"You, you and you." I transformed them all into doctors with a wave of my hand. "Go out and find an office." I indicated the desks and tables arranged around the classroom. My English students were studying words for the body and sickness. Half of them were to be the doctors who would set up shop and wait for their patients to arrive. The pairs were then instructed to practice lessons from the past by introducing themselves and giving some background information before explaining their symptoms.
As I circulated the room overhearing conversations and stopping to answer questions and make small corrections, I saw creativity and humor- colored in Congolese culture of course. One woman assured me her doctor was a witch. He had prescribed 5 different medicines along with some suspicious herbs to drink in a tea. All she had asked for was something to stop her diarrhea. I was impressed with the level of questioning about symptoms from her "doctor," though agreed the final recommendations seemed like overkill. She could always get a second opinion- an opportune moment to introduce this phrase. As they began to discuss the price, I moved on to another couple.
This doctor had suggested the patient see an ear, nose and throat specialist (oh, the English words I could never imagine bringing into the conversation. It's always so much more rich when they get to role play naturally.) However, the patient had only been experiencing nasal congestion for one day. I recommended a second opinion again, before paying such an enormous sum to an ENT. I'm not sure if the patients had insurance.
We moved to the round table to end our session with a final whole group discussion. I also wanted to take this time to introduce some idioms and phrases. We had decided we would look at one each session- particularly to improve the more advanced students English. I had found a few phrases relating to health. The particular page I had printed was full of color idioms ("in the pink" "feeling blue" "green with envy" etc.) I'd only intended to look at the few phrases dealing with health, but with their usual enthusiasm and insistence we ended up discussing all of the phrases.
This brought us to "black and white" as in certain issues are said to be black and white. Or more precisely, I counseled, most often this phrase is used to suggest an issue is not just black and white. I searched for an appropriate example.
"Stealing. Wrong or right?" I queried. Everyone seemed to readily agree that stealing was unacceptable. "But what if you are only 6 years old and live on the street with no one to help you. You're hungry and have no possibility to eat. Would it be ok to steal....?" I'd meant to add 'some bread or some small fruit' just to distinguish between mugging someone, but I was interrupted.
"Shegue," one of the women said. And with that word she seemed to close the subject. She wasn't seeing a child, her child, alone, cold, hungry, scared. That one word descended like a mask covering any sweet innocence with malicious intention. I simply don't believe it is there, even when they are giving me the finger and rocking my car until I think it might turn over. I don't yet have fear of them. Because I sense it is frustration and desperation that drive them. The shegue. What are they to do? How long can they endure the suffering of trying to survive every moment of every day?
"But if you had a family, hungry children at home and no way to feed them..." I tried to continue. Some others began to enter the debate and things got sticky. This is an excellent group for riling up. Our exchange is based on the fact that they are members of La Jeunesse pour Une Nouvelle Societe but they certainly seem to have a variety of views about how that society might function.
"So you see," I concluded trying to end the session, always a challenging task at best, " it's not black and white. It's a complicated issue...." They continued to discuss and murmur as they made their way into the night.
25.12.12
4.12.12
Dancing & Diving
At first glance, my two topics don't seem to have much in common. The events and even the main characters of each story are as different as I am from the citizens of my host country. But after some reflection, I've come to see the similarities between the two situations.
The first involves a concert at my favorite place, L'Halle de Gombe. They guys were psyched about seeing one of their favorite Guineen reggae stars. Elie Kamano was singing along with a Congolese singer- well, they shared the stage and at this point I can't really recall them singing a song together, but they did trade off the spotlight to each other. The music was quite lively from Elie and he had a clear message. Revolution. Apparently Elie is also know as "the general" and he made some jokes about out ranking his father, a bona-fide member of the Guineen military. But the jokes came later, in more private circumstances. On stage, he sang beautifully about the need for African consciousness and action. He said things many Congolese would be scared to say in public. In fact, while the audience clapped and screamed appreciation, very few were moved to dance.
Ousmane couldn't contain himself and made his way to the stage area within minutes. He was clearly caught up in reminiscence for his home country and over the top about hearing his language bursting from the speakers. He lost himself in wild dance movements and enthusiastic air guitar (complete with empty plastic soda bottle reminding me of the time we went to see Staff Bindi Billi.) Souleymane joined him within minutes also lost in his own reverie. Both of them were clearly in tune with the singer's message and punctuated each verse with a raised, pumping fist. Viva la revolution.
Kazadi couldn't resist joining his brothers up front for some all out dance expression, but he made sure to keep his back to the cameras. After the first few songs he moved his show off to the side and even to the back by the bleachers. "Too much filming," he told me as he continued to sway and sing and shout out encouragement. He also expressed disappointment in the lyrics by the woman singer. Apparently her message was shrouded in vague questions and disguised as a love song. "What kind of message is that?" His eyes filled with dismay. Later discussion revealed even more facts. No Congolese could actually get away with singing those words in public, and in fact, Elie has had a bit of a hard time singing those words in his own country. It seemed pure poetry to me to have him here singing on behalf of the Congolese and only fitting that other Africans would travel to Conakry to express what they could not on their own land. I was reminded of this story where
I came to see it as desperation. Which is the connection to my next story of the diving boys. It may have been on our way to the concert or another trip altogether (there have been several occurrences) when we first encountered the diving boys. They have replaced my little guys that used to sit along the median that divides the boulevard. I still recognize two of them, and they do know me. They are the two that hold their arms out trying to keep the others at a "polite" distance from the car as they ask for money.
