Dora- discovered...and road-side wrappers

My kids just managed to miss the Dora phenomenon....I'm talking about Dora the Explorer, cute little Latina gal known for her adventures. After looking up a bit about her, it seems perhaps I shouldn't be so surprised at her all encompassing presence in Africa. After being translated into 29 languages and two live performance versions, a little trip across the African continent seems like hardly a big deal.  But like I said, my kids just missed the whole Dora trip and so I had no idea.

Which is why I've been a little stunned to see her image painted everywhere. In Kinshasa, she is on the side of school buildings, lining the walls above kiddie cubbies and adorning backpacks and water bottles in market stalls. Here in Abidjan, she is painted on headboards and dressers of kids' furniture that lines the roadways. Even more Florida-esque, she can be found, along with what seem to be her antithesis- the Disney princesses- painted on wooden cut-out shapes and hanging for sale from here to the beach. Just plain weird.

Just one of many opportunities to buy a Dora...or a snowman

A billion Dora.....and some Smurf

Otherwise, it's been a pretty pleasant first week in Abidjan. The boys, of course, are busy comparing everything to Kinshasa and I am recovering from the lack of traffic stories and doctor tales- the traffic is orderly, everyone stays on their own side of the road and it's depressingly quiet. The doctor's office we visited- same. Orderly, not too much of a wait, clean and efficient. Pay first, of course.

We've all been remarking on the tranquility and quiet. There isn't a lot of "music in the air" and I realize now that Kinshasa is virtually bursting with rhythm. I guess I thought all African countries were. It's a bit different this trip, because most of my visits to African countries usually involve staying with musicians- dancers, drummers, artists- and so then, of course, we are surrounded by music. In Kinshasa, the streets themselves seem to sing and we are missing that quality a bit here. Well, at least I am. The boys seem to revel in the anonymity. Aside from being mistaken for twins, no one seems to notice them at all. Just two regular guys.

Sometimes even I have trouble telling them apart...
Which one are you? I have to ask as I peer closely.

Abidjan reminds me a lot of NYC- spread out with many boroughs. Each section seems to cater to something and the orange taxis can take you anywhere for $4. In fact, everything seems to be about $4 (2000FC) except the carrots which were an unbelievable 950FC (maybe a 1.50?) for a huge bundle of fat, healthy looking rods. Wow. The vegetables are definitely more appealing and less expensive than Kin....but I am thinking on all other matters it might be a tie- or even more expensive here. I am a bit disoriented (by the quiet) by the money system, as in Kin 1000FrancCongolaise is about 1.00 and here the franc cefa is double that- 1000=$2.00

I spent the first few days trying to figure out where "the people" live. Everything seemed so quiet and tidy. Where were all the people? We visited the downtown financial section (home of a super Senegalese cafe offering superb tchep)  and walked among the shady, tree lined streets reminiscent of Conakry's business district. Getting from one section to another requires a looping drive around a swampy middle (I guess they are working on a bridge here) and this watery scenery sends me back to Harlem River Drive making me feel like home. But traveling across the vast city means spending a lot of time in the car. The roadsides are soul-filling green hills and trees.

We're staying in the Riviera III section, not far from the infamous Golf Hotel and the president's new quarters. Mohamed feels so comfortable he's already decided if we get to settle down here he'll soon be ready to go out on his own. He's noticed the "quality" of the university we drive by often with its rolling hills, landscaped lawns and well kept buildings. It's hard to imagine just a few short months ago the area was bustling with gun-fire and grenades.

On the way to one of the beaches just outside the main city center, we passed through Port Bouet. Finally a bit of market life resembling Kinshasa. Stalls lined the streets, people were everywhere and a small street hum filled the air. Happily, even here, no one cold be seen dashing across the road for their life. Respect for the traffic laws abounds. "We fought for that," Mohamed, one of our  'regular' taxi drivers told us. No random stops by the police here, no collecting of 'taxes' or small cash for a 'coca.' He sounds fierce and proud as he repeats how hard they fought for order.

We've yet to get to Adjame, where I think the largest markets are. I'm still trying to figure out if water and electricity problems persist here....someone told me they didn't really think it was like Kin, but I find it hard to imagine. I still have it in my mind that all of Africa is struggling with these problems and I'm still wondering why.

Here on Christmas Eve I have an interview at the school. Seems like a good omen. Christmas is times ten here in Abidjan. Gift wrappers sit outside every store ready to wrap and bow whatever you've bought. Colorful, festive paper is peeking out of buckets sitting on wooden tables everywhere you turn. Even the grocery stores have cleaned out aisle upon aisle to stock up with toys and other unneeded, overly expensive items. While Christmas comes silently to Kin, maybe a bit more traffic, some fancy decorations here and there, occasionally a Christmas tune playing in a random store, it is the one piece of Abidjan that so far seems more showy and loud.

I'm trying to take more pictures....missed the men selling wares on the beach wrapped in their miles of blue cloth and turbans. What a beautiful painting it would make. It's a nice mix of people here. Christians and Muslims, Africans from all over, Europeans and Lebanese (not exactly sure if there's a word for people from the Middle East....Middle Easterners perhaps.) Sometimes when I am noticing the mix- mostly in the case of religion- just as I remark on the beauty of Christians and Muslims so intermingled and all mixed up, churches sitting next door to mosques- I remember it is just as often the cause of wars. When everything is so quiet and peaceful like this....it just doesn't seem possible. The mosque sends out its call to prayer and those who are observing stop to pray...those who are not continue with their day- life on the beach, driving, shopping, whatever they are doing. And no one seems to notice anyone else. It all just is.

But, as a visitor, I have no memory. And I've yet to truly understand the feelings close to the surface. For now, we are just travelers....enjoying the holidays. Perhaps with time there will be more to discover.

The American Revolution- and a fishbowl

Events conspired in such a way that this rainy Saturday had me seeking out the bus provided by the school to do some grocery shopping around town. Usually I am too busy with exercise classes, catching up on sleep or ferrying Mohamed around to take advantage of the cheap transportation to any part of the city desired by the riders. Usually I am loathe to give up my entire Saturday morning for this all encompassing tour. Rain, empty cupboards and a cancelled cardio class provided the perfect synchronicity of events to make the bus ride seem like a pleasant way to spend the morning.

And so it was I found myself at 9:00 am under gray skies and chilly rain talking to the bus driver, who inquired- ever so directly I might point out- whether or not he might have or purchase one of the boys bikes for his young son. You know, sometime around June. When I am leaving. Which he didn't say but was directly implied by his repetition of  "sometime in June."

My response to confusion and surprise is always endless chatter, which I began immediately of course, describing how often the blasted bikes seem to break down, lose air, suffer from disconnecting chains and malfunctioning brakes. I never had such problems  in the States but something about a bike in Congo seems to equal an endless tombler en panne. I even went on to describe our summer trip to a bike repair shop here in Kin- the amazing 300+ bikes adorning every square inch of the mechanics work space.

In my mind however, a thousand different questions are rolling around. Bikes are available by the plenty in Kin, why does he want mine? And how the hell does he know I am leaving? Really. It's an uncomfortable situation once word is out that you won't be around for the next year. I have heard so many stories of people coming right out to ask for things....all the material goods one might have acquired over the years. And even worse, people who suggest they might come browsing your house to see what you have just in case something might be interesting. While it has become some kind of tradition that leaving teachers sell or give away much of their stuff, I was mostly stuck back at the other questions. Who sent out the news that I was leaving?

It shouldn't really have been surprising, as the atelier and guards often seem to know as much- or more- about what goes on behind the scenes here on campus, but it's still eerie. The fishbowl effect was something that definitely took adjusting to the first year or so. Housekeepers, nannies, and guards all seem to have an inner eye and ear in the houses they work at. And it is clear they talk. But it is unsettling when you get actual proof that someone has been talking about you. It's happened a few times in conversation when something which I thought were perhaps private has been revealed in a conversation- leading me to understand without doubt that people were talking about me. People I know by name only, or some even by sight only. People who know my name, address, when someone visits, when they leave, how often I have company, all of the mundane facts about a daily life and it's routines- or oddities. Disturbing. I have always detested the campus grapevine but normally I don't have enough social contact with anyone to actually know what is getting passed around. Because of my distance I naturally- and erroneously-believed it rarely had to do with me.

