't want to be the only one to say no, and after all, he was the only one with small kids at home. (Well, there was me, but somehow I didn't count.)
Yeah. Apparently adding two new children to our family wasn't much of a thing because they were older (any parent of a teenager can tell you they're really just like toddlers in big bodies- still trying to do things they shouldn't, getting into all the things you told them not to and pushing the limits of all boundaries--only with a more complicated vocabulary than, "No." ) I spent a lot of time pondering this situation. I didn't count? Really? I am one of two single moms here on campus and have spent most of this year wondering if I hadn't taken on more than was humanely possible.
I do spend most of my time estranged from colleagues. Campus living is one of those blessing/curse arrangements and while my kids usually end up on the blessing side, more often I hoover somewhere between. I try to think most of the reason I am not invited to events or house parties is because I have all of these kids to take care of. And I am getting better at crossing the divide between personal and professional relationships. But there is more that separates us than just family make-up. Most often, I am completely ok with that and tend to see it as my own design. Its always hard to know exactly how other people see you, but this comment really shed light on that. Somehow, the things I've taken on here just don't seem to mean as much. And that's how I am ending this year. Wondering what it all means and what exactly am I doing here?
9.6.12
Martial Arts I'll Never Master
My journey to be fierce has two parts. Capoeira drew me in by its grace and history. It is a martial art first performed by slaves, disguised as a dance to remain hidden from their masters. What could be more intriguing? I'd long heard about and seen glimpses of this art form on the fringes of the African dance set. One mention of the word and dancers would start showing off their moves.
But I'd never taken classes and so when I saw an ad in the Congo Bongo- the US Embassy newsletter, I thought it might be the perfect thing to add to my journey. I began taking classes with a friend at the most enchanting outdoor grounds of Elais- a fitness club, restaurant and pool center here in Kin.
I have to say, the atmosphere had a lot to do with why I stayed. Walking through the overgrown path filled with palm trees and greenery on the way to the grassy mostly open area (there's a stray palm tree or two that you have to look out for when performing an Au) is the perfect transition from daily strife and troubles to free mind and smooth body movements.
"You ever notice only skinny people do this?" my fitness partner remarked just last Monday. I had to laugh and maybe agree. It's part of why I have always loved African dance. Body is good. Anybody can do African dance and the more you have to move, the better it looks. But capoeira....? Not necessarily skinny, but flexible, yes. And that's the other reason I stay. I love the feeling of being close to the ground and springing up. Of course, losing my balance and tumbling onto my side is less than graceful but in my search for inner strength, I realize balance and agility are necessary. She went on to say how she doesn't really enjoy capoeira but she remains for the challenge of working her body in ways she wouldn't otherwise have the chance to. (She is a most excellent fitness partner.) It made me stop to examine what I am hoping to gain here. Because, as a perfectionist, I must realize capoeira is something I will never really be good at. It's taken me months to feel like I can enter the roda, the circle of sparing and showing off moves you've learned that day that occurs at the end of each class. I still have moments when I stop completely and just laugh, calling out "Finished" - hardly the way you're supposed to end the roda....and a good chance of getting smacked in the face by the unrealizing partner. But I do see I have managed to build up my trust because going "dois en dois" requires more than just the ability to look your opponent in the eye at all times.
Capoeira has challenged me on many levels. And while I have accepted the fact that I'll never perform moves like these, I'm hoping to find some inner balance and flexibility to transfer over into the rest of my life.
But I'd never taken classes and so when I saw an ad in the Congo Bongo- the US Embassy newsletter, I thought it might be the perfect thing to add to my journey. I began taking classes with a friend at the most enchanting outdoor grounds of Elais- a fitness club, restaurant and pool center here in Kin.
I have to say, the atmosphere had a lot to do with why I stayed. Walking through the overgrown path filled with palm trees and greenery on the way to the grassy mostly open area (there's a stray palm tree or two that you have to look out for when performing an Au) is the perfect transition from daily strife and troubles to free mind and smooth body movements.
