The Mystery of the TVs, the Baby Boat People and Other Stories

People watching has long been one of my favorite sports. I can remember back to my early teens, sitting outside a grocery store waiting for the bus, watching the people. I love to wonder about their lives, where they are coming from and where they are going.  This quality makes me a definite porch person, or, until I get a porch or a balcony, a window person.

Now Nabih is not the only one who has stories to share as we walk to camp each morning. We’ve been thinking up scenarios to go with the TV People. One of our first nights here, I saw a man walking down the road with a TV, a heavy looking older model with a large, awkward bulging back. He was actually carrying it with one hand however, so it appeared slightly portable- in the loosest sense of the word portable.  He was just one of many people walking along the road that night and caught only my passing interest.  The next night however, I saw a boy carrying a similar looking TV in the opposite direction.  Maybe it was the same TV, gone off for repairs? The mystery really deepened on the third night, when I saw two men walking by, each carrying their own TV, again the same bulky model.  We’ve been keeping our eyes open for electronic repair shops in the neighborhood as we try to determine The Mystery of the TVs.

Mysteries passing below our windows are only the beginning of the perks of our new spot.  One of the reasons Abidjan made the yes list for relocation is the well-known soccer opportunities. I’d done some research about soccer training for Mohamed and had come up with ASEC Mimosas- where many of Ivory Coast’s talented players begin. Incredibly, the camp for kids, SolBeni, is just around the corner, nestled in the back of the “village” near the lagoon.  It has vast, beautiful pitches that Mohamed could barely tear his eyes from.  And if I can take a moment to indulge, the coach noticed him on the first day. Mohamed is that kind of player. While the soccer camp isn’t as strenuous as Mohamed was hoping, there is a more promising training program that he will begin soon.

I usually walk the boys over in the morning.  And that’s when I saw the Baby Boat People. Here in what’s called M’Pouto Village the housing is a mix of new buildings being constructed, apartments and shacks.  There are still a few lots full of trees and greenery. At the end of the road is a large open farming area that resembles the outskirts of a real village. I spend my time trying to enjoy the scenes around me without wondering too much about the impact of construction- good for better quality housing but not so good for the lush green environment surrounding us.

One of the roads leading to the camp is lined with “businesses” – wooden stalls that host all manner of items for sale from bags of charcoal to mangoes and oranges to shoe repair and polishing services. On our first morning walk to camp, the square wooden tables were filled with small children sitting on top. Their mothers were busy sweeping the ground beneath and around the stalls or arranging the endless buckets needed for daily routines.  I looked out across a sea of babies floating on wooden ‘boats.’ Some held as many as 4 little cuties in the bow, others hosted one or two, all were sitting fairly still amusing themselves with a plastic bowl or other small item. No one seemed concerned they might get restless or squrim about and fall off. By the time I made my return, the babies had been released to the dirt. They were happily running, playing and getting washed.  Though the timing hasn’t been right for me to encounter the Boat Babies again, it’s a sight not easily forgotten, a sight that should make it’s way into a picture book perhaps one day, when I get my balcony and I can spend hours sketching and writing away.

The perks of the neighborhood include the nearby cyber café, the market- where the women speak French, making it so much easier for me to talk to them, and the abundance of fruit sellers.  The mangoes are huge and cheap; the bananas are ripe and not too stingy.  Unlike the Kinshasa fruit, here I can almost see the vitamins and goodness bursting from the juicy pulp.  The garbage is collected and taken away- well, whatever the goats don’t get to first.  There is a small family of young goats that wander around- 7 of them. Two are still babies, two are frisky teenager types and the other three are somewhere in between.  They provide a brand of entertainment on their own.  And the people are mostly friendly.

The boys and I get some stares when we venture out to the camp or the cafe, but I am thinking that will eventually end as we become just another part of the routines.  Needing to use a public internet connection has left me realizing just how often I am used to being connected- and the different types of connecting I tend to do. There is the finding stuff out connection, when I ask questions, figure out how to do things, search recipes or read the news. While we do have TV, I prefer the interactive nature of getting my news online, where I can follow my interests and find relevant stories. I haven’t been doing much of this type of connection lately but was happy to hear Meriam has been released- and apparently rearrested?!!  I need more news in my life. Finding stuff out searching has been reduced to a bare minimum- only the most important questions warrant an internet inquiry.