Luckily, we've collected very few items of want and so the tidal wave of desires for our possessions is sure to be kept at a minimum.  But another conversation about leaving has also got me wondering.

A local hire teacher, Congolese born but now a citizen of another country, told me she was leaving. Apparently something to do with the new taxes that would be withheld from her pay- a staggering amount she felt. I couldn't help but agree. It's one thing to pay taxes if you can see where they are going and benefit from the payment. But to pay taxes and still return to a house that is frequently without electricity, has no running water more often than has seems grossly unjust. In talking of future plans, however, she mentioned her desire to stay in Kinshasa but perhaps with a different company.

"Won't you still have to pay taxes?" I inquired, uncertain what difference the change would make in finances.
"Normally the company will pay," she informed me, going to elaborate on the details. It seems that a logical solution in her mind was that the school should impose a tax on the families, which would then be used to offset the amount paid by each local hire, effectively making them exempt form paying the tax with their own money. Apparently this is how other businesses operate. They pay the fees sheltering their employees from the cost.

Which got me thinking. Wasn't an unfair taxation system one of the major causes of the American Revolution? The fight for freedom and liberation was spurred by an unjust taxation of people who did not directly benefit from paying the fees. While I feel the pain of losing money without benefit, I simply cannot wrap my mind around the solution. It seems if more people felt the pain, they might collectively unite to demand improvements in the quality of life. I still cannot come to terms with the number of people who live without electricity and running water. I continue to grapple with the enormity of the problem and the frustrating lack of progress in this area. I understand that change will not come about until the people demand it, but I cannot understand what is preventing this. Why don't the citizens demand of their government equal access to basic needs? What is holding the revolution back?

Loopholes, apparently. Rather than expect the government to provide a basic level of services, the expectation has become that the employers will offset the unfair tax. Misguided energy in my American mind.  I'm still waiting for the anger and rage to take over. To be focused at systems and policies, rather than institutions. Maybe life in the fishbowl has given me a distorted view of things. But history seems to have proven that until the people collectively recognize injustice and their power to demand resolution from their government leaders, positive change is unlikely to occur.

en plein air

There's a new cinema coming to Kinshasa, or so the billboards around town seem to be announcing. Something like a drive-in, though without the car. "Everyone outside," the announcement demands. "Come enjoy the movies in the fresh air." Sounds like another good move for Kinshasa (and whoever is funding the business.)

It's another kind of outdoor calling that has me perplexed though. Apparently a new plan is in place for dealing with the Kuluna- Kinshasa's notorious machete wielding street gang that terrorizes whomever they want, stealing money, wares and killing randomly. It has become such a problem that residents of some neighborhoods are afraid to go out after 11pm or before 5 am. For some workers, this makes getting to their jobs on time difficult. Women who collect bread at several of the city's bakery outlets usually like to get there around 3 am. The decision between making a living and remaining safe has become a daily struggle.

The reaction from many locals is positive. Everyone seems to have a story of witnessing, just passing or knowing someone who has been murdered or victimized by the gangs. They take on a legendary status. A woman pregnant with twins, slashed across the neck, her babies cut out. Another woman seen by someone on the way to a friend's house....her corpse visible on the roadside upon the return. Kids menaced, shopkeepers looted, women selling fruits and vegetable losing their daily profits. The solution seems to be justice- or judgement- immediately. Anyone found in the act of a crime is immediately killed. In front of everyone -in order to send the proper message.

Saturday night we visited a place we like to go often, have a drink and watch the people coming and going. This particular evening, things seems so much more lively and full. People were everywhere. "You see," one of the men at the table said, waving his arm across the populated street front. "People are no longer afraid. They've been liberated."

Hmmm. Because of my presence, discussion ensued about the "justice" of it all. I worked hard not to be misinterpreted. I worked hard to try understand their perspective. "It's the African system," they said, referring to violence and force needed to bring about change. "If parents don't bring up their children right or can no longer control them, someone needs to do something. This is right. This is good." They felt it without a doubt.

I wasn't necessarily agreeing or disagreeing with the method, but posed several questions. What if it was your child who was in the wrong place at the wrong time..somehow mistakenly getting included in the Kuluna gang? What if it was you? Tempers rise and anger is rarely a clear lens with which to remember what you've seen. What if the victim was somehow mistaken for being an accomplice?

But mostly, I tried to bring up the underlying causes. My real reaction was not about the current plan, but how to prevent more kuluna from springing up. What drives someone to become that kind of person in the first place? I was thinking of basic human needs and the purposes of government- two topics we are currently studying in my classes. The government does have a responsibility to create livable conditions for its citizens. Or so I believe. And I argued that it is the absence of these conditions- water, electricity, food, education, a viable future- that leads to desperation. Which is what drives people to commit such acts. Or so I theorized.

Not to be confused with making excuses. Merely pointing out the need for the government to attack the problem on many different levels. In order to prevent a resurgence, or a morphing, it seems vital that basic human needs be addressed. And I remain stumped by the people's pleasure at such extreme measures all the while never recognizing how it came to be in the first place. Who allowed the gangs to grow to such proportions and hold such power?

There's no easy answer. "Beaucoup de securitie maintent,"  as one man put it- lots of security- at night- surely is a step in the right direction. There are many who would argue that out and out murder solves the problem of taxing a crumbling prison system. This article, from February 2013, reveals a lot about the various perspectives- governments, police, kuluna themselves. Adding to the complexities is the number of politicians and businessmen who employed the kuluna for their services as body guards and protectors during the elections. The police who find it difficult to give chase on foot and in the hot Kinshasa sun and a justice system which doesn't keep them in jail for long. This disturbing, shaky video captures rival gangs in a rain battle.

Kinshasa is not the only city to grapple with gangs. The US has a fairly entrenched gang system in place, both in the prisons and on the streets. Solutions are long and costly. They require investment, knowledge, support of the people. And alternatives.  This paper outlines a number of strategies tried in programs across the US. And there is infinite material available on the web discussing causes, preventions, reactions, and responsibilities of the actors involved (families, communities, schools, police, etc.)

This interesting quote "A gang is only as strong as a community allows it to be"  comes from this site by Mike Carlie. It brings to light the importance of considering all aspects involved and looking at the changing face of society. In America. 

It stands to reason each country would need to examine their own underlying causes and moral influences. Family and community play an important role in demanding programs and assistance for the problems developing in their neighborhoods. I don't have those kinds of connections...that would alert me to the actions of communities. Have they united and raised their voices as one? Have they called on the government to take action and save their children? Where do they turn for safety and security? How do they make their concerns heard?
There are so many levels to this need- education being at the base I think. Knowing that there are solutions other than direct murder. Knowing that there needs to be additional research, support, programs, and options. DRC is a huge country. Dealing with war and violence in the east seems to overtake the focus, leaving problems like those in Kinsahsa's quarters left hanging. I'm not sure how many, if any, NGO's or other development programs have a branch aimed at reducing gang violence. My initial search turned up only this link from the US Embassy referring to the eastern region of the country. Other searches refer to centers for street kids. Equally important in their urgency, but neither really addressing the unique problem of gangs.

Pepsi vs. Coke

I've been working with my assistant for about 5 years. We have that close and sometimes not so close relationship that is easy to have with Congolese. Sometimes I have a hard time knowing where I stand with him. What does he think of me? While it could be argued that it doesn't so much matter as long as we can work together well, it is something I wonder. I often present startling information about his country, and I want to be sure I am doing it with respect. I try to check in with him often.

When his wife was pregnant with their fourth child- and I didn't find out until after she'd given birth- I felt kind of .....estranged. What?! You never told me you were expecting?! I found out when asking him about plans for the December vacation. A kind of nonchalant, well I'm going to be spending time with my new baby.

On the other hand, we've shared some intimate details about growing up and what life was/is like for Congolese. He often gives me that, very indirect, feedback about my teaching style and the experiences I've planned for the students (like the time the President's wife came to our production of Minerals in the Congo and I just had to get his advice on what how she might have interpreted it.)