"You ever notice only skinny people do this?" my fitness partner remarked just last Monday. I had to laugh and maybe agree. It's part of why I have always loved African dance. Body is good. Anybody can do African dance and the more you have to move, the better it looks. But capoeira....? Not necessarily skinny, but flexible, yes. And that's the other reason I stay. I love the feeling of being close to the ground and springing up. Of course, losing my balance and tumbling onto my side is less than graceful but in my search for inner strength, I realize balance and agility are necessary. She went on to say how she doesn't really enjoy capoeira but she remains for the challenge of working her body in ways she wouldn't otherwise have the chance to. (She is a most excellent fitness partner.) It made me stop to examine what I am hoping to gain here. Because, as a perfectionist, I must realize capoeira is something I will never really be good at. It's taken me months to feel like I can enter the roda, the circle of sparing and showing off moves you've learned that day that occurs at the end of each class. I still have moments when I stop completely and just laugh, calling out "Finished" - hardly the way you're supposed to end the roda....and a good chance of getting smacked in the face by the unrealizing partner. But I do see I have managed to build up my trust because going "dois en dois" requires more than just the ability to look your opponent in the eye at all times.
Capoeira has challenged me on many levels. And while I have accepted the fact that I'll never perform moves like these, I'm hoping to find some inner balance and flexibility to transfer over into the rest of my life.
Why I Love Mel
Sometime in January I embarked on a journey to become fit in a new kind of way. I am pretty sure it was inspired by a comment from a co-worker, well, the superintendent really. She has lots of thoughts about how we should live here in Congo, what's safe and what's unheard of. Admittedly, I usually end up on the what's unheard of side of things- I guess that's why she feels free to give me her advice from time to time- an attempt to change my normal way of thinking. I try not to mention all things I usually do- just keep it nice between us. But this comment had me really thinking.
It must have been somewhere around election season when we spent lots of time locked down on campus. The American embassy instituted all kinds of curfews and travel restrictions so of course we had to follow suite. In the course of a conversation about where I needed to go and how I was getting there, she mentioned something like, "You should take a driver. It's just not safe. You look vulnerable in a car alone."
And I really stopped to ponder. For days. Really? I never felt vulnerable. Like many, I've become lulled by the sense when traveling around the neighborhood that I am home. And in my home, people know me, they accept me (or at the very least they tolerate me) and I am mostly safe. As safe as I would be on a NYC street in any case, or any large city in the world. So I had to pause and really reflect. I walk everywhere, I drive even farther and I generally feel like I am capable of handling my own. But I knew- with those words weighing heavily on me- that it wasn't really true. I had to recognize the sad reality- I am a thirty-something woman with images of my teenage self still looming large in my mind. I probably couldn't take anyone down anymore.
So I embarked on a two part journey to find my stronger, fiercer self. And not just physically. As a new mother of four in a world where that doesn't seem to count for much (possible post on this coming) I realized I was going to need some inner strength to get through the rest of this year.
First stop: Mel's kickboxing class. There are many reasons why I love Mel. And the first is because she's fierce. An excellent role model. She used to be a professional boxer and it shows.
Mel gives 100% at every class and she expects us to do the same. It's easy to be inspired by her. She spends the whole class shouting out encouragement. "Let's go team. We can do this." And inevitably, a quarter of the way through the class, her energy ratchets up a notch as she screams out, "Moooore!"
After years on the African dance circuit, where every class seems to be a competition in how well you can shake shake or shimmy, hearing that we're in this as a team is refreshing. It may be old skool to some but I've never really been in a group of women this way. Just when I am melting into the floor, feeling like I can't possibly handle another painful ab crunch, I hear an encouraging, "You can do it...come on," from one of the other participants. She'd seen me fading, was on the edge herself and somehow we both found the courage to continue.