Social connection including email and Facebook is another type of connection that has really been trimmed down. When I am there, the clock is ever ticking, alerting me to just how much time I have left and it creates a harried sort of experience. Browsing Facebook and trying to update my page with posts of my thoughts and photos feels so rushed. I may get used to it, but it could take awhile.  Along with that is collecting books on my kindle. Summer is for reading, right? Something about the clock ticking makes me feel so un-relaxed, even if I can easily add another 30 minutes.

Random browsing, which I liken to reading “potato chip” books or magazines is completely banished. No time or francs for that. Following little whims and collecting bits and pieces of fascinating but useless facts does not even make the list of possible things to do (yet. Boredom may win out and have us all hanging at the café more than we currently imagine.)  

Publishing ideas to my blog is another reason for connecting. I usually try to get all my ideas down on my computer at home and then bring a USB to copy and paste from. It still requires a bit of time to read and reread, to edit and revise, to add photos and captions. I put this one higher on my list of priorities only because otherwise the words tumble around in my head, leaving my thoughts a cluttered, jumbled mess.  But the experience  has left me wondering.

When my class was studying human rights and global issues, the idea of having access to technology and internet came up- or rather was one I posed to the students as I’d read of it being proposed as a global issue. While we had some good discussions, I personally hadn’t reached any real conclusions. It’s hard to focus on the importance of internet connection when clean drinking water seems so much more important.

In the end, I don’t think the global issues are meant to compete with each other.  If there is one clear thing that comes from examining the issues, it’s the idea that they are all related, tied together so tightly it’s hard to separate one idea or issue from another. And I can see how technology fits in there. As a part of education. As a part of knowing. As a part of being part of the larger world and having the same benefits and advantages that others have.  Ben’s group focuses largely on securing and providing technology and internet access to students of all ages and that has always made sense to me and seemed like a worthwhile cause.   While I am feeling fine for now with my intermittent connection abilities, I know it won’t last. I will want more, crave more information, more understanding, more connection to the happenings of the world. And so, while I may not be able to concede a greater importance to internet connection than clean, running water, I can definitely say I am no longer clouded on the issue.  

Behind the Scenes of an Adventure- Week 1

What I wrote about the first week- but not really what I wanted to say. Maybe the next few days will have me feeling more in my skin.

“USA? For the baby?” the directress had stopped by my classroom for the final checkout visit. A cursory glance to make sure all was cleaned, covered and put away. A bit of small talk thrown in as a way of saying goodbye.  It was the last day of school, traditionally a time when families hover attending assemblies and saying goodbye to others. Teachers are busy turning in materials and checking off items on their closing list.  “Abidjan, “ I told her. “Abidjan all the way.”  She looked past me and offered a smile. “It will be a different kind of life.” Her words sounded solemn and more than a little prophetic.

Our trip from Kinshasa was smoother than I could have hoped.  Despite our billion kilos of luggage the extra fees were actually less than I imagined. A few little stumbles in the Abidjan airport, but that, also, was far easier than I dared to dream. We’d made it with our 19 pieces of luggage and some extra cash on hand. Christian met us with a small truck and two guys who took over the problem of the bags. Easiest move ever. So far.

It’s become apparent in these 5 days that I am an American in Abidjan- as if I could be anything else. I’m trying not to apologize for it. It does leave me pondering what’s important, what’s necessary and how my growing up affects my expectations (get rid of the expectations, I know, for a happier life.)

The neighborhood was pleasant, not sterile as I’d feared. Children skipped along the dirt roads, goats wandered in small packs and the smells of good food wafted on the wind. The building we stopped in front of was under construction. Major construction to my eyes.  Just a few weeks in Christian’s eyes. I was thinking 6 months to a year.  We made it up the first 3 floors to a small studio where we placed the bags. Our apartment was on the 4^th floor and in need of some work. The hallway floor was still covered in dirt- tiles came a few days later.  Inside, the apartment offered 3 rooms, a kitchen and 2 tiny unfinished baths in that odd Abidjan style of shower, sink and toilet all in one space with no division so that the shower water drenches the entire bathroom with every bathing.  My American self felt the walls closing in. So little space for the 4 of us- but still possible.  For me the real problem was lack of air.