This afternoon we were talking about the huge number of kids who hadn't prepared their homework. Since I've been teaching just literacy and social studies to 4th and 5th graders, I can compare how they do for the their math/science teacher- a male, with a completely different approach. Apparently more successful in getting homework completed. It led to a discussion about his being able to witness a variety of teaching styles and how beneficial it could be. I had a similar experience when I was teaching in Florida as a pull out/push in special education teacher. I got to spend some time in a variety of classrooms with different age levels and teaching styles.  I wondered if he found it as interesting as I did. Here's what he said:

"When I was young I dreamed of a class where I could express myself and share my ideas. I had to wait all this time until I came here. I finally found it. "

He went on to say, "It's kind of like Pepsi and Coke. When Pepsi came around, I really liked it. I preferred it in fact. But Coke prevailed. I think there were a lot of people who liked Pepsi, but ....it goes that way sometimes. And then you don't really appreciate it until it is gone. Or until you have grown."

So, I guess I am Pepsi. A bit easier on the taste buds but just not strong enough to stake my claim. It suits me. If I have to drink soda, I prefer Pepsi too. Another lesson in that around-the-way talk that seems to say so much more than my American directness.

Embracing the unknown

This one  has been going around the blogsophere and FB feeds for a bit. Ideas about America from  immigrants or visitors that went against everything they were led to believe or had come to expect. Of course, I've been debunking myths for awhile - or so I thought, turns out I can only find this post labeled as a mythbuster- surely there are more buried deep within the context of my writings?

Anyone who has traveled, lived out of their growing up zone or just met people from another place can relate to being confronted with thoughts, actions and ways of being that are startlingly strange and take a bit of getting used to.

Most of my personal experience with this had been vicarious- watching people who come to America struggle with all the newness and battle to incorporate their dreams of how they thought it would be with the realities confronting them.

Six years in Congo and I am still understanding the differences in my perception of how things should be, how they actually are and how both sides can be 'right.' Or rather, how neither side is right, just different.

I can identify with many things on list, as an American who has gone back to visit and been confounded by some of the very same issues. Tests (and grocery shopping) in pajamas, food portion sizes and the availability of cold water- often for free- are just a few of the items of note. The most interesting ones to me have to do with social norms.....greetings, the relationship of children to parents and the parameters of friendship are some of the comments that fascinate me most.

All of these ideas work both ways. I've come to expect that asking for water in a restaurant means paying for an entire bottle of water and not merely receiving a free glass of cool, thirst quenching liquid (and no refills.) I've adjusted to the idea that cash is king here, not there, and I am mostly over my cold American greeting- I can usually manage a cheek kiss or quick embrace. I've learned that, when telling time, being 'in the hour' is acceptable (an event that begins at 8 can occur anytime within the hour of 8 up to and including 8:59 and still not be considered late) and I am even getting used to talking my way around a subject, rather than plowing right through it- though this is considerably harder to remember.

My favorite from the list, though, is #8 from Brian Couch and his Nigerian friend. On the issue of interpersonal relationships he writes:

I do remember a Nigerian friend expounding on this by asking me, “If I woke you up in the middle of the night and asked you to come with me, what would you say?”

“I’d ask what was going on…”

          “You see,” he said. “My friends from my village would come with me, and on the way would ask,              
          ‘Ade, where are we going?’”

I love the way this story paints such a clear example of loyalty. While not asking questions in the doctor's office, or coming up short with details on how a conversation at the embassy went is often frustrating and screams a lack of organization and thoroughness to me, there are plenty of times when you just want unwavering support- no questions, no doubts just trust that your judgement and need are enough. The answer to your "I need you" is merely, "Ok, I'm with you" and all the rest can be sorted out later.

I thought about this one a lot. Because surely there are many who could argue they have this kind of relationship with a friend or family member. They think they would offer middle-of-the-night support and guidance. And I'm sure they would. But in every example I could imagine, in every scene portrayed by the movies and media, there is always that, "Wait, can't you just tell me what's going on?" or " I just don't understand why you're acting this way" moment when the main character loses precious time because his or her sidekick won't just come on and move but demands to know why.

I think it boils down to patience, which is something I often find myself sorely short of. I want understanding and clarity. Now. I don't want myths or trust in the grand plan to guide me. I don't want to rely on faith alone but look for concrete science to back me up. I want to analyze all points and make a sound decision.

But mostly, I want a friend that would rise without question at two am and follow me into the jungle or across the city. If I want a friend like that, then I need to be a friend like that. So I'm learning to embrace the unknown, to have unwavering confidence in others based on qualities about them I know to be true, and just a little bit of faith that my way isn't always the 'right' way. It's not even necessarily about the way but who you're with.

Wrapping my head around it

After-contract season (practically a season unto itself) is kind of like  a post-Christmas apocalypse. Those who've won new contracts  are giddy with the possibilities and promise that a new job brings and those who have decided to re-sign are looking forward to another year- a kind of staying in your jammies all Sunday and getting organized around the house feeling. Everyone is standing around admiring their presents and basking in the glow of  higher salaries, settling in bonuses, and whatever perks they've managed to get added to their new contracts.

And for those who've decided to move on? We're busy making those plans for the future become reality. Some people are moving back home- wherever it might be- and are busy with the details of securing a house, car, job, and reuniting with friends and family. Other people are finding the perfect words to complete graduate or doctorate applications and awaiting word from the school of their choice. There are those who have decided to leave the teaching position and are busy assembling resumes to reflect other talents and skills. The rest, like me, are deep in the search for another international job.

The search starts off with the most ideal location (francophone Africa) and then must broaden (Africa) until finally encompassing only the most general criteria (a job.) The process is a bit challenging for me. Although I'd already considered all the worst case scenarios and prepared myself to accept them, it's a bit harder in practice. Even moving from the most ideal location- francophone Africa- to the second favorite- anywhere in Africa as long as we're still on the continent- requires an effort. I think it is due to the fact that, unlike many international teachers, I'm not really in it for the travel aspect. I'm just looking for a comfortable place to raise the boys and get involved in the culture and dance and music. For me, that means West Africa.

Of course, you can't help but hope for improvements. Better transportation, cleaner streets, more entertainment options for the weekends. You hope for school improvements, too- not necessarily a better school, but just better in the way it fits you. One teacher I know was specifically looking forward to finding a place where logic rules- and maybe some fresh strawberries. Me? I'm hoping for more integration between the local community and the school. Of course, some critical thinking skills are always welcome.

Maybe it's just been that kind of week or maybe it's the moon but I'm still trying to wrap my mind around what I found this morning:

The unfortunate example I showed in which a
 student had  doodled all over the cover

         

Can't imagine how long it took to draw lines
 around all the tape- Didn't anticipate pointing
 out the doodles  weren't necessary. It does
 make for an  artistic effect, though.
 It's all in the perspective

the name game

My last post, coupled with report card season, have gotten me thinking about the life of an art teacher- or music teacher, PE teacher or even a secondary teacher I suppose- any one who sees something like 120 kids or more a week. Here are a sample of the name similarities I have this year:

Just similar enough to make you stutter
Noelle/Noella , Marie Claire and Lily Claire, Emmy and Emma, Michael and Micah, Rayn and Aryan (and Ayana,) Gabby and Abby, and finally Joe, Joel and Aurele.

Fun sibling names include Yubin and Subin, Chidike and Chadee.

Those silent letter names
Sanjeevani (pronounced San-jee-vee)
Jeanne (pronounced Jane)

Long M at the end....
Siam and Noam

And just for fun
Ruby, Jules and Julia

It does make me wonder what cosmic bag we reach into when choosing names for our children. These families come from countries across the world and yet, here we are, encircled by such similar sounding monikers.

Series 3 and Busting Myth #17

The universe has been sending me wisdom lately, as a friend most recently observed. People I don't know have come up to me and shared thoughts that completely hit home. (Postcards from the edge series three I suppose.) A series 2 postcard fell into my lap again today, a message 'just to say happy Friday and I like you and respect you greatly. (Again, roughly translated form the French.)

