Upon returning to Kinshasa this summer, I embarked on a quest to fill up my evenings with exercise. It turns out many people search for this outlet, as there isn't much else to do in Kin (night life aside.) I've heard this same story repeated by many of the newcomers joining existing classes. Do you think you'll come back? I ask. And that's when they confess, "Probably. I am new to Kin and there's just not much to do." Of course, it depends on perspective. Those arriving from the smaller, distant (and more beautiful?) cities of Congo often remark on how there is so much more going on in Kin than where they've come from. Hard to imagine.
Leisure time isn't spent shopping or going to movies (although the Hall de Gombe has offered free Saturday animation films for kids this month.) Some people find it easy enough to go out on the river or take small trips on the weekends to outdoorsy type places which offer picnicking and views of nature. But exercise classes offer a place to be social, meet new people and improve your health. So what could be better than that?
A few recent personal explosions have resulted in a drastic change in my exercise routine and I was feeling flabby and gray. Getting soft. When an invitation to yoga passed my email box, I hungrily agreed to try it out (again.) The yoga circuit, like many things in Kin, hoovers on the edge of becoming a clique. The previous classes I went to were at someone's house and people seemed to know each other well. I felt like an intruder, or at least, like I needed someone else to get me in the door. The vibe depends heavily on the atmosphere of the house and the people present. There is often dinner or snacks together afterwards. Sounds cozy enough....unless you suffer from "social fitting in-ness," like me.
This class was being offered at the American Cultural Center, a neutral place I figured. Getting in required putting our name on a list and bringing photo id. I went with a friend and found the class to be everything I could happily participate in. No judgement, no competition, and modern music.
It was my first trip to the American Cultural Center, though I believe I have seen a photo or two on the embassy web page about certain ceremonies held there, none of which qualify for my definition of culture. I guess I am more aligned with #4 while the American embassy seems to be aligned with #2.
Because the Hall de Gombe (the French Cultural Center) is one of my favorite places to view events, I couldn't help but compare the two. I've "friended" the Hall de Etoile (center in Lubumbashi) and the Institute Francais du Mali, both of which are constantly posting music and art events. One Planet Travel has this to say about the purpose of the cultural center in Mali. And I pretty much agree with this version of sharing and developing culture.
So I was disappointed to find the American culture tucked behind guards and barbed wire. Clearly no music events were going on here. It took a few minutes for the guards to check our id's and contact someone within to come and escort us to the center. Our photo cards were replaced with visitor badges alerting us to the need of an escort where ever we traveled within (and even to get out.) I was feeling a bit jealous of French system of setting up a cafe, a stage- an artistic mecca so to speak- that invites local artists and foreign visitors to present their talents to the community at large.
In contrast, American culture seemed protected and reclusive. Hidden away for only the privileged to partake in. What's so great about American culture? I silently protested. Why aren't we supporting and promoting local artists, collaborations between countries through art and an altogether friendlier view of
the culture? Ironically, the American Embassy has hosted their few music and dance collaborations at the French cultural center.
I had to concede that maybe we are just presenting the truth. American culture is often closed off and unaccepting of others. We're kind of egotistical and selfish. It's the American way or the highway.
While I greatly enjoyed the yoga class and returned the following week (and plan to continue returning, because, of course, there isn't much to do in Kin) I remain disappointed in the country's continuation of elitism. Culture is meant to be shared, celebrated and developed. Not hidden away behind barbed wire and electric scanning devices. Maybe I would feel better if they just changed the name to better reflect this statement: Our objective is to help you better understand the United States, its politics, society and values. The American Propaganda Center, perhaps? The Elitist American Viewpoint Center? or maybe just, The Only Center that Matters? We could call it TOC-MAT......everyone loves a good acronym.
30.9.12
2.9.12
Money Matters
I don't remember much about My Ishmael except for the basic premise- a talking ape who delivers profound wisdom about how the world went wrong. What I remember most about reading this book was the idea that locking up all the food was the one of the first errors. It seemed so simple and so basically rooted in fact that I wonder how we miss it. The solution to our problems. As with every solution that seems so obvious, the answers lie in human nature gone awry- greed, power, lust for control.