Mel has a softer side too. She bakes us muffins (ok- they're protein muffins filled with rejuvenating energy and delicious peanut butter frosting---oh but what an inspiration to get through class for a savory bite!) She's a beautiful mother that exudes a gentle nurturing and caring for her children (think mama lioness) and she never let's us down. She has a way of noticing everything that's going on- from the time I was holding back tears in class after I'd heard about the death of a friend ("You ok?" she mouthed, quietly questioning from the front of the room- never breaking stride) to someone who was favoring a foot. "Ok, what's going on with the leg?" I heard her say as she marched over to one of the women after our warm up. Yup, she's a professional, with a keen eye and a warm heart. Of course, after I view these photos of her with her group in Canada I kind of get the feeling she might think we're a bunch of wimps.
But like any good teacher, Mel meets us where we're at. And while there are always options, she never lets us think that we can't do the full workout. We're in it together and we strive to be the best. And I've seen results. Or rather, my kids have seen the results. One tired night as I rested on the couch, Nabih came over to rub my arms. "Wow, mom, your muscles are really growing," he exclaimed. If a seven year old sees it, it must be true. And the other night as I was walking home in the dark, followed and hit upon by a surprising number of male pedestrians, I realized I had moves going through my mind. Things I could do if I had to. Not in a panicky sort of way, but just lingering there in the back of my mind in an empowering sort of way. And that's really why I love Mel. I feel embraced by a group of women and empowered to be all the parts that make up exactly who I am. Thanks Mel!
It must have been somewhere around election season when we spent lots of time locked down on campus. The American embassy instituted all kinds of curfews and travel restrictions so of course we had to follow suite. In the course of a conversation about where I needed to go and how I was getting there, she mentioned something like, "You should take a driver. It's just not safe. You look vulnerable in a car alone."
And I really stopped to ponder. For days. Really? I never felt vulnerable. Like many, I've become lulled by the sense when traveling around the neighborhood that I am home. And in my home, people know me, they accept me (or at the very least they tolerate me) and I am mostly safe. As safe as I would be on a NYC street in any case, or any large city in the world. So I had to pause and really reflect. I walk everywhere, I drive even farther and I generally feel like I am capable of handling my own. But I knew- with those words weighing heavily on me- that it wasn't really true. I had to recognize the sad reality- I am a thirty-something woman with images of my teenage self still looming large in my mind. I probably couldn't take anyone down anymore.
So I embarked on a two part journey to find my stronger, fiercer self. And not just physically. As a new mother of four in a world where that doesn't seem to count for much (possible post on this coming) I realized I was going to need some inner strength to get through the rest of this year.
First stop: Mel's kickboxing class. There are many reasons why I love Mel. And the first is because she's fierce. An excellent role model. She used to be a professional boxer and it shows.
Mel gives 100% at every class and she expects us to do the same. It's easy to be inspired by her. She spends the whole class shouting out encouragement. "Let's go team. We can do this." And inevitably, a quarter of the way through the class, her energy ratchets up a notch as she screams out, "Moooore!"
After years on the African dance circuit, where every class seems to be a competition in how well you can shake shake or shimmy, hearing that we're in this as a team is refreshing. It may be old skool to some but I've never really been in a group of women this way. Just when I am melting into the floor, feeling like I can't possibly handle another painful ab crunch, I hear an encouraging, "You can do it...come on," from one of the other participants. She'd seen me fading, was on the edge herself and somehow we both found the courage to continue.
Mel has a softer side too. She bakes us muffins (ok- they're protein muffins filled with rejuvenating energy and delicious peanut butter frosting---oh but what an inspiration to get through class for a savory bite!) She's a beautiful mother that exudes a gentle nurturing and caring for her children (think mama lioness) and she never let's us down. She has a way of noticing everything that's going on- from the time I was holding back tears in class after I'd heard about the death of a friend ("You ok?" she mouthed, quietly questioning from the front of the room- never breaking stride) to someone who was favoring a foot. "Ok, what's going on with the leg?" I heard her say as she marched over to one of the women after our warm up. Yup, she's a professional, with a keen eye and a warm heart. Of course, after I view these photos of her with her group in Canada I kind of get the feeling she might think we're a bunch of wimps.