Unsolicited as it might be, I am trying to take the view point that maybe this is a message I need to hear. I have done some good here and affected people in positive ways. Bewildering perhaps, but nice to know.

My series 3 postcard involved a young woman who introduced herself to me at a dance class and then proceeded to say she had arrived from Ivory Coast and left her job because she didn't feel she was making as much of an impact as she wanted and she was searching for motivation and inspiration again. Yup. Wisdom from the universe.

But, although these social transaction might lead to me believe all Africans are poetic and use language at a level us Americans might never arrive at (yes, even I have been accused of being "too direct") that's not the myth I am here to break.

Myth # 17- All Africans have weird names. As a teacher, I am handed a list of student names every September. Teachers around the globe can agree that often it is the most daunting list you might receive. There are names on there that don't easily identify the gender of the student, or even worse, hint at a gender only to be completely misleading. There are names that aren't pronounceable- or at least don't appear so at first glance- we all usually get it by the about the second week or so. And there are names that you think you know, until you find out half the letters are 'silent.'

Since coming to an international school, I have been given lists with some fabulous names on them. South African names, Dutch names and plenty, plenty of completely recognizable names. This year I have two Emmanuels, two Zafirs, a Saifan and a Zayaan. There is an Ophelia and an Ophelie. A Sofia and a Sophie. (Maybe you can see why I am having a little trouble keeping everyone straight this year. They're not all in the same class but that doesn't really help.)

Most names in Congo (post Mobutu I suppose) are Christian names. Plenty of Josephs and Christians, there are Bens, Daniels and John Pauls (or John Pierres or just plain Johns.) For the women, Vero, Vera, Veronique, Evelyne, Antoinette, Elizabeth. Of course, Congolese have incredibly long names (I have counted   5 or 6, though admittedly most hoover around 4) and it can sometimes be hard to tell which name is preferred. It seems to depend on the situation and the audience.

My most famous (infamous?) name blunder has to do with Kazadi, whom I first met as Fred. I simply could not believe his name was Fred (he doesn't look like a Frederic) and so I asked him what his mom would call him. Perhaps something got lost in the translation (this all occurred in one of our first conversations) and he told me "Kazadi," his last name. After moving to Kinshasa, he adopted the name (of course, I introduced him to everyone that way and so I am not sure how willful an adoption it really was.) He is always ready to laugh and say I changed his name- so perhaps it wasn't a terrible thing.

But when I look back, I see my ignorance. Not only didn't he look like a Fred, I just couldn't believe, at that time, that a mom in the wilds of Africa would name her baby Fred. So much for being open minded and worldly.

I've grown a lot in the last 6 years however- or so I like to think. But then I saw this painting at my aforementioned friend's house and had to snap a photo. Just to prove to you? myself? that all Africans don't have weird names.

Postcards from the edge

I 've had series of rather bizarre messages....it's a continuing series actually, hence the post. Every time it happens, I consider writing, put it out of my mind and then, inevitably, a few days or weeks later I get another message. One of the major criteria for a blog post is a recurring idea that just won't go away....and so here are a few examples of postcards (or texts and emails) I've received from the edge.....

The first series come form a distance, although technology has ensured that no one is really as far away as we might think. After years of not hearing from certain people in my life, I suddenly find an email or, even worse an instant message, that just begins. It begins as if we had recently been having a conversation- one I somehow missed the start of. There is no greeting, no "hey how are you? It's been awhile..." The sender jumps right into the topic of the message without any of the common social niceties one might normally expect. Or maybe I have been in Africa too long and I want people to ask about my health, my job, my family all before stating their business. I regret to add the small detail that in a few of these instances the sender is someone who might be mistaken for a family member...or at least we used to consider ourselves that way once upon a time. I guess technically (legally? in one case) we are still related. But after years and years of no contact, after raising children that don't even know their name, it seems odd to call them family. And so the messages appear to have arrived from space, from some time long forgotten and impossibly resurrected. Who did you say you were again?  I'm not even sure they signed their name. Perhaps it was a case of error in reception. Maybe the messages weren't even meant for me after all.

The second series come from people I have met more recently, though time has certainly passed. These are messages from "the continent." It is possible I could run into these people in the grocery store, though I haven't. The communication is based on brief encounters, momentary shared experiences or having mutual friends. What makes them odd, and completely in contrast to series one postcards, is their intensity. I receive love poems in the form of text messages and sweet wishes for a goodnight and happy dreams from people I barely know. It borders on creepy but maintains a sense of sincerity. Sort of. I understand the concept of wanting to keep contacts open and networking, though admittedly these message cross the boundaries of business or casual relations. Here is an example of a recent text from someone I have never responded to - a tactic I thought spoke clearly enough for itself.

(Loosely translated from the French) If nature gave me the power to disappear, I would disappear from where I am and reappear where you are to whisper softly in your ear hello.

Sweet and poetic though uninvited. Perhaps it is time for me to send a postcard from the edge of my own.

Mexico....

A place more wild than Congo?
I am not sure how this article makes it into the magazine section of the BBC,  though there is nothing the actual definition of magazine to suggest the articles would be less important or less factual than those of a newspaper....but it just seems that way. Magazines are not the stuff of serious readers.

So I wasn't sure how to take this article about the facebook beheadings. I hadn't heard anything about it and found the article to be a bit incredulous. Until I realized that it really isn't much different than the things that go on here. Criminals operating with impunity. Even everyday people seem to be able to do pretty much what they want without fear of consequence, especially if you have some cash to throw around.

It does make me ponder the question of whether violent video clips such as this should be banned. Apparently that was the issue that brought Facebook under fire. A huge part of me thinks, if this woman really was beheaded and no one claimed to know her or reported her missing or searched for help, retribution or justice of any kind.....than that is a much bigger problem.  And people need to know.  What better way to spread information than social media? Of course, the other huge part of me thinks we don't necessarily need the violent video to get the message out about the severity of crime and the ease of escaping punishment in Mexico.

Reality speaks loudest however and the reality is violence is one method of getting people's attention. But is it enough to motivate people to rise to action?

I can't watch the video,I'm not interested. Reading the article was enough, though it seemed to ask all the wrong questions and give none of the right answers. "Who was the woman?" A beginning, I suppose. But what is really happening in Mexico? And what can be done to change things.....?

Stories worth telling...

Promising to swear off traffic stories, I do understand that there are other points of focus- stories worth telling. Somewhere in the blog world, things can get muddy. I suppose it is all about returning to audience and remembering who you are writing for and why. Unless you're a nonblogging blogger like me who is mostly just writing to make sense of muddled thoughts and incoherent experiences.

I think, back in the beginning of this whole experience, I spent a lot more time examining my inner conflicts and confusions publicly- though I admit to trying to keep a very low profile. According to my stat counts, I am still pretty low profile but definitely more aware that anyone can find me here. Students, parents of a student, friends, enemies.....anyone. And it affects what I am willing to put out there. To be fair, I think I understand the blogging field to be one of lighthearted comments on life...or, to describe the academic blogs I keep up with- succinct points of view on pertinent developments in the field (of whatever topic the blog is about.)

Of course there is an overwhelming number of us who began just to keep friends and family updated on our lives from a distance. My friend- mentor, workout encourager and overall hero of fitness blogs here and admits freely to searching for topics to write about. Because after awhile, life is life. Finding ways to make it interesting and unusual can be a daunting task in the face of a Kinshasa afternoon. At one point she states:

"My excuse for the last 2ish weeks has been that life has been full of heart wrenching "stuff", disappointment, broken promises and things that are hard to deal with sometimes! That is all I will say about that....................."

She goes on to come up with a list of 20 items that could serve to satisfy those interested in her well being. But of course, I got stuck back at the introduction. At the "heart wrenching stuff." Because sometimes that's the stuff we need to hear from people we know to make us feel like we're not alone in our struggles, to make us feel a bit more human  and occasionally, to help us find some purpose (yes, I can support you through this. Let me help.)

