For a second, I forgot that I don't believe in politics. I forgot to be cynical and realist (or perhaps negative as many like to argue the difference with me.) I went around the room asking teachers to symbolically stand up in a vote of no confidence for the appointed leader. President of the board. I had no desired outcome in mind, already having spoken directly to the outgoing president who confirmed that teachers had no grounds to oppose the "voted" president. Of course, he ran unopposed and so, how could one really argue.
Except the turn out at this particular meeting was the largest the school had ever seen. And the analogy is only fitting when one equates it to the presidential votes in the US. People only come out when they think it matters most. People showed up to vote for a change in the constitution. The proposed change concerned the title of 'missionary member' and amending this to be simply 'member at large.' While there were some surprising speeches in favor of opposing the change, in general it seemed a small turn of wording. While one parent spoke of roots and tradition, in general it seemed that, were the missionary community to rally its members, the change could benefit them as well. They needn't be limited to one post, but could occupy many seats on the board- if so organized. The very fact that this proposition was offered to the community twice and twice it passed seemed to speak volumes for the changing demographics of the school. We are not a religious school; we are an American school.
In exploring exactly what that means, members of the board spoke strongly for a sense of community, regardless of skin color, regardless of religion, regardless of country of origin. They spoke of the reality of students that we face in our classrooms everyday- Muslims whose best friends are Hindus and Indians whose best friends are Africans. We are a community of learners who transcend racial, religious and ethnic backgrounds. Our board should reflect this.
For the teachers, a greater issue was the vote for president. Our preferred nomination was not allowed due to regulations that require an American citizen to be president. Initially, I could agree. But the more I reflected, the more I questioned this policy. My preferred candidate greeted us in more than 5 languages. He demonstrated clear effort in conflict resolution and showed respect to all parties present. He appeared more than qualified and presented a global mindset.
It required me to reflect upon what our school offers that is uniquely "American." It is easy to respond quickly with "American education system" or "American philosophy of education" but as time passes and our school evolves I wonder if that remains true. We are more than an "American" system of education. We have surpassed many of the problems that continue to plague the majority of American teachers. We have begun to arrive at a truly global system of education and I began to wonder if our board shouldn't be able to reflect that fact. It is not only an American who can guide us, but someone who truly understands the nature of an international society.
As I roamed throughout the room, asking teachers if they would symbolically stand against the vote for president, not to make change but to express our displeasure, I was confronted with a surprising fear of speaking out. Many teachers agreed to rise, but refused to be the initial voice. Many teachers made comments like, "But is 'so-and-so' really going to stand? He's over there talking to the future president's wife?" and "Well, I'll stand but I'd feel awkward speaking out since I am working here next year" or, "Well, I am going to an event at his house next week so how can I speak out against....oh, ok. I guess I can stand with everyone else. Are you sure they are going to stand?"
And in the end, we all stood but were represented by a voice that wasn't as clear or concise, or nonvolatile as we needed. Perhaps I could have been that voice, but it hadn't really occurred to me to be the one. I don't have the fear that others expressed- perhaps naively so- perhaps due to my limited exposure to personal contact with said candidate- but mostly because I feel invisible. When it comes to the board, I see them twice a year as I present a state of our school. I try to make them understand what it's like to work in this country, with our resources, with our vast population of students and variety of parental support, with challenges we face everyday trying to educate and guide our students - their children- along the path of responsible, knowledgeable and involved citizens. But otherwise, I feel vastly on my own. With my partnership of colleagues to support me. The board is a separate entity that makes decisions based on values completely different from my reality.
It's entirely too much like voting for president. It is possible to get passionately involved for a moment, but in the end, after it all works out the way politics do (that is to say along familial, friendly and money lines) life seems to carry on pretty much the same for us common folk. We toil along, largely unnoticed, hugely unappreciated and often with small but steady results. For a moment, I thought making a stand could make a difference. But to truly make a difference, one needs dedication, perseverance, planning and a long term vision. One needs organization and a strong supportive network. And one needs to be doing it, not for personal gain, but for the greater good. Yeah. Sounds like superman to me. Or maybe that Mustafa guy that holds a British passport and therefore doesn't qualify to lead an international school into a truly global mindset. What it doesn't sound like is what happened tonight.