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| Mel and her Canada crew |
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| We do these moves too.....just not sure we look like that |
But like any good teacher, Mel meets us where we're at. And while there are always options, she never lets us think that we can't do the full workout. We're in it together and we strive to be the best. And I've seen results. Or rather, my kids have seen the results. One tired night as I rested on the couch, Nabih came over to rub my arms. "Wow, mom, your muscles are really growing," he exclaimed. If a seven year old sees it, it must be true. And the other night as I was walking home in the dark, followed and hit upon by a surprising number of male pedestrians, I realized I had moves going through my mind. Things I could do if I had to. Not in a panicky sort of way, but just lingering there in the back of my mind in an empowering sort of way. And that's really why I love Mel. I feel embraced by a group of women and empowered to be all the parts that make up exactly who I am. Thanks Mel!
5.6.12
mokolo mawa
It happens every year. These final, quiet days of sadness as another year in Congo comes to a close. I spent a lot of time looking back (that's the reflection part of this blog) on all the new undertakings I attempted (the revelation part) and all the ways I forced myself to step out of my comfort zone (relocation) into a new space.
It's been a year of learning, letting go and looking with new eyes. Of course, I am still developing this last part as I search for clear direction and firm convictions. I've learned just how much 4 children can eat and just how far a dollar goes here in Kinshasa (those two ideas remaining at irreconcilable odds.) I've learned what kind of teacher I don't want to be and what kinds of passion I do want to follow. I've lost friendships and loves. I've let go of far away dreams and tried to place my feet firmly in the moment.
In these last days, it seems everyone is preparing for a journey, an adventure or a reunion. They are heading off to new lands, planning grand tours of various countries and stopping at home to spend comfortable days with relatives. I am trying to see the weeks stretching out in front of me with the same enthusiasm. I have a trip to the US planned, a course in curriculum development to immerse myself in and a visit with a friend. Under the gray morning skies of Kinshasa, I can only wonder how these events will change me yet again, unburden my perspective and fill it with new energy and life. They seem too far away to be enticing and America fills my mind with images of a pace I feel unprepared to adapt to. Much better to spend my evenings lost in Night Studies..... a beautiful book by Benjamin Madison describing a beautiful place to live.
It's been a year of learning, letting go and looking with new eyes. Of course, I am still developing this last part as I search for clear direction and firm convictions. I've learned just how much 4 children can eat and just how far a dollar goes here in Kinshasa (those two ideas remaining at irreconcilable odds.) I've learned what kind of teacher I don't want to be and what kinds of passion I do want to follow. I've lost friendships and loves. I've let go of far away dreams and tried to place my feet firmly in the moment.
In these last days, it seems everyone is preparing for a journey, an adventure or a reunion. They are heading off to new lands, planning grand tours of various countries and stopping at home to spend comfortable days with relatives. I am trying to see the weeks stretching out in front of me with the same enthusiasm. I have a trip to the US planned, a course in curriculum development to immerse myself in and a visit with a friend. Under the gray morning skies of Kinshasa, I can only wonder how these events will change me yet again, unburden my perspective and fill it with new energy and life. They seem too far away to be enticing and America fills my mind with images of a pace I feel unprepared to adapt to. Much better to spend my evenings lost in Night Studies..... a beautiful book by Benjamin Madison describing a beautiful place to live.