While I admire her greatly and look forward to taking her classes, we're not actually that close. So I have no idea what the "stuff" is or how she is handling it. I am nowhere near socially adept enough to know how to bring it up or how to move our friendship closer. I am reminded of someone else on campus who came right up and planted herself firmly in front of me, asking a barrage of questions I was completely unprepared for. It  turned me into a babbling idiot spouting out much more personal information in those 4 minutes than I have ever shared with her in our 6 years of working together. And, no, I don't especially feel any closer to her or more like a friend. So that's probably not the approach I will emulate.

But it does leave me wondering. About the stories we choose to tell, and the ideas that vulnerability makes you stronger or more likeable. Not that I am especially trying to be either. Sometimes I do regret the stories I have told, or the audience I have told them to, but mostly I am busy trying to keep it all tucked away someplace private where it can't be dissected or judged or too closely examined.

You can't really be a successful writer like that, can you?

Why I can't believe this....

Haven't been to the airport in...ahem....a really long time (unfortunately.) But apparently there is a new guardian of traffic.....this lovely robot- which is a grand excuse for another traffic story. While it's amazing that the robot is outfitted with a surveillance camera....I'm just not sure what it plans to do with the photos. And I have an incredibly hard time believing motorists will accept the guidance of mere metal.

Mostly due to what I witnessed yesterday.....which made me nostalgic (not for the first time) for those 4-way stop sign intersections. You know the ones....you arrive there at the same time as another car, you both start to go, make eye contact and then wave each other on...which then results in a bit of confusion about who should actually go first because you are both just too polite to make the move. Inevitably you both sit for a minute  pondering the situation before someone makes the go ahead.

In Kinshasa however, things don't go exactly like that. My "favorite" carrefour- 4-way intersection- has a completely different ambiance. Arriving here, one must make a death-defying dash across the roadway, forcing the vehicle in between oncoming traffic, turning taxis and pedestrians. No one stops to let anyone else pass. Even in the presence of the policewoman trying her hardest to maintain order and direct traffic.

Yesterday as we were passing through, she had her arms out and back facing the other lane. A clear signal for them to stop. We had the "green." But the large taxi buses didn't stop and kept turning into our lane despite her signal and my furious hand gestures and screaming at them. "Ce claire, ce vous qui doit arrete!" They didn't really care, just smiled and shrugged and kept on driving. Until there is an accident. Which was bound to happen. One of the large taxi buses hit another large SUV trying to make the turn. The policewoman was now completely surround by cars on all sides, each at their own angle directly aimed at an oncoming vehicle. A real life pick up stix game with no clear solution on who should- or even can- move first to unravel the whole mess. The two drivers involved in the accident begin shouting at one another, which is a process that must run it's full course, further blocking traffic until they've each exhausted themselves.

Most incredulously, after the heated screaming match, they both drove away, one with a patch  of scratches and white paint on his front bumper. No insurance reports, no police reports, no police comment on the entire affair in fact and...I guess, no harm done- this time.

While I am impressed to hear that it was a woman's engineering group that came up with the robot model.....I think the aspect they are truly missing is the social/legal implications. There needs to be consequences. In the wild west of Kinshasa, you can easily drive on the wrong side of the road, drive on the sidewalk, pass on the left- or the right- drive down the middle of the road creating the infamous "third lane" and sometimes even a fourth and fifth lane or whatever other driving whims you might have in the moment (stopping in the middle of the road to take on or discharge passengers for example.)

The robot is reported to be able to change height (if I am reading that right....it gets a little hedgy with the French) and so perhaps it wouldn't be too much to add in a mechanism where it can descend from it's perch and tap drivers over the head when they commit an infraction. Just a little tap.

UPDATE: The  very same day I wrote this post, I ended up driving past the robot. Turns out it's not very near the airport just out by the palace du peuple. It wasn't impressive or imposing. In fact, if I hadn't written this, I might not have even noticed it. I wasn't driving so that makes a bit of a difference, but it blended in with all the other metal of the traffic. It wasn't very tall and didn't stand out at all. We were half way past it before I even realized it. In the end, I can see it would never be the threatening figure that would be able to get down and give wayward drivers a wallop.

Time well spent

I signed up to be the faculty adviser to the elementary student council this year thinking I could steer us away from bake sales and food drives. While I hadn't a strong clear idea about what a student council actually does (all my experience hearing about if from the middle and high school speeches refer to "blow-outs," "shut-ins," and other party slang that basically throws up images of all those 80's Tom-Cruise-in-high-school flicks.)

I did have some ideas however and a little research confirmed that most student councils are busy with three main agendas: 1. Creating spirit (that's where the parties and movie nights come in)  2. Raising awareness about issues that are important to them or that are "current events" 3. Community service and/or involvement- creating a bridge between the student body and the community. Of course, it's this last one that drew me in.

Mostly, my idea was (and still is) to try and lead the students through the process of making decisions and working as a group. The rest is up to them. We are responsible for running the elementary school store which was recently created and that comes with another whole set of ideas, complications and possibilities.

But first, the spirit. They wanted to organize a movie night which actually turned out quite great. They were able to work through a process of voting and reducing their choices until we had a winner- the delightful Hotel Transylvania. It worked out perfectly as a pre-Halloween movie and the kids dressed up as ghouls and goblins to make the evening more fun for the movie goers.

Making 3 kinds of popcorn- cheese, chocolate & butter 'n salt

Nabih - Vampire Master

Spreading his "wings"

                                     

The kids worked hard to make and stuff 95 bags of popcorn and mix up enough "Energade" drink for all. There were moments of small chaos,  perhaps not everyone received their choice of popcorn (or arrived late and didn't get any at all) but in general it was a successful night of fun and festivities.

So I was kind of excited about our next meeting. We were going to plan out a few more activities, begin our discussion of the community service projects and maybe even paint the lizard mascot on our school store door. Ha! Elementary stuco shutdown.

Rather we ended up spending the hour talking and making very few decisions. One well- intentioned member kept shooting every idea down with "Well, some people might not like....." I had to finally tell her yes, some people might not like it or might not be able to participate or just plain might not.....but our job was to provide opportunity for the masses.....not try to cater to each individual desire.

Other ideas seemed boring to me or unclear (though, I did try to ask those uncovering kinds of questions that would enlighten things- and not make judgments about what 10 year-olds think is a fun idea. I really do want it be their show.) The problem was, they couldn't decide. They wanted to talk about Valentine's Day or the end of the year, but no one wanted to talk about next month. They wanted Christmas Parties and Gift Giving (how could you organize gift giving for 120 students?! I tried to steer them towards "end of the year" rather than "Christmas" and secret pal notes, appreciations and drawings rather than buying gifts.....they didn't seem too interested.)

We went around and around with no final thoughts (we did manage to schedule in a "Dress as your favorite character" D.E.A.R day.) It was excruciating. We moved on to talking about community service. Bake Sales, Food Drives, Clothing Gives. I knew this was coming but the previous 45 minutes had depleted all of my energy. I tried to explain the idea of searching for something more than bringing in their old, cast-off items to give to people they barely knew. I tried to explain the idea of sharing an experience, of creating a relationship...of doing more than just handing over unused items.

It was a challenging sell. In the end, someone did suggest visiting another school, along with a few other ideas I have completely forgotten now in trying to  put the pain and frustration of that meeting behind me. A lot of their ideas involved other teachers (for which I had to explain again and again that it is completely voluntary and I can't make the other teachers participate in anything, or give up their evenings to join us or give up their class time to our half-formed ideas- or even worse, give up their class time to then plan some completely new lesson that would fit nicely into our ideas....whew!)

Afterward, I really needed a moment of self-reflection. Or a whole day. Luckily we had Eid off and so I had exactly that- a whole day of reflection. I tried to imagine what kind of community service project would be "good enough" and would make me feel that it is authentic and genuine and not condescending. I remembered my time at Stand Proud just going to make art with the kids (and forcing my own boys to come because I thought it was a good experience for them.) I thought of the orphanages and day centers I'd gone to filled with kids who just want someone to pay attention to them, read a book, play a game. Isn't that enough? It is something completely accessible to the students and completely age appropriate. Spend some time with another child. Doing child things.