A "vote" with only one candidate running and too many write-ins of 'no confidence" that really led nowhere. What we learned this year in our 5th grade government unit is that a democracy is really just a "majority rules' system- the bullies can knock your door down and confiscate your house if that's what most of the people want to do. Majority rules.
The real problem is apathy. Why weren't there more candidates to chose from? Where were all the American families concerned about their child's education and the direction of the school? It seems the truth is, most of the long term inhabitants of Kinshasa, who are able and willing to send their children to our school, are not Americans by birth or upbringing but Americans by passport. Americans who may have passed minimal time there and returned to Kinshasa to continue family businesses. And so I argue, to myself, why not a Brit or a Chinese or any other ethnicity that has chosen to live and raise their children here and seeks an education that reaches beyond the boundaries of this country or their home country but seeks to integrate a truly world wide exposure and experience for the future generation.
They were truly great. The future generation who provided music and song for us, to relieve the tension, to celebrate our fragile sense of community, to remind us of why we had all gathered in the first place.But in the end, it seemed politics as usual.
23.5.13
8.5.13
Fresh food- fast food?
I've pretty much adapted to the lack of what used to be my favorite foods here in Kinshasa. I've come to accept what's available as my new favorites and the high prices of occasionally splurging on my old. A sale on grapes makes it even more possible. (only 4000FC- that's a deal even in the states I think!...well, ok I have no idea what the price of grapes is in the states these days so I can't be sure, but 4000FC is just under $5 and a package- or 5- of red seedless grapes is well worth it.)
Eating local might be the new craze everywhere else but in Kinshasa it's a must. The plus side is that eating local also often means eating fresh. I've woken frequently to finding this in my kitchen- a pan full of what looks like tied up grass. Lemongrass. Usually a sign someone in the house is feeling a cold coming on.
There's another kind of fresh food that's caught my eye and left me fascinated in that horrified way that happens when something is just so different it can't be synthesized. It's partly because I don't eat meat and it's partly because, as an American - an urban American- I have been comfortably removed form the reality of where meat comes from.
Eating goat is one of the delicacies of Congo. Goat is readily available and often grilled to order. You can find goat kabobs at many outdoor stands as well as tucked in the back or off to the side of many cafes and restaurants. The "goat stand" is accompanied with the sound of whacking and chopping. Because the goat is just that fresh.
In this poor case, the goat does not yet seem aware of what happened to his cousin or the fate that surely awaits him. Surrounded by cardboard he must think he's landed in some kind of heaven, unknowing that the real heaven is only days away.
Despite my revulsion, no one else really seems to notice the hanging carcasses. They walk by - I even observed one man pushing it slightly out of his way- and stand next it while placing their order. I've come to see it as the ultimate in fresh, fast food. (Although, depending on the number of patrons, the goat plate could actually take awhile to receive.) It is grilled or smoked (I'm not completely up on the culinary method here, I just know there is a large grill and a lot of smoke) and it comes served on a plate wrapped in a brown paper, usually accompanied with a small pile of red pepper and seasonings and perhaps some mayonnaise. Finger food.
Myself? I'll stick to the vegetable stands selling tomatoes and eggplants and sweet potatoes. Even better, I'll stick to the green beans and cucumbers fresh from my garden. I don't eat out often, and when I do it's certainly not local (the tofu plate at that Chinese restaurant on the boulevard is simply divine!) but for all the meat eaters out there, I recommend the goat. Better than McDonald's. Fresh, fast and local.
Eating local might be the new craze everywhere else but in Kinshasa it's a must. The plus side is that eating local also often means eating fresh. I've woken frequently to finding this in my kitchen- a pan full of what looks like tied up grass. Lemongrass. Usually a sign someone in the house is feeling a cold coming on.
There's another kind of fresh food that's caught my eye and left me fascinated in that horrified way that happens when something is just so different it can't be synthesized. It's partly because I don't eat meat and it's partly because, as an American - an urban American- I have been comfortably removed form the reality of where meat comes from.
Eating goat is one of the delicacies of Congo. Goat is readily available and often grilled to order. You can find goat kabobs at many outdoor stands as well as tucked in the back or off to the side of many cafes and restaurants. The "goat stand" is accompanied with the sound of whacking and chopping. Because the goat is just that fresh.