Since I was 10, I have been confused by the concept of money. I never could understand why life just didn't work like Monopoly- everyone starts off with equal amounts of money. But more than money, I always dreamed of having a little bit of land to put a simple house on. And in the area where I grew up, there seemed to be such an abundance of land, my desire appeared more than reasonable. I even resorted at one point to taking books out of the library on building my own cabin. I thought I could do it. Just plant a little cabin in the middle of the woods and build a life. That was my dream back then and I still find it to be a sweet idea.
I have accepted that I am not a business person or an economist. I don't love numbers or understand investments. And, while I have developed a slightly more sophisticated understanding of the money systems of the world than I had when I was ten, I still believe that problems can't be resolved with cash. I used to spend long nights wondering why governments wouldn't just print enough money for everyone- though I now see that distributing large bundles of crisp new bills would only bring their value down, I don't really understand how they got to be valuable in the first place.
As my class begins to examine the history of Africa and the resources of Congo, I am even left to ponder how gold became seen as a valuable material to have. Why do we place such importance on things that can't directly contribute to our survival? Why did we ever lock up the food to begin with and start trading it for things we can't actually use?
Perhaps these are the thoughts that led me to refuse my first offer of the newly minted 1,000 Congolese franc. I was stocking up on nuts and spices at my favorite Indian store when I was offered the bill as part of my change. Without thinking, I shook my head and backed away. "Don't you have any francs?" I asked. Later reflection helped me to see that my attitude towards the new money wasn't really based on anything solid- just a general mistrust of something unknown. I want the new bills to have been around awhile before I begin participating in the system. I suspect there are plenty of Congolese who feel the same way. Of course, they have more experience with money being printed, handed out and immediately devalued. I've heard this story too, and perhaps the legacy living in my unconscious is what prompted me to refuse the 1,000 franc.
I'm not sure what this says about me. Still can't tell if I was acting with real world caution or old world myth. But I am always happy to accept the small candies offered when a 50FC is not available or even the odd pack of tissues I received once in place of my 200 FC change. Because what is money anyway, expect a means to get me the things I really need?
Since I was 10, I have been confused by the concept of money. I never could understand why life just didn't work like Monopoly- everyone starts off with equal amounts of money. But more than money, I always dreamed of having a little bit of land to put a simple house on. And in the area where I grew up, there seemed to be such an abundance of land, my desire appeared more than reasonable. I even resorted at one point to taking books out of the library on building my own cabin. I thought I could do it. Just plant a little cabin in the middle of the woods and build a life. That was my dream back then and I still find it to be a sweet idea.
I have accepted that I am not a business person or an economist. I don't love numbers or understand investments. And, while I have developed a slightly more sophisticated understanding of the money systems of the world than I had when I was ten, I still believe that problems can't be resolved with cash. I used to spend long nights wondering why governments wouldn't just print enough money for everyone- though I now see that distributing large bundles of crisp new bills would only bring their value down, I don't really understand how they got to be valuable in the first place.
As my class begins to examine the history of Africa and the resources of Congo, I am even left to ponder how gold became seen as a valuable material to have. Why do we place such importance on things that can't directly contribute to our survival? Why did we ever lock up the food to begin with and start trading it for things we can't actually use?
Perhaps these are the thoughts that led me to refuse my first offer of the newly minted 1,000 Congolese franc. I was stocking up on nuts and spices at my favorite Indian store when I was offered the bill as part of my change. Without thinking, I shook my head and backed away. "Don't you have any francs?" I asked. Later reflection helped me to see that my attitude towards the new money wasn't really based on anything solid- just a general mistrust of something unknown. I want the new bills to have been around awhile before I begin participating in the system. I suspect there are plenty of Congolese who feel the same way. Of course, they have more experience with money being printed, handed out and immediately devalued. I've heard this story too, and perhaps the legacy living in my unconscious is what prompted me to refuse the 1,000 franc.
I'm not sure what this says about me. Still can't tell if I was acting with real world caution or old world myth. But I am always happy to accept the small candies offered when a 50FC is not available or even the odd pack of tissues I received once in place of my 200 FC change. Because what is money anyway, expect a means to get me the things I really need?