I realized I have a bit of inner work to do in order to get over my complications with giving. Kinshasa does funny things to a person's sense of charity. Life has been fraught with traumatic events this month, both my own and in lives of dear friends. It's made sleep nearly impossible to come by leaving me short on patience and understanding. But this Eid I think I have made something of a small breakthrough. Gathering food and old shoes and clothes may be something the kids are familiar with, something they know about, but giving time is equally valuable. Maybe I can help them take the second step in giving- learning that it is not always about the material things. And then, when an occasion comes for the gifting, we'll have real reason and real relationships to support it.

Eid Mubarak.

                                   

How buildings go down...

This disturbing article appeared in my FB feed this morning. Construction is prevalent all over Kinshasa and meant to be a sign of the up-and-coming economy and development.

The problem of course lies within the means of achieving this prosperous goal. The article suggests that faulty materials used in the building may be the cause of the collapse. I am left to wonder who exactly, if anyone, knew about the inferior metal.

Was it the owner of the building, hoping to cut a few corners and save some cash? Was it the construction company themselves, hoping to shave dollars off the cost and pocket the difference? Was it the vendor of the iron bars- knowing the material was not suitable for such construction but selling it anyway?

Other questions abound as well- often I have wondered about the half-built buildings and the people that inhabit them, whether new owners of apartments or squatters who've found a temporary place to stay. It's not a sight I am accustomed to seeing in the US- half- formed buildings already open for business. I'm pretty sure there is some kind of inspection process required at several stages of  construction  and again upon completion.

The rescue team surely had it's work cut out. It was dismaying to read that perhaps witnesses heard the cries of children (or the cries of anyone) that were unable to be found. Watching the building go down, it appeared there was time to get out, though it is not clear if those inside were as aware of the imminent danger as the witnesses outside. (Of course, the video takes place only over 1 minute and with my slow connection, there are several pauses creating distortion in the actual time lapse. Upon reflection, one minute doesn't seem long enough to comprehend the situation and make a decision- or to run down three flights of stairs.)

As I drive through the streets of Kin, I often imagine taking a series of photos of the many buildings in their various stages of completion. The architecture is something to marvel at, with its many styles and inspirations- the one common thread being a flourish of grandeur. Round, arched windows, spiraling staircases, balconies and overhangs, massive guardian gates that reflect the intricate patterns of metalwork.  Like the proverbial book however, architecture cannot be judged by it's cover. It requires discipline, adherence to law and the integrity to follow safety rules despite any consequence to higher costs. All of these challenging qualities to come by in Kin.

Strawberry Season

It's contract season in the world of international schools. This is a time when directors and superintendents start trying to guess who will leave and who will stay. They begin the dance of wooing wanted teachers to stay and dropping subtle hints about the adventures awaiting those they wish would move on. Retaining teachers can be a source of pride for a school in an industry where travel and new experiences are one of the main  motivating factors that draw people to this specific field- international education. In some cases, the wooing can be fierce enough to put a peacocks feather strutting dance of allure to shame.

But school leaders are not the only ones racing to find their ground. It is the season when teachers begin to reflect on their personal happiness. They review their job satisfaction, their personal life satisfaction and the goals they've set for each.  I find the entire process a bit odd and liberating at the same time. Reflection is good. Taking time to remind yourself of your professional and personal goals is invaluable for achieving success and overall happiness.

What strikes me as strange- or overly privileged- is trying to identify if I am "happy" and then possibly uprooting my entire family to go off in search of it. Happy seems to be an ever changing emotion, one that describes a moment or an event, but not necessarily life. Well, perhaps life in the sense of an overall feeling of happiness or general state of well-being. But that seems to be something one carries with them, not something you're likely to find in the  next country adventure.

Of course, environment does play a huge role in our ability to feel free, less stressed and more leisurely. Some locations just don't lend themselves to relaxing. Or require an entirely different kind (and fairly imaginative sort) of entertainment.

The danger in this season lies in beginning to see the grass as greener. I don't really know if I am happy, surely I could be happier? Then again, I'm not necessarily unhappy and things can surely get worse. I've long been cursed and blessed with being able to see two sides to every story. It lends for challenging decision making at best. Contract season always leaves me feeling a bit uneasy.

I end up remembering an email from a friend in Ethiopia who was describing fresh strawberries and organic greens available at the local market. It would be nice to eat strawberries, I think. Do I want to live somewhere where people can eat fresh strawberries? I am tempted.

Is this really how life decisions are made? Bad days come along every so often, no matter what your location. On those kinds of days, heading off in search of fresh berries seems like a perfectly reasonable idea- and satisfying. Because after all, what is life about but enjoying time with the ones you love? Think of all the strawberry oriented things you could do as a family- strawberry picking, Friday night strawberry cheesecake, Saturday bbq's and strawberry shortcake, Sunday morning strawberry pancakes, cool smoothie strawberry drinks and light-hearted conversations every afternoon- the possibilities seem endless. Whether the list has 14, 12 or  9 ideas attached, one thing people seem to agree upon is that strawberries=fun.

Added to the entire difficult decision making process is the fact that we're not actually discussing this year. It's contract season now but the contracts we are discussing are for next year, meaning you have to actually project your professional/personal level of satisfaction over the next 8 months and then hope that same trajectory continues into the following ten months. The timing makes it nearly impossible for me to have coherent thoughts. Try to figure out now where I want to be at this same time next year?

Most people don't have this yearly cycle of reflection, decision-making and temptation. If they aren't happy in their daily lives, they make slow changes to adjust accordingly. If they do decide to make a change, chances are it affects just one area of their life- the job, the neighborhood, the family dynamics.

In contract season, you're looking at the whole shebang- pick the entire family up, move off into a brand new country (new neighborhood, new house, possibly even new language,) start a new school and a new job. Every single aspect of your life gets an overhaul. Which could be an entirely positive thing. You  could be looking forward to strawberries for dessert..........

A random collection of facts

I've been trying hard to break out of my doctor and traffic jam rut. It's been difficult. You might think I spend all my time driving to clinics, when, in fact, I am a fairly healthy person who spends a lot of time at home. Hence the reason why I have been finding it hard to come across topics for my failing blog. Among other reasons, change is hard and words have been scarce lately.

But I do have a random collection of thoughts that might make for light reading. I'll merge the doctor/traffic stories with a few others for variety.

I spend a lot of time pondering where to go next in life. Working at an international school sort of compels you to be constantly considering where to move on to. Not many people are in it for life- well, not settling down in one country anyway, and certainly not in Congo. I think a lot about the pros and cons of living here. Things we miss most are just walking around and having somewhere to go. Life in a city kind of rules out nature hikes- life in Kinshasa kind of rules out public parks- but other cities often have museums, cultural centers, cinemas or other pastimes to keep the family engaged. Dining out seems to be the major venue of entertainment here.

What stands out is the lack of tourism. There aren't beaches, art festivals (ok, there is a jazz festival every June, and the newly launched Toseka comedy festival) or other attractions to pull people here. The lack of tourism has a definite effect on the psyche of the people. Foreigners are seen as cash cows, overflowing piggy banks ready to vomit US dollars to anyone who asks. African countries with a healthy tourist trade get the idea that their culture is valued, interesting and can serve as a point of engagement with the visiting foreigner. They are willing to exchange a service for a fee. Congo doesn't rank on this list of 25 least visited countries in the world,  but it does make the top 10 of Africa's least visited countries.

Customer service is a huge obstacle to making Kinshasa a tourist destination. While I have noticed occasional improvements, the rule of thumb still seems to be the customer will get served when and if the service provider is ready (and finished talking with her cousin, mother, boyfriend and inspecting her fingernails or checking her phone messages, updating FB status, etc.) I had the opportunity to check out the new Canadian clinic in town (not sure what the Canadian part refers to- where the materials came from- Quebec- or perhaps where the owner is from? Kin does have a large population of Indian/Canadians.)
As a new patient, I was checked in by filling out my information on some kind of touchscreen tablet. The Congolese receptionist was gushingly nice and even stopped her conversation with a technician to assist me. I waited a mere 10 or 15 minutes to see the doctor, who seemed equally attentive. He did ask me to be patient for just one minute (I noticed he answered an email) and his phone only rang 3 or 4 times, but he did keep the conversations short. The next day I received my own email with lab results and a prescription attached. Of course, campus connection prevented me from opening my gmail and had me running around the house and even into the backyard trying to find a hotspot. All in all, the operation was impressive and congenial.