Myself? I'll stick to the vegetable stands selling tomatoes and eggplants and sweet potatoes. Even better, I'll stick to the green beans and cucumbers fresh from my garden. I don't eat out often, and when I do it's certainly not local (the tofu plate at that Chinese restaurant on the boulevard is simply divine!) but for all the meat eaters out there, I recommend the goat. Better than McDonald's. Fresh, fast and local.
5.5.13
Molested in the Market
Last weekend I took a friend to the arts markets around town. She is getting ready for her departure from Congo and wanted to stock up on some final artwork and crafts. She has adopted a child here and so was also buying for some families she knows with adopted children from Congo. Searching for mementos from home.
We went first to the 'marche de valeur' or thieves market as often translated into English with a play on 'valeur'- cultural, artistic or of value- and voleur- thief- as in the prices are often so ridiculously high you feel as if you've been stolen from. I do love certain parts of the market- the stalls in back where a fabulous collection of old masks and statues can be found. It's truly hit or miss when visiting. On some days, vendors are reasonable and easy to bargain with. On others, prices are prohibitive. On everyday vendors call out as you pass, imploring you to stop and visit their stand, insisting it is somehow different than the billion others next to or directly across from them.
I like to view the market as a museum, a place to go and fill my eyes with artwork, rather than to buy. Occasionally I have a true mission and on this day it was to do the bargaining for my friend and help her cross off items on her list. Despite it being one of those "miss days" where the prices seem to be laughably outrageous ( $20 for that cup? I bought the same thing here last month for just $5) we managed to secure some reasonable purchases.
My friend wanted to go to "the beach" next, a place I'd never been, preferring to get my fabric on the rue de commerce at these wonderful stores. The beach is not actually a beach but the harbor where you can grab the ferry to Brazzaville. The place where the women sell their fabric is virtually hidden from view. Upon first glance, it appears to be just a few women sitting on the street with their wares. Closer inspection reveals a narrow, camouflaged alley. The alley way contains stall after stall of fabric, all appearing slightly similar and hanging so close to each other that individual patterns are hard to discern. Both my friend and I relied on the "if there's something good here, it will jump out at you" method of choosing fabric.
The women were impossibly aggressive (even more so than at the Marche de Valeur) and called out, reached out and followed us down the skinny, muddy path. We stopped occasionally to browse and purchase, all the while my friend was informing me that she rarely got to the end. The pressure to purchase was just too much to support for any continued length of time. We reached our limit and turned around to begin snaking our way back to the entrance.
A woman came over to me and draped a piece of cloth over my shoulder. As I turned to hand it back to her, she began walking away. I started to lay the fabric on a wooden table when she picked it up and put it back on my shoulder saying "No, don't put it there." I agreed it wasn't the cleanest place to lay the cloth but I had no intention of buying it and told her so. She began talking about "cadeau" and I told her yes, it will be a gift to me if you don't take it back because I am not buying it. Reluctantly she pulled the piece back in.
But as I took a step forward another woman came down from her stall and blocked my path. It wasn't that she was physically imposing, it was more a problem of space. The pathway was so small and crowded it was impossible to get around her. She began shouting- or so it seemed from my perspective- and trying to push more fabric on me. I found this to be an incredibly ineffective marketing technique as it only evoked impatience and anger. At the same time, an older woman sitting at her stall behind me began tapping my derriere to get my attention and possibly draw me over to her stand. Another incredibly ineffective technique. After two taps, which really felt more like lingering caresses, I was incensed. I felt completely violated. Her hand placement invaded all my boundaries of personal space and privacy. I ended up yelling at the woman in front of me to "Arrêtez!" though I seriously intended that for the woman behind me. As the tapping continued, I managed to push past her and make my exit.
But I was left with a feeling of dirt and scum. I wasn't happy with the emotions I'd felt or the way I handled them. After processing with my friend a bit, I realized the problem. I'd been molested by a woman. I felt sure if it had been a man, I would have turned and responded without doubt. A strong word, a finger in the face. But the fact that this was coming from a woman left me confused and uncertain. I couldn't figure out what was happening at first and was caught up in an uncomfortable feeling which led almost to panic. I left feeling deeply disturbed, not only by what had happened but by my inability to manage it.