Finding Anna
Saturdays are full of trying to find all 6 of the Orper centers. I feel dangerously close to a Where's Waldo maze. I have the directions to two of them well memorized and am working on the rest. It requires me contacting Theo and trying to arrange a meeting with him or someone else to show me the way. The previous Saturday no one was available and so I decided to go back to the day center for girls and work with them. It was a very different feel from the first visit.
There were quite a few less girls present and the ones who were there were exhausted. They lifted themselves slowly from the benches where they had been sprawled out in a light slumber. They shuffled up to the school room and sat down. We made self portraits and I tried to encourage them to be fanciful. Draw yourself however you like, add wings, blue hair, etc. The interpreter left shortly after we began drawing and I relied on Christelle to help me understand some of the younger girls. They needed encouragement to add missing arms, legs, noses. Some struggled with heads and necks. Their feelings of powerlessness were evident in all that the figures lacked. I asked them to put their figures in an environment after they finished. While some girls added houses or chickens, or even other people creating a small family, many just wrote the name of a market they like to frequent or the neighborhood where they spend their time.
The older girls finished in about an hour and wanted to return downstairs to fixing their hair and napping. This pattern was quickly taken up by the others so we had a sharing session where each girl presented their work and then retreated. Three girls were left, three who really enjoyed drawing and asked for paper after paper. Eventually they tired of drawing large fish and taught me secret handshakes and clapping games. I had fun with them but was affected by the tiredness that permeated the center. I missed little Anna and Jolie. No one could tell me where they were, and no one seemed to have the energy to care.
Theo contacted me first the following Saturday and arranged for me to meet someone at the girls' day center who would then accompany me to the other center for girls- where they live. Maison Irebu- the day center for girls- was again nearly empty. The kids who were there were all sleeping. I grew more and more confused about the purpose of the center. What is the reasoning behind being a mere day center and not offering full living services? I had been deeply disturbed by the absence of Anna and wondered how she could have been let to leave...how could any of them be let to wander outside, onto the streets?
IN the courtyard I was warmly greeted by Mama Cluadine. She directed me to an older gentleman sitting by the office. He was going to bring me to Chez Mama Suzanne, home for girls. "I make the soap for the center," he told me as we drove. Once we approached the blue walls, I remembered visiting the place on the rounds I had taken with Theo during my introduction. The children had been away on a vacation of sorts, getting fresh air on a retreat.
When the doors were opened and I drove in, I saw a dark blue minivan and a small group of well dressed people. They appeared to be touring the center and I soon found out they were parishioners from the church that founded the center. The kids had been gathered in the covered cement area reserved for large group gatherings. Blue plastic chairs had been placed in a circle and they waited patiently for the visitors to return.
I sat in the small office looking out onto the courtyard, waiting for the Mama in charge of the center to finish with her unexpected guests and make arrangements with me. Another woman sat with me and we made small talk about my program and discussed how the other centers were doing. It soon became apparent that guests intended on speaking to the girls, praying together and handing out food. After listening for a bit to the songs and the sermons, I decided it would be better to return next week. They had begun to call girls to the middle of the circle - for what purpose I wasn't entirely sure. I suddenly found everything very odd, realizing that the story for many street children began with condemnation by the church. I wondered how they felt about being preached to and given charity by yet another institution spouting words of love and obedience to Jesus.I wondered if it all wasn't a confusing mess to them. Just as I was looking around at their faces, I spotted her. Anna sitting snug in between two older girls. To be sure, I asked the older mama who had joined us if she knew the young girl's name. "Little Anna?" she asked me. Yes!
Happiness covered my face. I clapped and thanked God, thanked them and felt such relief and joy to know they had transferred her over here and she was no longer lost on the streets. It was only 12:00 when I left but I already knew that finding Anna meant my Saturday could only be a day of success and good feelings.
There were quite a few less girls present and the ones who were there were exhausted. They lifted themselves slowly from the benches where they had been sprawled out in a light slumber. They shuffled up to the school room and sat down. We made self portraits and I tried to encourage them to be fanciful. Draw yourself however you like, add wings, blue hair, etc. The interpreter left shortly after we began drawing and I relied on Christelle to help me understand some of the younger girls. They needed encouragement to add missing arms, legs, noses. Some struggled with heads and necks. Their feelings of powerlessness were evident in all that the figures lacked. I asked them to put their figures in an environment after they finished. While some girls added houses or chickens, or even other people creating a small family, many just wrote the name of a market they like to frequent or the neighborhood where they spend their time.