1.6.12
A Battle of Law and Order
While war rages in the east, a different kind of battle is taking over Kinshasa. Kintambo Magasin is often a place of congestion- too many cars, too many people and a collection of crossroads designed to inhibit rather than facilitate the coming together of all these parties. Add to it the occasional surprise road construction project and you have the perfect confection of random chaos. So I was filled with curiosity and wonder when I drove with ease through the normally congested market area and was greeted with quiet, empty streets. I must qualify my description, which I am tempted to continue with ghost-town like qualities, by saying there were still pedestrians taking over the roadway and taxis stopping midstream in search of passengers. It was by no means deserted. However, the central square held simmering remnants of smouldering belongings and the blue uniforms of police flanked with neon yellow crossing vests were roaming in alarming numbers. Something was up.
Kintambo had been home to a small marketplace of vegetable and fruit stands, bread sellers and apple carts. You could usually find ice cream vendors, phone card and money exchange tables and a variety of miscellaneous wares filling the roadside. But not this day. I pondered the disappearance of the street sellers while the drifting smoke lent an ominous feel to the now deserted streets.
After searching a bit online, I found this small report about the city wide action. Several vendors report losing their merchandise to police who either confiscated or burned their wares. Apparently it was a government order intended to clear up the major arteries and create safer, cleaner streets.
While trying to quell my initial outrage and search for a reasonable reaction, I conducted a small, informal poll. These results seemed to match comments on the Okapi site. In general, people agree that something needed to be done to make the areas safer for all involved. It is the approach that was lacking. I can't help but empathize with feelings of injustice for the Congolese who have managed to eke out a living....coupled with my previous concern that the influx of supermarkets would overtake whatever business these entrepreneurs had managed to build up. To say nothing of the fact that the streets, while unarguably less crowded, haven't appeared any cleaner since the demolition.
Kintambo used to look something like this:
Admittedly, this photo shows an area remarkably cleaner and less crowded than the reality. In addition to the walk up buyers, the proximity to passing cars often encouraged a kind of drive by shopping as well. Now, the once busy women sit dejectedly on the stone steps just across the street, hiding under store front overhangs, leaning hopelessly against the cement walls trying to peddle a few bananas from baskets on their laps. They look lost and homeless.
Something similar happened a few years ago to the vendors at the Marche de Valeur downtown. Their market had been more defined but equally ill placed. It was a dingy, crowded collection of artists and craftspeople set in the center of downtown just by the Gare Central. They were removed, disappeared for awhile as new construction began in the building of a large fountain and vast sitting area. The Marche de Valeur can now be found several blocks further up the boulevard. There is parking, more room to walk, browse and display work and in general a cleaner, safer feel to the whole experience. And so I have been wondering why the same couldn't be done for the marketers in Kintambo. I think back to fond memories of farmer's markets in the U.S. and how parking lots are taken over or whole streets even closed for the weekly event. Of course, one day a week would not be enough for these women and men who spent their days selling and chatting under umbrellas and their nights huddled by kerosene and candle light. (I never could figure out when the market "closed.") But surely there is an area available where people could have been moved to and customers could easily find and continue to support them.
Just days after the imposition of the new orders, the taxi drivers went on an unheard of two day strike. I conducted another small, informal poll to try and determine their demands. (How would they know when to stop striking? Well, if the pressure of earning a living and providing daily food for their families wasn't so great and they could actually make a sustained statement.) Answers here were much more varied and vague. Many people suggested it had something to do with the demands by police to see the infamous "carte rouge" the rose colored card that proves one is insured. The typical routine is for police to stop, demand and wait for some kind of tip to overlook the fact that a driver may not actually have this card available. Aside from the tipping aspect of this scenario, it reminds me of the inspection stops that seem to pop up near the end of the month in the states. Just as these check-ins are rumored to be caused by police needing to fill a quota of traffic tickets, speculation abound as to the real cause of the strikes. Alex describes it best.
I heard many suggestions that the strike was related to the cost of insurance and the impossibility for acquiring and maintaining it. It's a bit harder to empathize here, as carrying insurance seems a necessity when considering the attitude and outrageous actions of many taxi drivers. Those polled seemed to feel the same way. If you can't afford insurance, you can't afford to drive. My favorite supposed cause for the taxi strike surmised that the drivers were, in fact, supporting the cause of the street vendors and trying to make a statement on their behalf.
