One truck and a bridge

I have no information about this situation. In the US, I would turn to the newspapers the next morning to find out the details. Here in Kin, there are newspapers but I don't read them much anymore. And I am unconvinced the answers to how this truck managed to be in that position would be found there. Better to strike up a conversation with passersby while taking the photo. Kin is known to be a city of rumors, but it is almost a necessity in a place where the most reliable news about what's going on inside the country comes from sources outside the country.

The biggest question, aside of course from what happened to the driver of this unfortunate vehicle (could he really still be stuck inside- a thought posed by a friend who reasoned nothing is unthinkable and with the cab smashed to such a degree, how could he possible have been extricated anyway?) the next biggest question is....how will this monstrous sculpture be removed....or perhaps will it be removed? I am remembering the hulking remains of crashed planes that line the airport runway.......supposing there is nowhere for them to go and no machine capable of removing or compacting the metal carcass. And so it remains, poised on the edge of the bridge like a giant child's gruesome toy haphazardly thrown off the edge of the road in an eerie game of Matchbox cars.

A small reminder

Goma is in the news again and it seems like nothing can be done to stop it. It is a recurring problem that captures little attention. The immediate repercussions in Kinshasa are small. Students in Kisangani have organized to demonstrate against the ongoing battle that has displaced thousands. This photo was posted on the LeCongolais FaceBook page with the following caption:

"PHOTO DU JOUR : Le siège du PPRD brûlé ce matin par les étudiants pour dénoncer la "complicité" de Kabila dans l'agression du Rwanda à travers leurs poulains du M23. (Students have burned the PPRD building to denounce the complicity of President Kabila in the attacks on Goma by the M23 who are supported by Rwanda)"

Students in Kinshasa from the teacher's college reportedly wanted to demonstrate but were prevented by police from gathering downtown. There may not be enough firepower in the east to control fighting, but in Kinshasa residents are caught in a stronghold. Anytime the possibility of organized and collaborating youth arises, the military come out in force.

As for those of us living comfortably on the grounds of TASOK, life continues much as usual. I sent Mohamed off to his dentist appointment with Souleymane. I finished up my schoolwork to the sounds of pouring rain and wondered if they would be able to find a taxi. Nabih played outside until he was soaking wet and we finally headed for home.

The rain continued and I had visions of Mohamed walking with an aching mouth and dampened shoes. I decided to check out a car and see if I could swoop out to offer them a ride home. As I approached the administration building where the cars are kept, I saw two blue Jeeps and the silver Everest out front. Luck, I thought. Oh then what a surprise when I went to grab a key and instead found this sign:

All the keys were missing and I was dumbfounded for a minute. The idea that I am living under the patronage of someone else is never far from me. My home is not my own, all my life changes must be reported, in a sense and approved (for contract purposes) and a loss of my job would mean a complete and total change of place. Sometimes it is easy to forget this interference in my independence and freedom. I have learned to adapt to reactions to life in the city and make my own careful way (just under the radar I hope.) I can never be far from the juxtaposition of being a foreigner (always a foreigner)  protected, secured, privileged and therefore not exactly free. Thoughts on freedom I'll reserve for another post. The refugees fleeing their homes in Goma are not exactly free either, nor are their neighbors waiting for the rebellion to move in and overtake their town. Just a small reminder that freedom is relative. Freedom is as much an attitude and mental state as a physical situation.

Secrets of Beauty

Pedicures, manicures, massages. All of these things belong to the world of pampering and indulgence that I know nothing about. However, wanting to seek out something special for the wedding celebration led me to investigate the art of henna. Henna has a solid history in use during weddings and other festive events. I was a bit surprised to learn about healing properties however, and especially love this quote:

"Ancient Egyptians and many indigenous and aboriginal people around the world believed that the naturally derived red substances of ochre, blood and henna had qualities that improved human awareness of the earth’s energies. It was therefore applied to help people keep in touch with their spirituality." 

After having both hands liberally decorated, I can see the reason behind this statement. The woman who came to apply my henna was truly magical. She grasped my hand and began drawing with a pipette filled with henna. She gently squeezed out the dark brown mixture as she deftly drew designs. I was amazed that she used no reference, no pictures and no stencils. She seemed to draw quickly and effortlessly.
 Because I had my henna applied at a friend's house, I was left to awkwardly walk home with my hands held up, pointed out at elbows with palms spread wide to keep from accidentally touching anything.

Once arriving, I was faced with my immense hunger and unusable hands. I appealed to my eldest son to feed me yogurt as I imagined the plush and pampered women of India relaxing on huge soft cushions surrounded by aunties and sisters and cousins. I began to understand the value of living in a house full of women.  I do believe Mohamed's gentle yogurt feeding was a thousand times more sweet however. With each deliciously smooth spoonful I remembered feeding him in his infancy, orange sweet potatoes, green spinach and even creamy yogurt.