The older girls finished in about an hour and wanted to return downstairs to fixing their hair and napping. This pattern was quickly taken up by the others so we had a sharing session where each girl presented their work and then retreated. Three girls were left, three who really enjoyed drawing and asked for paper after paper. Eventually they tired of drawing large fish and taught me secret handshakes and clapping games. I had fun with them but was affected by the tiredness that permeated the center. I missed little Anna and Jolie. No one could tell me where they were, and no one seemed to have the energy to care.
Theo contacted me first the following Saturday and arranged for me to meet someone at the girls' day center who would then accompany me to the other center for girls- where they live. Maison Irebu- the day center for girls- was again nearly empty. The kids who were there were all sleeping. I grew more and more confused about the purpose of the center. What is the reasoning behind being a mere day center and not offering full living services? I had been deeply disturbed by the absence of Anna and wondered how she could have been let to leave...how could any of them be let to wander outside, onto the streets?
IN the courtyard I was warmly greeted by Mama Cluadine. She directed me to an older gentleman sitting by the office. He was going to bring me to Chez Mama Suzanne, home for girls. "I make the soap for the center," he told me as we drove. Once we approached the blue walls, I remembered visiting the place on the rounds I had taken with Theo during my introduction. The children had been away on a vacation of sorts, getting fresh air on a retreat.
When the doors were opened and I drove in, I saw a dark blue minivan and a small group of well dressed people. They appeared to be touring the center and I soon found out they were parishioners from the church that founded the center. The kids had been gathered in the covered cement area reserved for large group gatherings. Blue plastic chairs had been placed in a circle and they waited patiently for the visitors to return.
I sat in the small office looking out onto the courtyard, waiting for the Mama in charge of the center to finish with her unexpected guests and make arrangements with me. Another woman sat with me and we made small talk about my program and discussed how the other centers were doing. It soon became apparent that guests intended on speaking to the girls, praying together and handing out food. After listening for a bit to the songs and the sermons, I decided it would be better to return next week. They had begun to call girls to the middle of the circle - for what purpose I wasn't entirely sure. I suddenly found everything very odd, realizing that the story for many street children began with condemnation by the church. I wondered how they felt about being preached to and given charity by yet another institution spouting words of love and obedience to Jesus.I wondered if it all wasn't a confusing mess to them. Just as I was looking around at their faces, I spotted her. Anna sitting snug in between two older girls. To be sure, I asked the older mama who had joined us if she knew the young girl's name. "Little Anna?" she asked me. Yes!
Happiness covered my face. I clapped and thanked God, thanked them and felt such relief and joy to know they had transferred her over here and she was no longer lost on the streets. It was only 12:00 when I left but I already knew that finding Anna meant my Saturday could only be a day of success and good feelings.
When is a taxi not a taxi.....?
The most frequently asked question regarding taxis in Kinshasa is....how do you know which ones are taxis? Picking out the ones that are not taxis is oftentimes easier. Large SUV's, tinted windows, thick, solid tires. These are not usually signs of an African taxi. The taxi buses are a cinch....even when not painted in the traditional blue and yellow, they have people hanging their heads out the windows and the money guy leaning out the side door with a wad of francs carefully organized in his fist.
Cars come in all shapes, sizes and marks. Determining taxi from regular roadster can be challenging. The driver usually has one hand out the window making whichever hand signal identifies the area he covers. This is helpful in determining taxis from non-taxis. There also tends to be a lot of beeping involved, another helpful sign.
On Sundays I generally take a taxi to my dance class downtown. Sunday is a quiet day in Kinshasa and transport is relatively easy (or at least it has been so far.) The only sticky place is the road right outside the school gates. Sometimes it might be necessary to walk down to the corner and then down again to the larger road in order to find a cab. Usually this is not the case.
Today was a gray sky day in Kinshasa. It rained in the early morning hours, leaving the ground wet and the air cool. Several large cars flew past me- a sign that they are probably not a taxi, or at the very least, a full one. The street was empty. When another car came zooming by I held out my hand and waved it up and down, indicating I wanted to go to magasin, the Kintambo circle. The driver didn't exactly come to a screeching halt, but he did stop much further down the road and reversed back to where I was.
