Bankers: dancing

Recently I had the unusual opportunity to accompany my dance teacher to one of his more interesting classes. He's been working with a group of bankers- yeah, the money kind. They've been gearing up for a big conference at their headquarters in Nigeria. Apparently this conference will include representatives from all the Access branches around Africa. Naturally, they will hold a dance competition.

I've been back to the class, which takes place on a rooftop balcony, a few times since. I am tickled by the idea of a bunch of bankers dancing. Something about my American sensibilities finds humor in trying to merge the image of a stuffy US banker getting down with his colleagues- and what's more, preparing to strut his stuff in front of colleagues from all over the continent.

These bankers are anything but stuffy (I had the greatest pleasure in seeing the bank manager show off his sexiest cha-cha-cha while encouraging his underlings.) They have been taking their own time to practice for 2 hours a night twice a week for months. They're looking forward to the trip.

The choreography and song selection is meant to show the best of DRC, hence the Independence Cha Cha Cha selection. I've watched the dancing bankers grow from their first hesitant steps to really confident movements. They laugh, cajole, encourage each other and I have been witness to the power of dance to truly build community. I imagine their working relationship has improved because of it. Not to mention the magic of dancing on a rooftop in a cool Kinshasa evening.

I happened to be present one night when the manager informed the dancers that they wouldn't all be able to travel to Nigeria. The 3 couples- none of whom shined too brightly individually as dancers- made a picture perfect ensemble when dancing together. They each carried a certain joy and rhythm and seemed to be having genuine fun. I couldn't imagine only 2 of the couples dancing without the others. And what a weight for their teacher. He was told to pick the best of the 6 to represent their bank, their branch, their country. Oh the difficulty. He began that evening's practice a bit severe, serious. But in the end he has only managed to insist that they all travel. He can't make the cut. I agree that the 6 of them together carry the most ambiance.

It was this same evening that I overheard a conversation between the manager and another of his employees (apparently a rogue non-dancing banker.) The manager was criticizing a decision made by the employee during his handling of a money transfer between two different clients. I tried not to pay much attention, feeling distinctly like I shouldn't be present although I had been personally invited into the office for a seat. What caught my ears was another contradiction in terms. As a means of wrapping up the conversation, the manager began to advise his employee, "Search for the spirituality in your work. You really must. Find the spirituality." He sent him off with wishes of God blessings and other hopes for salvation.

I've been thinking a lot about finding the spirituality in one's work- how it struck me as odd and yet necessary all at the same time. Certainly not advice one hears in most American institutions. It coincides nicely with the emphasis on dance. What a better way to represent oneself, one's country, one's spirituality than through the language of dance. From the mouths of bankers....

UPDATE: All six dancers got to take the trip to Nigeria after all. Great news for them!

Magic chalk

Just when I had vowed to get back to some kind of regular writing, I was attacked. It was a big nasty Congo sickness attack that pulled me under for more than a week. In fact, just now, I feel it threatening to come back again.

In general, I am a pretty healthy person. I try to eat well, exercise often and think naturally. But it seems one can't really avoid sickness altogether in Congo and of course the problem lies in the fact that getting sick in Kin is not something you can just ignore. Because it could be malaria, a dangerous amoeba, or just the flu. Or an amoeba from last time that you never quite got rid of.

A malaria test is pretty simple to get here and you can even buy a test-yourself-at-home kit in the pharmacy. I elected to run down to the corner clinic and get a quick pinprick. A follow up telephone call a few hours later  informed me that I tested negative for malaria. But my body was screaming out all kinds of fever and pain and nausea. I wasn't really convinced.

Africa has some very intense shots. I have had the "fever shot" twice now and it is a wonderfully powerful thing, even with my aversion to doctors and medicines. A friend of mine called his doctor friend who actually made a house call to me in what felt like the middle of the night. Come to think of it, the last time I had this fever shot, it was also by house call. I was in Kankan, Guinea at the time and something about the red dust there seems to render all visitors ill as part of the welcome package.

The nurse- who arrived with the doctor and a little silver tray filled with new syringes, medicines and a blood pressure cuff- took my vitals and shot my backside with the marvelous elixir. While my fever dissipated and I spent a night of good, deep sleep I wasn't really better at all the next day. My stomach was in a terrible state of dry heaving and nausea.  It no longer felt like malaria but a dreaded stomach virus.

I slept the entire day, being washed over with wave upon wave of dizziness every time I opened my eyes. I made a trip to the see the doctor at his clinic this time, and was promptly given an IV. Every sickness in Congo seems to require an IV and of course, its always malaria. Even when it's not. I tried to insist that I'd had the test and it was negative. I tried to insist that it just didn't feel like malaria, but I made little progress. Its always malaria. The tests themselves are often considered unreliable or uninformative- or so I've heard. I've always had good faith in the lab I go to.

However, I was given some quinine (by IV drip of course) which only increased my dry heaving. My friend who accompanied me fell into further shock and panic at watching my efforts to heave the empty contents of my stomach, and perhaps parts of my stomach itself, steadily increase. Eventually he convinced the nurse to take out the drip- the bag had nearly but not quite finished- and we made a hasty retreat back home.

The next morning I was feeling better- slowly better. I had resorted to eating small snacks like potato chips and crackers every hour to calm my stomach. As long as I did that, I was able to walk around and even go to work again. It went on that way for days- each day slowly improving while I munched my way through the entire junk snack section of the corner store.

But then the itching started. Perhaps a side effect of the quinine. There are always side effects. And the itching was so intense it woke me up one night at 1 am. I spent a delightful hour scratching my legs, my abdomen, my back, my arms. Just clawing like a cat and swept up in the pleasure, pain and surrealism of it all. I woke in the morning wondering if it hadn't been part of some bizarre dream. I could almost feel my tail twitching and the taste of fur in my mouth.

The itchiness went on for a few days, becoming more and more inconvenient. I'd begun to self medicate (another must for sickness in Congo) and had taken Zentel (in case of worms or bacteria) and a few antibiotics (in case of other stomach parasites or the dreaded amoeba). I stopped the antibiotics after only a few days because of other unpleasant side effects. (There's always side effects.) I'm not actually sure if the itchiness was related to the quinine, the amoxicillin, or something else altogether. My friend noticed the scratching and suggested a local medicine. (There's always a hidden local medicine that's bound to do the trick.)

It looked like this, but it's not this.....yeah. 

It came in the form of a yellow rock (I've searched everywhere for the name of this magic chalk, but I simply cannot find it.) The rock is crushed into a powder (it's only 300FC so you have to do your own crushing) and is safe enough to eat. "You can even eat this, super safe, super strong but wouldn't harm a baby," I'm told as he takes a nibble off the rock. I am immediately in love with all the paradoxes of this material, which is said to come directly from the Congo River itself.

The powder is mixed with oil- my friend insisted on the oil "that you cook with" but I eventually talked him into using some almond oil I have for mixing essential oils with. Seemed better for my skin. This chalky oil mixture is then rubbed all over the body, leaving, well, a chalky oily glaze on the skin. "Don't wash that off," he implored. The smell of this substance, not altogether pleasant, only slightly unpleasant was- of course- one side effect. The other was the satisfying sensation of rubbing oneself with a rough, course substance (which in itself might be related to any relief of the itchiness one is already feeling.)

I was then instructed to take a teaspoonful of the powder, swallowed with water and repeat the next day. I've been assured all itchy sensations will disappear. I have noticed a distinct reduction in my discomfort and feeling a lot more human like and less cat like for certain. Right now, I'm just waiting for some other side effect to show itself....or maybe the amoeba to wake up back up....