Kinshasa has low tech conveniences as well- one of which is the fact that you don't always have to buy the whole thing. Meaning there are a variety of goods that are available for purchase in smaller quantities, quantities to fit a tight budget. Probably most of Africa is like this but I find comfort in knowing I can get a little bag of milk powder if I am running short just as my pockets are empty. I remember counting change in the US for gas or a gallon of milk. While there are no coins in Kin, a bundle of  100 or 200 franc serves the same purpose. You can buy flour, rice, sugar, peanuts and peanut butter all in quantities to suit. It seems pretty much anything that comes in a container can be opened and portioned out. Paint thinner, red oil for cooking, gasoline for the car, phone units. I even remember the pharmacy downtown with a pill hawker out front. No need to buy the whole bottle, just one or two ibuprofen for the moment. Of course, once opened.....buy at your own risk.

Traffic poses its own set of risks and I would not be surprised if car accidents ranked among the number 1 cause of death. This website suggests Congo ranks 7th for highest traffic related deaths (not sure how access and availability of medical care is calculated into that ranking.) While you can't always put much stock in the ranking systems of the media, observations certainly count for something. My first grade art class began the year discussing different types of lines. I was surprised when one of the boys began to explain how double, single and dashed lines were used in the road. They really knew a lot about lines but this small bit of knowledge doubly amazed me since there are no lines on the roads in Kinshasa. It has occurred to me (my driving thoughts include brainstorming ways to fix Kinshasa road rage, impatience and 'me first' attitudes) that painting a line on the road might be one small step. I also propose raising the curb to about a foot or so (or maybe installing the fire and ice barbed wire or broken glass spikes that are so popular on property wall tops directly onto the curb to prevent cars from driving onto the sidewalks. Beautiful commentary about those very walls and glass shards here.) People say when Kabila the father was president the infamous third lane would never have happened. They don't usually elaborate much on his methods for maintaining roadway control but hints usually suggest something severely effective and severely severe.

The Last Story

Stories get harder and harder to recognize within the daily humdrum of life. Sometimes they happen by and I miss them, all the while pondering what to write about. Like the time just a few weeks ago when I was with a  colleague in the Kinshasa botanical gardens. We'd gone there to discuss a book we'd both read and also because we'd both never actually gone walking around the gardens. I'd wanted to check out a mural I had seen a glimpse of on-line- scoping out a potential art field trip for the students- and she on a recommendation from a fellow teacher.

We'd been walking down the paths along the wall when we found ourselves looking up at a bridge adjoining the main market downtown. It's a bit deceiving in the gardens as you can't really tell that the hectic, crowded marketplace borders the walls of the downtown oasis. There was a gang of street kids perched atop the bridge and we hesitated before continuing. It was like, in that moment, we were both envisioning them swooping down from the bridge to land in front of us Batman style and pilfer whatever paltry cash we might have had lining our pockets.

"Is it some kind of service road?" my colleague asked as images of the Bronx zoo filled my mind. However, this small path seemed lacking service littered as it was with plastic water bottles and other debris. There was a young boy who appeared to be washing his clothes at the end of the lane. I made the decision to continue walking on (not sure how I got to be the one to make the decision, but it seems I sometimes get the credit for knowing more about Kinshasa than I actually do, being less of a stranger than I actually am) so we continued.  Show no fear is what I figured. And while they continued to call out "Madame" no one actually swooped down or landed in front of us. It was a moment when a story could have happened. And it was a day that brings to mind all sorts of contemplations, from the degrees of being a stranger to the complexities of "double pricing"- one price for Congolese and one price for 'etrangers' to the police behavior when we parked the car- but it was a story that escaped me, common place as it's all become. Navigating the many levels of Kinshasa, determining which street kids are possibly on my side, which can recognize me as someone who really sees them and which are just plain hungry, how to talk to police and defuse the anger and righteousness hot sun and white skin seem to bring out- all just daily excursions through the social rankings of Kinshasa.

But what I have noticed is how it has affected the other stories. The ones I read. In my 4th grade literacy class, we just experienced a lesson on schema (by Debbie Miller to give credit) that I really loved. I wrote down one side of a paper "Zongo Falls," a local attraction most kids have been too. They were overflowing with ideas about what it's like to go there. Sensory images filled the page. Camping, bugs, forests, rainbows, waterfalls, flowers. At the top of the other column, I wrote Kalamazoo. Predictably, the class went pretty silent. They started asking questions and wondering if there were cages and animals there. At the end of the exercise, I wrote SCHEMA down the side of the paper with all their observations about Zongo. "These are the ideas we bring to reading, based on our experiences and knowledge of the world," I told them. Many authors recognize the reader brings as much to the novel as the author tries to put out. Our personal experiences and images formed by those experiences shape the way we read a novel. It had been the exact discussion my colleague and I had been having about the book we'd read, The Bone People. Interestingly enough, she'd had the experience of reading it some 15 years earlier and could compare her reactions. I was intrigued by how they differed.

Just as I have been intrigued, reading two other novels, The Dark Road and Behind the Beautiful Forevers, at how my schema has changed. Both of these books relate tales of people living unimaginable horrors and dealing with them in the best way they know how. All the while reading them, I simultaneously wonder if the people don't recognize the poisons they are surrounding themselves with and understand their inability to do anything to avoid it. But worst of all, my schema has grown to imagine real people that I see everyday living in these similar conditions. It's not necessarily the brilliancy of the author that makes these books so real to me as the conditions here in Kinshasa that I can see are nearly equal to the tragedies lived out by the characters in the books- real life characters. My schema has expanded and my ideas of the world now include people who wait for the next rain storm to erode the small hilltop on which their house resides, or the mothers and children and young men who fill water bottles at a burst pipe overflowing from cracks in the city street or, even worse, puddles that have become small lakes on dirt paved side roads.

Abdul, the garbage scavenger in Behind the Beautiful Forevers becomes akin to the kids you see walking among the rubble picking through waste and the homeless guy who wears black duct tape and ports a bag overflowing with bottles around the city streets. Abdul is the woman who sleeps on the little cement overhang just next to the UN building with her bags and bags of garbage keeping her warm. His little friend Sunil is that young kid downtown by Michaels store that I passed sleeping on the sidewalk, worn down by hunger and fatigue. He is all those gangs of street kids with fire in their eyes and empty bellies who smoke cigarettes outside the grocery stores and the night clubs, hoping for a little bit of nothing to fall their way.

When I finish reading these books, I can't even retreat to my suburban abode and pretend like it doesn't exist because they are all there on the outskirts, every time I go out my door. The Beautiful Dark Bone People trying to find their way down the Forever Road, a little bit at a time. Scavenging, brutalizing, hurling threats, guarding little moments of happiness, scraping with their neighbors, laughing in the sunlight, drinking rat poison and making the best of very little prospects. One day at a time, one moment upon one moment until the last story is told.

Below the equator

Staying in Kinshasa all "summer" means I am a bit more integrated with the rhythm of the country (and get slightly annoyed at people who still use 'winter' 'summer' 'spring' and 'fall' to delineate periods of time.) Kinshasa does not have these seasons, but she does have changes in weather- a perfectly acceptable definition as provided by Merriam-Webster.  I am aware that people like to use the weather terms they grew up with and are familiar with. I am also aware that weather words mean different things in different regions.

There was the time this past July when people in Kin were saying it "snowed." As a native New Yorker, I am more than aware that it definitely did not snow in Kinshasa. But as someone living in the city during the moment, I recognized the cold weather and out-of-season rain that fell. Bizarre at it's best. It had that first snow feel-something miraculous falling from the sky leaving you with delight, wonder and just a little bit of apprehension (where is this coming from? why is it happening?)

Like most equatorial regions, Kinshasa has a rainy and a dry season. Two major patterns of weather to mark the year. In between are small fluctuations (people like to talk about the mini-dry season somewhere in late January or February) and natural anomalies (if such a phrase can exist.)