"Mama American," they always begin while trying to hold off the pack. It's not an easy task but they do seem to have some control. Just as they seem to realize I am more likely to give over a few francs when I feel like it is my own decision and not by cohersion. Of course, there are often too many to hand out to individually and I am usually left imploring them to share. If they could find a way to live on the streets together, it would result in so much more. But that's a deep philosophy for kids who are just living minute by minute. They've developed a better tactic.
Diving in front of the car. The strategy is to crouch low in front of the wheel or even right in the middle of the car so the driver is unsure if it is safe to move forward. Cars behind don't really care for this strategy and begin honking, shouting and driving around. It definitely puts a damper on the giving spirit. But it is a sign of the level of their desperation. And so it is I came to conclude that the silent, sitting Congolese out for an evening on the town to listen to some reggae were not actually so far removed from the street kids of Kinshasa willing to do anything to gain a little bit of nothing.
The first involves a concert at my favorite place, L'Halle de Gombe. They guys were psyched about seeing one of their favorite Guineen reggae stars. Elie Kamano was singing along with a Congolese singer- well, they shared the stage and at this point I can't really recall them singing a song together, but they did trade off the spotlight to each other. The music was quite lively from Elie and he had a clear message. Revolution. Apparently Elie is also know as "the general" and he made some jokes about out ranking his father, a bona-fide member of the Guineen military. But the jokes came later, in more private circumstances. On stage, he sang beautifully about the need for African consciousness and action. He said things many Congolese would be scared to say in public. In fact, while the audience clapped and screamed appreciation, very few were moved to dance.
Ousmane couldn't contain himself and made his way to the stage area within minutes. He was clearly caught up in reminiscence for his home country and over the top about hearing his language bursting from the speakers. He lost himself in wild dance movements and enthusiastic air guitar (complete with empty plastic soda bottle reminding me of the time we went to see Staff Bindi Billi.) Souleymane joined him within minutes also lost in his own reverie. Both of them were clearly in tune with the singer's message and punctuated each verse with a raised, pumping fist. Viva la revolution.
Kazadi couldn't resist joining his brothers up front for some all out dance expression, but he made sure to keep his back to the cameras. After the first few songs he moved his show off to the side and even to the back by the bleachers. "Too much filming," he told me as he continued to sway and sing and shout out encouragement. He also expressed disappointment in the lyrics by the woman singer. Apparently her message was shrouded in vague questions and disguised as a love song. "What kind of message is that?" His eyes filled with dismay. Later discussion revealed even more facts. No Congolese could actually get away with singing those words in public, and in fact, Elie has had a bit of a hard time singing those words in his own country. It seemed pure poetry to me to have him here singing on behalf of the Congolese and only fitting that other Africans would travel to Conakry to express what they could not on their own land. I was reminded of this story where
"Young people in the eastern city of Goma took to the streets after popular folk musician Fabrice Mumpfiritsa was kidnapped after he refused to sing songs supporting Kabila. He was found three days later, legs and eyes bound and so badly beaten he had to be hospitalized."Ousmane and Kazadi spent a lot of backstage time with the group and eventually Elie and his crew were invited to our house for dinner the next night. I admired Elie for his persistence and dedication in spreading his message to other African countries (apparently DRC was one of 17 African countries on his tour) but remained caught in the idea of the power behind art. And the struggles of the Congolese to such an extent that they refused to dance.
I came to see it as desperation. Which is the connection to my next story of the diving boys. It may have been on our way to the concert or another trip altogether (there have been several occurrences) when we first encountered the diving boys. They have replaced my little guys that used to sit along the median that divides the boulevard. I still recognize two of them, and they do know me. They are the two that hold their arms out trying to keep the others at a "polite" distance from the car as they ask for money.
"Mama American," they always begin while trying to hold off the pack. It's not an easy task but they do seem to have some control. Just as they seem to realize I am more likely to give over a few francs when I feel like it is my own decision and not by cohersion. Of course, there are often too many to hand out to individually and I am usually left imploring them to share. If they could find a way to live on the streets together, it would result in so much more. But that's a deep philosophy for kids who are just living minute by minute. They've developed a better tactic.
Diving in front of the car. The strategy is to crouch low in front of the wheel or even right in the middle of the car so the driver is unsure if it is safe to move forward. Cars behind don't really care for this strategy and begin honking, shouting and driving around. It definitely puts a damper on the giving spirit. But it is a sign of the level of their desperation. And so it is I came to conclude that the silent, sitting Congolese out for an evening on the town to listen to some reggae were not actually so far removed from the street kids of Kinshasa willing to do anything to gain a little bit of nothing.
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| Elie at our house |
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