Which in turn led to reflection about the irony. Why is it that I feel more prepared to deal with a man who oversteps his bounds? Because, as a woman, I have experienced and come to expect it from a man? Or because, as a woman, I have come to expect fellow women to have an understanding and respect for personal privacy? I am not sure what let me down more- this woman and her actions- or the thought that it would have been more bearable from a man.
Touching someone who does not want to be touched is not acceptable in any sense. When explaining to a male friend later that evening, he said, "No, it is just their way." After more discussion, and several examples of women who use hand holding or arm touching in much more acceptable- and effective- ways he acquiesced into seeing it is not "just their way" but it is wrong.
I was never drawn to the beach before, disliking their display of fabric and the choices available. And now it seems certain I will probably not return, preferring instead to buy my cloth in the happy chaos of music and DJ's at Bizou Bizou or any number of stores on the rue de commerce. I'm still left to contemplate the women of the beach- struggling with being a foreigner, a mondele, displaying an image of wealth and privilege that elicits such aggression and hostility. While it rarely occurs in my world, the one I've created these 5 years in Congo, I guess the possibility never truly goes away. I can't escape being a stranger, one of the others.
We went first to the 'marche de valeur' or thieves market as often translated into English with a play on 'valeur'- cultural, artistic or of value- and voleur- thief- as in the prices are often so ridiculously high you feel as if you've been stolen from. I do love certain parts of the market- the stalls in back where a fabulous collection of old masks and statues can be found. It's truly hit or miss when visiting. On some days, vendors are reasonable and easy to bargain with. On others, prices are prohibitive. On everyday vendors call out as you pass, imploring you to stop and visit their stand, insisting it is somehow different than the billion others next to or directly across from them.
I like to view the market as a museum, a place to go and fill my eyes with artwork, rather than to buy. Occasionally I have a true mission and on this day it was to do the bargaining for my friend and help her cross off items on her list. Despite it being one of those "miss days" where the prices seem to be laughably outrageous ( $20 for that cup? I bought the same thing here last month for just $5) we managed to secure some reasonable purchases.
My friend wanted to go to "the beach" next, a place I'd never been, preferring to get my fabric on the rue de commerce at these wonderful stores. The beach is not actually a beach but the harbor where you can grab the ferry to Brazzaville. The place where the women sell their fabric is virtually hidden from view. Upon first glance, it appears to be just a few women sitting on the street with their wares. Closer inspection reveals a narrow, camouflaged alley. The alley way contains stall after stall of fabric, all appearing slightly similar and hanging so close to each other that individual patterns are hard to discern. Both my friend and I relied on the "if there's something good here, it will jump out at you" method of choosing fabric.
The women were impossibly aggressive (even more so than at the Marche de Valeur) and called out, reached out and followed us down the skinny, muddy path. We stopped occasionally to browse and purchase, all the while my friend was informing me that she rarely got to the end. The pressure to purchase was just too much to support for any continued length of time. We reached our limit and turned around to begin snaking our way back to the entrance.
A woman came over to me and draped a piece of cloth over my shoulder. As I turned to hand it back to her, she began walking away. I started to lay the fabric on a wooden table when she picked it up and put it back on my shoulder saying "No, don't put it there." I agreed it wasn't the cleanest place to lay the cloth but I had no intention of buying it and told her so. She began talking about "cadeau" and I told her yes, it will be a gift to me if you don't take it back because I am not buying it. Reluctantly she pulled the piece back in.
But as I took a step forward another woman came down from her stall and blocked my path. It wasn't that she was physically imposing, it was more a problem of space. The pathway was so small and crowded it was impossible to get around her. She began shouting- or so it seemed from my perspective- and trying to push more fabric on me. I found this to be an incredibly ineffective marketing technique as it only evoked impatience and anger. At the same time, an older woman sitting at her stall behind me began tapping my derriere to get my attention and possibly draw me over to her stand. Another incredibly ineffective technique. After two taps, which really felt more like lingering caresses, I was incensed. I felt completely violated. Her hand placement invaded all my boundaries of personal space and privacy. I ended up yelling at the woman in front of me to "Arrêtez!" though I seriously intended that for the woman behind me. As the tapping continued, I managed to push past her and make my exit.