Despite my new found addiction to morning boiled plantains being ever harder to fill without the nearby market, I grudgingly admit that change is good. Streets do need to be safer for pedestrians and drivers, motorists do need to carry insurance and the police are the most logical to enforce these rules. But ah, the growing pains of bringing law and order to the wild west.
Kintambo had been home to a small marketplace of vegetable and fruit stands, bread sellers and apple carts. You could usually find ice cream vendors, phone card and money exchange tables and a variety of miscellaneous wares filling the roadside. But not this day. I pondered the disappearance of the street sellers while the drifting smoke lent an ominous feel to the now deserted streets.
After searching a bit online, I found this small report about the city wide action. Several vendors report losing their merchandise to police who either confiscated or burned their wares. Apparently it was a government order intended to clear up the major arteries and create safer, cleaner streets.
 |
| photo by radio okapi - destruction of an outdoor eatery |
 | |
Admittedly, this photo shows an area remarkably cleaner and less crowded than the reality. In addition to the walk up buyers, the proximity to passing cars often encouraged a kind of drive by shopping as well. Now, the once busy women sit dejectedly on the stone steps just across the street, hiding under store front overhangs, leaning hopelessly against the cement walls trying to peddle a few bananas from baskets on their laps. They look lost and homeless.
Something similar happened a few years ago to the vendors at the Marche de Valeur downtown. Their market had been more defined but equally ill placed. It was a dingy, crowded collection of artists and craftspeople set in the center of downtown just by the Gare Central. They were removed, disappeared for awhile as new construction began in the building of a large fountain and vast sitting area. The Marche de Valeur can now be found several blocks further up the boulevard. There is parking, more room to walk, browse and display work and in general a cleaner, safer feel to the whole experience. And so I have been wondering why the same couldn't be done for the marketers in Kintambo. I think back to fond memories of farmer's markets in the U.S. and how parking lots are taken over or whole streets even closed for the weekly event. Of course, one day a week would not be enough for these women and men who spent their days selling and chatting under umbrellas and their nights huddled by kerosene and candle light. (I never could figure out when the market "closed.") But surely there is an area available where people could have been moved to and customers could easily find and continue to support them.
 | |||
| Farmer's Markets help everyone- buy local, eat fresh |
Just days after the imposition of the new orders, the taxi drivers went on an unheard of two day strike. I conducted another small, informal poll to try and determine their demands. (How would they know when to stop striking? Well, if the pressure of earning a living and providing daily food for their families wasn't so great and they could actually make a sustained statement.) Answers here were much more varied and vague. Many people suggested it had something to do with the demands by police to see the infamous "carte rouge" the rose colored card that proves one is insured. The typical routine is for police to stop, demand and wait for some kind of tip to overlook the fact that a driver may not actually have this card available. Aside from the tipping aspect of this scenario, it reminds me of the inspection stops that seem to pop up near the end of the month in the states. Just as these check-ins are rumored to be caused by police needing to fill a quota of traffic tickets, speculation abound as to the real cause of the strikes. Alex describes it best.
I heard many suggestions that the strike was related to the cost of insurance and the impossibility for acquiring and maintaining it. It's a bit harder to empathize here, as carrying insurance seems a necessity when considering the attitude and outrageous actions of many taxi drivers. Those polled seemed to feel the same way. If you can't afford insurance, you can't afford to drive. My favorite supposed cause for the taxi strike surmised that the drivers were, in fact, supporting the cause of the street vendors and trying to make a statement on their behalf.
Despite my new found addiction to morning boiled plantains being ever harder to fill without the nearby market, I grudgingly admit that change is good. Streets do need to be safer for pedestrians and drivers, motorists do need to carry insurance and the police are the most logical to enforce these rules. But ah, the growing pains of bringing law and order to the wild west.
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