I noticed some boxes in the back window and a thought was born. A small thought that perhaps should have been given more attention. Taxis never have personal items- unless they belong to the passengers. The back door was locked, or at least it didn't open. This is not terribly uncommon in taxis. Usually the driver or an inside passenger will open it from the inside, in the case of broken door handles and other oddities that plague Kinshasa cabs. The car was empty, however, and so I sat in the front.
There are no telling clues in the inside of a cab. No meter, no name badge, no radio to dispatch. This car was decorated with flags on the windshield and stickers on the dashboard. Loud music played and I wondered. The thought was taking root. It's stereotypical to say that all Kinshasa taxis have cracked windshields, broken speedometers, fuel gauges permanently on empty and door panels ripped out exposing wires and other inner workings that lends a feeling of being inside a radio. Some taxis do have plush seats and handles to roll down the windows still attached.
The driver introduced himself and asked a few questions. Polite enough, though it can be difficult to be the receiver of a barrage of what feels like personal information. My name, where I work, where I live, what I am going to Kintambo for. I guess it passes for small talk. It was pleasant enough and when I asked him to drop me at the customary taxis area, he refused my money. "Have a nice Sunday," he said. Which is when I really knew it wasn't a taxi. He continued on down the boulevard.
Just when a few friends had left me feeling disappointed and losing faith in Congolese men and their ability to be truthful and loyal, someone drives by, offers me a ride, refuses my money- and doesn't ask for my phone number. A nice little addition to my Sunday, with a splash of perspective.
Cars come in all shapes, sizes and marks. Determining taxi from regular roadster can be challenging. The driver usually has one hand out the window making whichever hand signal identifies the area he covers. This is helpful in determining taxis from non-taxis. There also tends to be a lot of beeping involved, another helpful sign.
On Sundays I generally take a taxi to my dance class downtown. Sunday is a quiet day in Kinshasa and transport is relatively easy (or at least it has been so far.) The only sticky place is the road right outside the school gates. Sometimes it might be necessary to walk down to the corner and then down again to the larger road in order to find a cab. Usually this is not the case.
Today was a gray sky day in Kinshasa. It rained in the early morning hours, leaving the ground wet and the air cool. Several large cars flew past me- a sign that they are probably not a taxi, or at the very least, a full one. The street was empty. When another car came zooming by I held out my hand and waved it up and down, indicating I wanted to go to magasin, the Kintambo circle. The driver didn't exactly come to a screeching halt, but he did stop much further down the road and reversed back to where I was.
I noticed some boxes in the back window and a thought was born. A small thought that perhaps should have been given more attention. Taxis never have personal items- unless they belong to the passengers. The back door was locked, or at least it didn't open. This is not terribly uncommon in taxis. Usually the driver or an inside passenger will open it from the inside, in the case of broken door handles and other oddities that plague Kinshasa cabs. The car was empty, however, and so I sat in the front.
There are no telling clues in the inside of a cab. No meter, no name badge, no radio to dispatch. This car was decorated with flags on the windshield and stickers on the dashboard. Loud music played and I wondered. The thought was taking root. It's stereotypical to say that all Kinshasa taxis have cracked windshields, broken speedometers, fuel gauges permanently on empty and door panels ripped out exposing wires and other inner workings that lends a feeling of being inside a radio. Some taxis do have plush seats and handles to roll down the windows still attached.
The driver introduced himself and asked a few questions. Polite enough, though it can be difficult to be the receiver of a barrage of what feels like personal information. My name, where I work, where I live, what I am going to Kintambo for. I guess it passes for small talk. It was pleasant enough and when I asked him to drop me at the customary taxis area, he refused my money. "Have a nice Sunday," he said. Which is when I really knew it wasn't a taxi. He continued on down the boulevard.
Just when a few friends had left me feeling disappointed and losing faith in Congolese men and their ability to be truthful and loyal, someone drives by, offers me a ride, refuses my money- and doesn't ask for my phone number. A nice little addition to my Sunday, with a splash of perspective.
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