But forever practical (and the only female in a house full of men) I decided to forego eating more until I could feed myself. I went to lay down and "rest" feeling incredibly incapable and useless (but beautiful.....the exact combination of feelings I spent an entire lifetime trying to avoid.)

After several hours, the paste began to dry and crumble off. Every time I touched something, a shower of muddy brown flakes rained down onto the floor. I was completely appalled and traveled with dustpan and brush to sweep up the mess. I felt like a snake shedding her skin. Left behind was, admittedly, a beautiful pattern of floral lines and the all important darkened fingertips signifying a bride.  I was happy with the effect and tried my best to keep as much of the coverings in place so the color would be dark and strong in the morning, when I was told it would be ok to wash. I slept with my arms held off the bed and imagined how much  harder everything would be if I had been able to get my feet done the way I'd initially imagined. (Because I was at a friend's house and needed to walk home, getting my feet done proved impossible....my shoes and the walk through the damp grass would have ruined everything.)

In the morning, the bed was an ugly mess. Henna flakes were all over the pillow, the blankets and the floor. The real secret to beauty secrets is....there isn't much beautiful about them. I guess this is the "sacrifice" so many women make in the name of beauty. I swept everything up for a final time and happily went off to wash.

In the end, it was worth the waiting and helplessness. Many people remarked on my beautiful hands and I felt like a princess for a day. During a particularly hot drive to the store, a policeman pulled me over with the thought of "requesting" some "cash for a coke" but upon seeing my hands, the conversation changed dramatically and ended with an exchange of pleasantries rather than francs.

I continued searching for avocados and pineapples and began to lose patience. As a few words of mild anger passed my lips, I glanced at my hands gripping the steering wheel. "That's not very beautiful behavior," I thought and immediately searched to calm myself and match the graciousness of my palms. This seemed rather profound to me at the time and brings me back to my original quote about henna being applied to keep people in touch with their spirituality, their humanity towards others and the earth.

à distance

Many things happen from a distance....people blow kisses goodbye, keep up friendships through email and interview for jobs via Skype  Video calling allows far away grandparents to "meet" their newest grandbaby, lets military moms and dads tell goodnight stories to their little ones and permits couples on opposite coasts (or sometimes even separated by oceans) to maintain their relationships- or even the most extreme: experiencing childbirth together.

Marriage is something I hadn't really considered as a long distance endeavor however. Not the "staying- together-though-distance-separates-us" kind of long distance marriage. I mean the kind where a marriage ceremony takes place but you aren't actually present. Yeah. This was news to me.

Apparently it is a common occurrence (or at least more common than I had previously thought, which was not at all.) Efforts to look more into this have lead mostly to military accounts or, in plain language, marriage by proxy. Neither link mentions African countries but I have been assured by Souleymane that this process is known to occur often in Senegal. There are a variety of reasons one might conduct a marriage by proxy and I suppose our reason is as good as any. We're both far from home.

I wanted all the details about how this magical day would take place with neither bride nor groom in attendance. Souleymane's uncle will be standing in for me and his father will be standing in for him. After arrival at the mosque there will naturally be some pleasantries. The family will exchange good greetings and news. There will be praying and more talking. Souleymane's uncle, Tonton Sao, will receive many words of advice about what it means to be a woman entering into marriage. He is expected to share this advice with me and remind me of passages from the Qu'ran that will guide me in my new role as wife. In a similar fashion, Souleymane's father will receive words of advice about what it means to be a good husband. His job is to make sure Souleymane is aware of the responsibilities of his new role. Afterward, there will be more praying and the formalizing of the contract. The family will move on to a small celebration. And just when I thought the whole thing couldn't get any more delightfully foreign, Souleymane mentioned that he hoped they would take photos.  Photos? I wondered. Of what?

But of course it will be wonderful to have photos of his family and the mosque to represent the prayers and ceremony held on our behalf. What we will be doing that day? Much of the same. We will spend quiet family time together, praying, celebrating, being thankful for our union. And if we have friends around the globe, know that all are invited to raise a toast and celebrate with us.

We do plan a civil ceremony here in Kinshasa, a small party with friends in Congo and a larger affair once we can travel to Senegal this summer. But for now, we will enjoy the powerful thoughts and prayers of friends and family being sent out with intention and positivity which I imagine will meet in the cosmos and, once united, will rain back down on us in Kinshasa. We'll all be looking at the same stars and gazing at the same moon. This seems rather perfect too.