But I was left with a feeling of dirt and scum. I wasn't happy with the emotions I'd felt or the way I handled them. After processing with my friend a bit, I realized the problem. I'd been molested by a woman. I felt sure if it had been a man, I would have turned and responded without doubt. A strong word, a finger in the face. But the fact that this was coming from a woman left me confused and uncertain. I couldn't figure out what was happening at first and was caught up in an uncomfortable feeling which led almost to panic. I left feeling deeply disturbed, not only by what had happened but by my inability to manage it.
Which in turn led to reflection about the irony. Why is it that I feel more prepared to deal with a man who oversteps his bounds? Because, as a woman, I have experienced and come to expect it from a man? Or because, as a woman, I have come to expect fellow women to have an understanding and respect for personal privacy? I am not sure what let me down more- this woman and her actions- or the thought that it would have been more bearable from a man.
Touching someone who does not want to be touched is not acceptable in any sense. When explaining to a male friend later that evening, he said, "No, it is just their way." After more discussion, and several examples of women who use hand holding or arm touching in much more acceptable- and effective- ways he acquiesced into seeing it is not "just their way" but it is wrong.
I was never drawn to the beach before, disliking their display of fabric and the choices available. And now it seems certain I will probably not return, preferring instead to buy my cloth in the happy chaos of music and DJ's at Bizou Bizou or any number of stores on the rue de commerce. I'm still left to contemplate the women of the beach- struggling with being a foreigner, a mondele, displaying an image of wealth and privilege that elicits such aggression and hostility. While it rarely occurs in my world, the one I've created these 5 years in Congo, I guess the possibility never truly goes away. I can't escape being a stranger, one of the others.
Life by SMS
Africa has mostly skipped over the land line phenomena and jumped to directly to mobile phones. This is even more apparent in Congo, where land lines don't seem to exist at all. (I did see a desk phone in the Grand Hotel and it took me awhile to wonder what seemed so odd about it. I've never seen a desk phone in Kinshasa.)
Text messages are the preferred method of communication as they are cheap and reliable. Actually calling someone often results in a fuzzy, distorted connection or simply not getting though at all. The government recognizes the importance of texting (SMS) and has even been known to shut it down in cases of "national security." Congo is not the only country to employ this method of securing its citizens. Mozambique and Egypt have also utilized this in an attempt to maintain control.
Aside from politics, SMS are a favorite way to communicate greetings (Christmas and New Year's have my phone beeping off the hook to signal all the messages of blessing and well-wishing coming my way.) I noticed a trend of creating fancy designs with the characters that form an image of Christmas trees or hearts accompanied with a generic message of blessing for the family and a prosperous New Year. I am never really sure if I should respond to these messages as I seem to be one on a list of many recipients. Junk mail by SMS is how I tend to see it (though I was accused by one friend of not replying and so now consider the messages more carefully.)
Other acquaintances have gotten in the habit of sending scriptures and reminders? pleas? to recall the words of God and keep believing, keep praying. My own personal evangelists reminding me to keep the faith.
The most bizarre messages, however, have come in the form of love poems. I have been asked on a blind date (yes, how did you get my number exactly?) and presented with propositions of undying love, all by SMS. I've been implored to "give me a chance" or more poetically in the French "essaye un gout"- try a taste. I've been wished good night, happy dreams, good morning, and enjoy your weekend at random intervals with "I'll never give up on thinking about you" and "my heart rests only with you" all more eloquently written yet completely unsolicited by me.
I have been caught completely off guard and unsure about how to respond. I simply don't understand where the messages are coming from. Not who, of course for all but the mysterious Sam (or was it Alain asking me on a date, whom I simply had never met before- though he assured me he'd gotten my number from a mutual friend at some art event) but for most of the messages, their name pops up as a registered contact in my phone. I know these people, I just can't figure out what has prompted them to send such messages. Our real life interactions never hint at such a direction.
My social awkwardness leaves me feeling the only option is to ignore them and they'll go away. It does make it hard to have a relationship with someone when my phone is ringing with love notes. In a few cases, I've been obligated to request that they not write me again. In another case, the ignoring seemed to work and I only receive the infrequent Mbote! at this point.
In all seriousness, I thought perhaps they were some kind of joke. It seemed so odd to be receiving the multitude of messages about such personal feelings from so many different people around the same time.