I`m not sure this qualifies as a window.
Slick spot on the wall never seems to dry

There are two windows, a window-in-waiting and something else that probably falls in the window family, though doesn’t exactly merit the full title of window.  Though the kitchen had no counters or cupboards, it was large enough for all of our newly bought, miniature appliances- refrigerator, stove and washer.  While there wasn’t initially hook-up for a washer, the plumber quickly declared that no problem. “We can just break the wall and put the hose in here,” he indicated.  Which he did. Unfortunately, the electricity voltage wasn’t actually strong enough to run the washer.

A Window-in-Waiting

Each day has met us with a different kind of challenge, leaving me with much to consider. I wake, not unpleasantly, to the sound of roosters crowing and goats bleating. I spent Day 1 getting used to the noise of sledgehammers on cement, attacking the constant stream of dirt tracked in from the unfinished hallway stairs and staring out the window at my neighbors. 

Question for reflection: Is it ok to want something clean, finished and fairly tranquil or should I just be happy to have a roof over my head?

Life is lived out of buckets- My downstairs neighbor has the
luxury of lines to hang her clothes out in the sun- when it`s
not raining. My clothes will end up taking days to dry.

Days 2 and 3 left our apartment in the dark. At first it was just us, with the rest of the building still in power. Later in the evening, the whole block went out for a few hours. Facing an afternoon in the dark with not much to do, I decided to tackle the clothes, which were in danger of building up.  I spent more time staring out the window at my neighbors, getting to know their routines.  An inventory of what we’ve managed to amass says volumes about the different backgrounds Christian and I come from. We don’t have hot water, but we do have a TV and 2 air conditioners (still in the box. I am doubtful the current will ever be able to support them and would personally be quite content without them.) Renting an apartment means we need to furnish everything, including the stove and refrigerator (check) and the hot water heater (the response I got when I mentioned this seemed to indicate it was not really important.)

Question for reflection: Is it ok to want hot water or should I just be happy to have running water from a faucet inside?

 The blue bowl just inside the door is full of
water- for drinking, for washing

Days 2 and 3 also brought small floods to our new space. Despite being on the 4^th floor and having only 2 ½ -ish windows, the rain managed to leak in pretty good.  We’d been somewhat prepared for this however and the things that did get wet quickly dried out (unlike the clothes I’d washed which were still wet 3 days later. Finally I moved them to a room with a window and directed a fan at them.) We went into town in the morning and found that most of the shops along the main road had flooded. It was a tropical-living parody of a North Eastern snowstorm.  People were everywhere shoveling, scooping and sweeping out mud. The street was lined with piles of ruined goods. Stores were closed and everyone was soaking wet. No question for reflection here. Obviously our little flood was nothing in comparison to what others had lost. Someone came later with a caulking gun- problem fixed. As I watch the rain falling in dribs and drabs and downpours throughout the day, I can’t help but think of the shops, market stalls and small houses that continue to flood.

Day 4 brought a small ray of hope as we went to look at a nearby soccer camp and also see an apartment that Christian had wanted to take initially. The camp was glorious and the apartment was palatial, especially with our new eyes.  Both were just around the corner from where we are now.  We ended the day with a vision for the future. Question for reflection: How much patience should we have and where and how can we get some more?

Day 5 finds us pretty stressed again as a family. We’re having trouble being nice to each other and finding comfort in one another’s presence.We’re barely talking. It is too easy to let our frustrations, fears and insecurities out on each other. I battle with separating my situation from my self-image. I am not the sum of my surroundings, though it is easy for me to get caught up in the downward spiral. I remember my aunt remodeling her home- and she was certain to end up with something far more beautiful than we can anticipate here- alluding to a feeling like this. Moving is stressful, home remodeling is stressful, having a baby is stressful and doing it all on a shoestring is definitely more than challenging. Finding out our new limits- stressful. (I can light the stove though it generally involves a bit of cursing and crying, haven’t yet attempted the oven- but I’m a baker!!! The stove is known to emit screeching sounds and flare up unexpectedly high. It’s incredibly hard to regulate and as often as I manage to get it lit, I end up turning it off again in my effort to reduce the flame. Ugh. Christian’s reassurance that the screeching is just the pressure of the gas is hardy reassuring at all.)

