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..........
24.9.13
22.9.13
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.
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.
8.9.13
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.
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.
1.9.13
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.
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 |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)