On the other hand, I have also been menaced by text. I've been ordered and threatened by SMS. (Luckily mobile phones have a nifty "automatic call reject" option that simply doesn't accept phone calls from certain numbers. This does nothing to stop incoming text however.) I have an entire phone filled with those nasty messages, just saving them for use in court I suppose.
Of course, I have received other intense SMS messages. An English student of mine sent out news of her mother's death. US embassy warnings of unstable and potentially dangerous areas come by SMS. And I once received a formally written invitation to a birthday party by SMS- followed up with a Thank You text.
I admit to resorting to text at times, as it seems easier to send a written message with news of something that might prove difficult to say. In Africa, text is also much cheaper than a phone call. And comes with the ease and ability of sending to more than one person. I've received "copies" of messages to other people and been included on mass distribution lists ('severe traffic on boulevard, take alternate route' or 'demonstration at the US embassy, avoid downtown.')
In all, I am amazed at the flexibility and vast utility of how text messaging has evolved in Africa. Banking by text, sending cash to relatives and friends and yes, even dating by text are all some examples of the usefulness of this medium. I haven't signed up for any of those services however and continue to be perplexed at some of the messages I receive in this life by SMS.
Text messages are the preferred method of communication as they are cheap and reliable. Actually calling someone often results in a fuzzy, distorted connection or simply not getting though at all. The government recognizes the importance of texting (SMS) and has even been known to shut it down in cases of "national security." Congo is not the only country to employ this method of securing its citizens. Mozambique and Egypt have also utilized this in an attempt to maintain control.
Aside from politics, SMS are a favorite way to communicate greetings (Christmas and New Year's have my phone beeping off the hook to signal all the messages of blessing and well-wishing coming my way.) I noticed a trend of creating fancy designs with the characters that form an image of Christmas trees or hearts accompanied with a generic message of blessing for the family and a prosperous New Year. I am never really sure if I should respond to these messages as I seem to be one on a list of many recipients. Junk mail by SMS is how I tend to see it (though I was accused by one friend of not replying and so now consider the messages more carefully.)
Other acquaintances have gotten in the habit of sending scriptures and reminders? pleas? to recall the words of God and keep believing, keep praying. My own personal evangelists reminding me to keep the faith.
The most bizarre messages, however, have come in the form of love poems. I have been asked on a blind date (yes, how did you get my number exactly?) and presented with propositions of undying love, all by SMS. I've been implored to "give me a chance" or more poetically in the French "essaye un gout"- try a taste. I've been wished good night, happy dreams, good morning, and enjoy your weekend at random intervals with "I'll never give up on thinking about you" and "my heart rests only with you" all more eloquently written yet completely unsolicited by me.
I have been caught completely off guard and unsure about how to respond. I simply don't understand where the messages are coming from. Not who, of course for all but the mysterious Sam (or was it Alain asking me on a date, whom I simply had never met before- though he assured me he'd gotten my number from a mutual friend at some art event) but for most of the messages, their name pops up as a registered contact in my phone. I know these people, I just can't figure out what has prompted them to send such messages. Our real life interactions never hint at such a direction.
My social awkwardness leaves me feeling the only option is to ignore them and they'll go away. It does make it hard to have a relationship with someone when my phone is ringing with love notes. In a few cases, I've been obligated to request that they not write me again. In another case, the ignoring seemed to work and I only receive the infrequent Mbote! at this point.
In all seriousness, I thought perhaps they were some kind of joke. It seemed so odd to be receiving the multitude of messages about such personal feelings from so many different people around the same time.
On the other hand, I have also been menaced by text. I've been ordered and threatened by SMS. (Luckily mobile phones have a nifty "automatic call reject" option that simply doesn't accept phone calls from certain numbers. This does nothing to stop incoming text however.) I have an entire phone filled with those nasty messages, just saving them for use in court I suppose.
Of course, I have received other intense SMS messages. An English student of mine sent out news of her mother's death. US embassy warnings of unstable and potentially dangerous areas come by SMS. And I once received a formally written invitation to a birthday party by SMS- followed up with a Thank You text.
I admit to resorting to text at times, as it seems easier to send a written message with news of something that might prove difficult to say. In Africa, text is also much cheaper than a phone call. And comes with the ease and ability of sending to more than one person. I've received "copies" of messages to other people and been included on mass distribution lists ('severe traffic on boulevard, take alternate route' or 'demonstration at the US embassy, avoid downtown.')