The question for reflectioncould be about cooking with gas versus the health hazards of using charcoal but really it’s a feeing of inadequacy because I can’t do things indepednently to take care of my family.  It’s also a question of turning to the activities I find calming only to be assaulted with problem after problem. Nothing is comforting. Everything feels like a chore. 

Living out of our suitcases- which weren’t packed in anticipation of needing any sort of organization- has me constantly turning in circles trying to find one item or another.  All of my sensory issues are flaring as we cram into these 2 rooms (I’ve declared one off limits as the walls continue to be moist and it hosts a queasy, moldy smell. It can’t be good for anyone.) Question for reflection: Is it ok to wish we could be facing this adversary with more positive attitudes or should I just be happy that we are all together? Is it only the privileged who can have these sensory issues- too much noise, too much clutter, agitation from crowded situations?

Bonus Question- is it a morbid sign that everything seems to be going wrong all at once? Day 5 also finds the l, k and j buttons on my computer not working. I’ve had to cut and paste every time I want to use one of those letters in a word. I’d thought perhaps to let it all go until I got to the cyber café to fix it, but there were too many and it proved distracting. Turns out “l” is much more popular than the other letters.  Also turns out the keyboard at the cyber café was way more complicated (in order to make it French, the letters don’t always match what’s on the keys. It requires a secret knowledge of code breaking to use correctly. I’d forgotten this feature of public computers in French speaking Africa.)

Day 5 ends with me wondering what will become of us, vowing to be nicer tomorrow, be more positive, speak kinder words and look for the rainbow.  I’m still happy to be in Abidjan, assuming it will get better and only halfway wondering if we’re going to make it.

Day 6 finds us doing much better as a family.  We’ve gotten used to the camp like nature of our new digs and are finding the rhythm. The clothes were moved to the roof for drying. Mohamed brought them down at the end of the day and folded them. He’s been pitching in with the endless sweeping as well.  Our two tiny bathrooms are each 99% finished and fairly useable. The electrcity  has been “reinforced” and is now strong enough to run the washing machine and the iron.  I’ve mastered lighting the stove and vow to get the hang of the oven next week. Christian will offer dance classes at a gym just  up the road in town starting in July and I have an interview on Monday. The boys start soccer camp on Monday, too, and so they have something to look forward to.

One Full Week-

Our Sunday morning began tranquil.  Last Sunday morning we were in the Kinshasa dark loading our billion bags into the waiting bus.  This week we are listening to the few churches surrounding us. For the most part so far, the music I’ve heard coming from there has been mosty choral. Just when I was thinking Ivory Coast had nothing on the Congolese churches, the djembes came out and I spent my breakfast listening to a pleasant rhythm. A small parade passed by the windows complete with brass sounding band. Later on, we walked down to a small market in the neighborhood for some tomatoes and local honey. Upon our return I made a tasty yogurt-avocado-banana-honey-smoothie. All of this was followed by a visit to a friend who was leaving for her vacation. En fin, feeling like I have the answer to most of my questions and life is good again. Whew, what a week. Happy that I can sheepishly look back and wonder what all the fuss was about anyway.
Views from my window

Sidewalk store across the street

Love watching the corner, lots going on there

Tropical forest close by in case I miss the jungle

View of the lagoon and the city in the distance

I am fascinated by the leaning tree

More tropical pockets- these kids were bathing outside, there
is always something to be grateful for- indoor shower

I spend a lot of time being envious of this great balcony

Neighborhood kids usually make an appearance in the
afternoon to play games and jump rope

Trading in the trees

Two days left in Kinshasa. I've said all my goodbyes, packed nearly all of our things and given away what I could. I'm just left to wonder how you say goodbye to a country? The last thought on my mind, as Christian updates me on his apartment hunting from Abidjan, is the trees. I've managed to live in this city of 9 million by hiding away in the jungle.

My morning "view" it's just a lot of green

And more green....a warm cocoon of trees and plants

My breakfasts, as most meals, are spent on the porch listening to the birds and looking out over a calming sea of green. My commute has included nothing more than dirt roads and tropical plants. My evenings are spent on the same back porch, eating dinner, reading, browsing the internet, talking with the kids, all the time surrounded by the sounds of nature- nightbird calls, the rustle of lizards and cats and other creatures creeping through the dark, the chirping of crickets (sometimes so loud we actually make a beeline for the living room, shutting the door behind us in relief- painfully loud!)