I notice the trees. Because I am from upstate New York, trees play a major role in my ability to connect with the rhythms of time. Being surrounded by mountains that turn glowing colors, eventually shed all of their beauty and gratefully grow it all back again has made me keenly aware of leaves and their cycles. I notice the leaves around Kinshasa.

There is definitely a period of shedding and regrowth. It just happens to occur at a slightly faster rate around here. There is even a bit of changing of colors. The trees that do this aren't abundant but you can spot them growing in pairs here and there. Little dots of red and sometimes yellow leaves getting ready to take their plunge to the earth.

"Spring" is also a fast-forward season. No sooner than you spot blossoms appearing on the bare branches, they are blooming before your eyes. I wanted to capture some beautiful little leaf buds on a particular tree by the admin building. By the time I had gotten back there the next day, they'd all bloomed into little leaf couplets.

For some of the trees, this shedding and regrowing seems to happen year round. Of course other trees have a longer cycle. Fruit trees need time to grow and form their scrumptious delights.

But there is a fun tree just at the bottom of the hill that I've yet to snap a photo of. It is low to the ground with wide branches and many leaves. Underneath, women- and the occasional man- sit chipping away at stones. They are on my mind often and I want to stop and chat, take photos, ask about their work. They inspire so many questions and thoughts and motivations for me. But the tree, that deserves it's own story. It functions to provide shade and also serves as a kind of shelving unit. When the leaves have fallen, you can see all the containers, clothing bundles and other things stored there. When the leaves grow back, they provide a camouflage for the hidden treasures.

My first few years in Kinshasa left me with a mistaken sense of time rolling forward as August and September seem to be months of falling leaves and huge jump-in style leaf piles. I tended to get a little confused around November and December when the dormancy didn't kick in and instead there was vibrant greens and flowering buds all around.

I'm a bit more in tune this year- after several months of gray skies, cool wind,downright chilly nights and drooping leaves. August and September are months of renewal. The sun is back, the days are warm and the trees are finding their voice.

Some bare limbs against a backdrop of greens

Leaf lovers dream pile

August and September are months of renewal

Wonderland- Alice's kind

I know I am supposed to be concentrating on things I love about Kinshasa, but sometimes, the lack of logic overwhelms me. I am a book person. A logic and reason person. A facts and research person. An observe and make conclusions type of gal.

None of which make living in Kinshasa any easier. I stopped at the bank today- unsure if it was open or not, I pulled into the spot just before the closed gates (usually open when the bank is open. Reasonable, right?) After noticing a few cars still in the parking lot, I decided to pull ahead and park just off the road, thinking maybe those cars would be exiting any second (haha.) Of course, the roadway was filled with traffic and I waited for an opportune moment to merge. The bank security saw me idling and came over. Yes, I knew I had to leave but of course, figured it was traffic permitting. After watching me wait and look behind me for several minutes at long lines of cars, he came over and tapped on my window. "Pull ahead," he said as he motioned forward, grinning hugely. Friendly even, the way you grin at the town idiot who talks to herself.

Which is kind of what I was doing. I have had that kind of week where it made perfect sense to me to roll down the window and tell him I was waiting for a break in traffic before pulling out onto the roadway. Logically. It wouldn't make sense to pull out into traffic. And therein lies the error. A bystander jumped off the car he was sitting on and stepped before me to motion exactly where it was I supposed to be. I didn't need guidance, I just needed some patience to let the cars pass. After visiting the ATM and getting ready to pull forward into an empty lane of traffic, the helpful (?) bystander again flew from his perch and landed in the roadway, ready to help me steer into the path of any oncoming (now nonexistent) traffic. I had now become the incompetent mondele who couldn't drive. It wasn't until much later (and maybe a beer) that  I realized they all thought it would be perfectly normal to pull right out in front of the 10 wheeler cement truck coming my way. Of course, the supreme logic didn't hit me until after I had already ranted about an entire country of backward thinkers (the exact words were less precise and a bit more cutting. I was in a state.) People pull out in front of cement trucks, speeding taxi buses and motorcycles carrying small children all the time. It's the way things work. Otherwise you would be sitting on the side of the road waiting forever, just hoping for a free space and a safe moment like an idjit.

But I do realize now that most of my woes stem from (still) trying to impose my order of thinking on people who think another way. If only I could understand, and even more so, accept, the logic of Wonderland, I would be in a much better space.

After months of storing up old glass mayonnaise bottles and tins of canned tomatoes, I finally asked Mama Vero to get rid of the garbage. She had a solid look of confusion on her face and I realized I needed to define "garbage." While I fully support recycling and reusing, I just couldn't think of a way to use 50 glass mayonnaise jars and 75 small tins of tomato paste. Artist though I might at times be, I was out of ideas. Yes, these are garbage in my world.

I know that many in Kinshasa reuse the glass bottles to fill with any variety of liquids from gasoline to cooking oil. We've designed recycling centers at the school to consist of large drums to hold glass, tin and paper garbage. The idea behind this was that any campus workers who found a need for the glass and tin could then help themselves to the barrels. A multi-service center. I can get rid of my glass and people who need can benefit from reusing old (and free) containers. A perfect system which does not necessitate me storing months and months of reusables in my kitchen. Sort of.

Other definitions of garbage include food that has gone bad (no, the refrigerator doesn't keep it good forever) and food that is still good (I know we haven't eaten all the bread in two days but we want to eat it, it's not bad yet.) And items that appear healthy ( I don't want these things, in this bag here, that came from the hospital-the plastic and other items that could keep germs) but maybe they aren't really (no, really, even though you washed them, I don't want the containers that came from the hospital where there are germs and other bacteria we can't see lurking in the small cracks and crevices that just can't get clean.) That was a week long affair - trying to explain that one. And maybe I am a bit paranoid, but if you have spent any time in  a Kinshasa hospital, you would probably agree old plastic containers should just go in the garbage.

These are just a few examples of things that need to be redefined or rethought in order to obtain peaceful synchronicity. It always seems to be the weird balance of people who think for themselves at the precise moment when you don't want them to, and yet, when it seems a clear moment of logical thinking is in order, there's nothing. I strive to find the balance and am continually missing it.

The results are terrifying. I become enraged, disgusted, disappointed, discouraged and disoriented. It's not just Congolese. I think there is something in the air that affects us all. I ask the sub to have kids complete pages 2 & 3 and she replies, "No problem I'll do my best to make sure they complete pgs. 1-5." Wayside Stories at it's best.

I am mystified. It transcends language, country of origin and educational experience. It's the air we breathe and it requires us to accept the boundaries of Wonderland as our new frontier. Alice seems to have fun and gets only mildly agitated in her new world, but she is a visitor and the story doesn't last long enough for us to see how truly crazy she becomes. I have tried shirking my link to logic and reason, crossing over to the land of no expectations and complete surprises. It's challenging.

I've developed a few strategies for this. One is to make observations rather than emotional comments. "Look, there's a taxi who has decided to stop in the middle of the road and look for passengers. We are waiting behind him (for 20 minutes, maybe we should sing along to this great song on the radio, kids.) " or "Look, children, it's a classic T-jam" - my new phrase for when a car comes across the lane and stops dead in front of you. You are unable to move forward- though the road may be clear ahead- and neither can they- because they have inevitably crossed into a major traffic back up but thought it more logical to block your path so you could both converse through the windows and keep each other company. (Making friends is an important social skill and can even be fun.)

Other strategies include making lists, repeating, repeating and maybe even try repeating if that doesn't work. Pictures and explanations are mildly helpful. I have noticed that lengthy explanations only serve to muddy up the real issue. I am pretty terrible at making things black and white, but in Alice's world, gray is only yellow and so it doesn't help at all.

It leaves me just plain crabby. I end up thinking things like, "No, I don't want to practice English with you just because you think it will be fun and expect me to try and understand all the mangled words you say. I have no idea what you are talking about. No, I don't want my children to reveal all of their personal information to a complete stranger just because we both happen to be waiting in the same line..."  Days like these I envy the Chesire Cat....just a big smile....ability to vanish.....no need to form any sort of logic. I aspire to that.