In all, I am amazed at the flexibility and vast utility of how text messaging has evolved in Africa. Banking by text, sending cash to relatives and friends and yes, even dating by text are all some examples of the usefulness of this medium. I haven't signed up for any of those services however and continue to be perplexed at some of the messages I receive in this life by SMS.
1.5.13
AWED- but only because I'm supposed to be
"Do you know Jacky Ndala?" I asked my assistant teacher. I'd heard he was a famous Congolese TV personality but I was trying to determine how famous famous really meant. I'd had the opportunity to met Mr. Ndala- JackyNdala- as he seems to be frequently called, as if it is all one name- during one of the many organizational meetings for the AfroZumbah charity event and one year anniversary celebration. Jacky had agreed to do the media coverage for the event at a heavily reduced price.
I had sent him a text message requesting a copy of his logo. I was working on flyers for the event and wanted to add logos of participants and sponsors at the bottom. Jacky called me about 15 minutes later to confirm I'd received his email.
"Jacky Ndala just called me, " I informed my assistant, to gauge his reaction, still trying to determine the level of famousness.
"He doesn't call people," came the reply. "Normally, with someone like him, you would need to call and hope he picks up." That seemed to confirm it. He must be really well known.
In discussing the arrangements for the evening, we'd met twice for drinks and once for dinner. Slowly, I began to understand some things. But initially I was confused about the purpose of the meetings. Not much was said and little seemed accomplished. I asked a lot of questions, trying to get some history on Jacky's work. I don't have television and so I couldn't even rely on some current events to help me figure out who he was. I was able to piece together some idea about his work as he answered my many questions. Apparently he works with arts and culture, frequently with music artists- singers, also famous here in Kin, such as Fally Ipupa and Werrason. In addition, he promotes up and coming artists and has worked with Vodacom and their many superstar competitions. The dancers, singers and musicians at our event seemed to know this well. After the guests had left and they'd gotten a bit to eat, all of the performers crowded around Jacky trying to get a photo.
I found a few things about him on the web such as his blog and some information about an accident he had back in January. Somehow, not having the history meant it just wasn't as impressive. I was too busy still trying to figure out the culture of business and opportunity in Kinshasa. How to make things happen. Trying to understand the social nuances that become so much the more complicated in a second language that's being spoken in a foreign country. I am slowly arriving at the comprehension part, but feeling the awe of meeting a famous person? Well, only because I'm supposed to.....
I had sent him a text message requesting a copy of his logo. I was working on flyers for the event and wanted to add logos of participants and sponsors at the bottom. Jacky called me about 15 minutes later to confirm I'd received his email.
"Jacky Ndala just called me, " I informed my assistant, to gauge his reaction, still trying to determine the level of famousness.
"He doesn't call people," came the reply. "Normally, with someone like him, you would need to call and hope he picks up." That seemed to confirm it. He must be really well known.
In discussing the arrangements for the evening, we'd met twice for drinks and once for dinner. Slowly, I began to understand some things. But initially I was confused about the purpose of the meetings. Not much was said and little seemed accomplished. I asked a lot of questions, trying to get some history on Jacky's work. I don't have television and so I couldn't even rely on some current events to help me figure out who he was. I was able to piece together some idea about his work as he answered my many questions. Apparently he works with arts and culture, frequently with music artists- singers, also famous here in Kin, such as Fally Ipupa and Werrason. In addition, he promotes up and coming artists and has worked with Vodacom and their many superstar competitions. The dancers, singers and musicians at our event seemed to know this well. After the guests had left and they'd gotten a bit to eat, all of the performers crowded around Jacky trying to get a photo.
I found a few things about him on the web such as his blog and some information about an accident he had back in January. Somehow, not having the history meant it just wasn't as impressive. I was too busy still trying to figure out the culture of business and opportunity in Kinshasa. How to make things happen. Trying to understand the social nuances that become so much the more complicated in a second language that's being spoken in a foreign country. I am slowly arriving at the comprehension part, but feeling the awe of meeting a famous person? Well, only because I'm supposed to.....
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| Jacky and Christian at the Soiree, Grand Hotel, Kinshasa |
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