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's intimidating empowering to say the least.

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.

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.

the gift of patience

Turns out Kinshasa is not the only place that requires numerous trips to a variety of places in order to secure the weekly grocery needs. Spent a few good days in Pennsylvania touring the farm stands and discount grocery stores (and comparing ice cream places, naturally.) The rolling hills, curvy roads and abundant trees all reminded me of the Hudson Valley where I grew up in New York. While the landscape was familiar, the rest left me feeling like a tourist.

Parts of  Pennsylvania are known as Amish country and I guess I landed about close to there. We have the Woodcrest Bruderhof  in New York, but they ride in cars (at least, I think they do) and they mostly stick to their little plot of land in Rifton.  This site describes "self contained villages" where "children attend daycare and elementary school on the grounds, and adults work in communal departments." Any work the Bruderhof members do directly benefits the community and does not result in personal gain. So, we didn't see much of them working in stores or out and about in the community. Occasionally, one or two children might attend the public high school, or a family could be seen shopping in the local stores, but mostly they seem to have or be able to make everything they need.

The Amish seemed quite different in this respect as they were visibly present in all parts of life. Horse drawn buggies driving down the road, women working as cashiers and ice cream parlor clerks. My first reaction was completely influenced by Stephen King (yes, I was raised on Children of the Corn and other horror movies of that ilk) and I had to resist the way their calm nature inspired creepiness in me. Instead I tried to just enjoy the kindness. And how I welcomed the pace. None of that too fast, too bright, neon- American life greeting me here. (And I was worried I wasn't ready for the US.)

As my friend drove me around and pointed out all of her favorite spots, I marveled at the freshness. While the milk seemed to come directly from the cow and the bread was probably baked only hours before, the freshness I'm referring to was in the simple honesty and ease of life people enjoyed here. As we drove past one house, she pointed out that they sometimes have a sign for fresh baguettes on the metal stand in their yard. When the sign is out, you can stop in their basement and pick up some hot bread and other goodies. Leave the money in a box on the counter. (She reasoned that the other goodies were meant to facilitate a change-free purchase. One baguette for $4 plus a yummy over sized brownie for $1 means you can easily leave a five. No customer service, no change needed.)

We also stopped at this little farm store, complete with cows, chickens and other wandering farm animals. Apparently the farm pasteurizes its own milk and had a freezer full of delicious looking ice cream (of course, after a year in Kin, any ice cream that comes in a gallon container begins to look  mouth watering.) There was a variety of fresh vegetables and the money box on the counter. If no one is on hand when you arrive, just list the items you bought and leave the cash in the box. As we were making our purchase, someone did come in and sit behind the counter. He made a bit of small talk and my friend went off to....do something, leaving me to add up the bill. Something about being on the honor system made me especially conscious about making a mistake and my normally competent skills of addition took a small vacation. I had to double check for accuracy.

The best part of all  these stops however, was that we were accompanied by her two very cute and oh so precocious toddlers. Every stop became an adventure. Going to get milk was not just a trip to the store but a trip to see the mama goat and her babies. It wasn't just picking up a few tomatoes and eggs, but also trying to catch the silkie chickens and pet their soft "fur."

Fuzziness on Feet

Funny, furry friends

Everyone loves to hold the silkies and gaze out at the cows

Spending time with my friend and her little ones sent me reeling back to the time when my own kids were that small. I kept trying to remember if I'd had as much patience. I definitely remember a lot of rushing. But I also remember days at the park, going down the same slide over and over and thinking that this is exactly what parenting is about. Quiet times playing outdoors.

I'm sure I have a similar photo of my cuties in a swimming hole in NY- oh the memories of sweet times.

The trip to PA was exactly perfect for remembering all the important things in life- or the most important thing. Taking time to enjoy every moment (and before she shakes her head with a doubtful laugh.....) maybe every moment was not exactly enjoyable, but we were present. In the very now, the moment, looking at the animals, feeding grass to the goats, feeling the cool splash of water in a swimming hole. It's the lesson small kids teach us- and the one we seem to forget the easiest. Life isn't about rushing through, but it's about having patience to enjoy exactly what's happening right now. What a perfect gift for this rather turbulent time in my life. Because having patience makes us stronger and finding strength in America was the last thing I expected from this vacation.