True- Kinshasa is a city of dirt. There are often dirt mounds filling up the roadsides (remnants of the open drainage system they clean out periodically, shoveling huge piles of muck and mud that remain to dry in the sun and crumble eventually back into the earth.) The trees along the boulevard have long ago been cut down and cement is everywhere. Small patches of manicured grass and little squares filled with flower garden-ish arrangements may line the main road but off to the side streets it's all just more dirt. Returning from Abidjan, with plush greenery filling the eye no matter which direction one turns it seems,  made Kinshasa's hues of brown and gray and beige all the more striking.  I definitely remember the feeling that my eyes were drinking in Abidjan, filling up from a long parched thirst I hadn't really known was there. I  returned to Kin only to become withered and dry again.

But that's out there, on the streets.  Here in my home I am surrounded by luxuriant plant growth and tall, protective trees. I need the trees. They feed me almost as much as the sun, keeping me grounded and connected to the earth. The boys have spent countless hours scavenging fruits, coming home with bags and buckets of mangoes, star fruits, avocadoes, and apples. They've passed their days devising games that require them to climb branches, build forts and hide within the thick, prickly pockets of bamboo and elephant grass. They've come home with scrapes and scratches and itchy rashes and plenty of tales of their spying and stealth.

Mohamed in the trees searching for apples

On the eve of the eve of our departure, I am getting a little panicky. An apartment. In the city. No grass, no yard, no walks through the forest in the misty, foggy morning or the cool, dusky evening. I am already vowing to fill our space up with plants- though I have never been that successful with indoor plants. I consider that we will have no porch, no outdoor space to be in and I try to turn instead to the fact that we'll have running water- inside- I won't need to lug buckets up the steps. Always something to be grateful for, right?

I spent a good year or two making our front porch my bedroom. It served as a studio and a sleeping space. I'd done a lot of homework to find the right solution to my ever persistent back problems and came up with hammock sleeping as a remedy. I was gently rocked to slumber every night with a cool breeze blowing in and an occasional sprinkle of rain when the storms came. The night creatures serenaded me with lullabies and the taxi singers woke me each morning- 5 am without fail. It was like sleeping in a treehouse or camping outside. Transitioning to the indoor bedroom took some time.

As I suppose the big move to a real city will take some time as well. Christian and I talked about a lot of the things we would need for this move- his ambition to have everything set up and waiting for us when we arrive. I tried to prioritize for him so he wouldn't be overwhelmed. We'll need to take it slowly, acquire things bit by bit. I'd prefer a stove and a refrigerator before beds. I'm happy to sleep on the floor for awhile if it means I can eat yogurt for breakfast and bake fresh rolls. I don't mind using our containers for tables and chairs and we can always string up our hammocks in the living room for relaxing.  But I forgot to mention the trees.

Jungle path we know well

It's not that I have taken them for granted. One of the things my morning walk to school, and even walks from building to building throughout the day, has resulted in has been a continual sense of gratitude and humility. I have realized how spoiled we've been for most of the moments we've lived here. (Occasionally the black flies and gossip mills have functioned at such extremes I have wished to be somewhere, anywhere off campus, but for the majority of minutes and hours and days, I have remained slightly in awe of our privilege.)The trees are as essential to me as air and so perhaps I forgot to mention I'll need a good dose of them around. I hope he won't mind living with trees.

the girl in the road- a sequel of sorts

In the midst of packing, as the days dwindle down, I am also trying to get in my last goodbyes. Of course, the internet makes a goodbye so much easier, less permanent. I remember back to 2001, my first trip to Guinea. Leaving people I'd met then seemed full of uncertainty. Telephones are lost, numbers changed.   Even though I managed to maintain email correspondence with some it always felt like they were on the edge of disappearing. And once gone, finding them again an impossibility.

This time around however it is so much more possible to remain in contact with friends, even if just on the fringes of facebook. As I get my last conversations in I feel hopeful- for return visits to Kin, for future collaborations, and for staying in touch.

After Aicha came to help me dismantle and roll up my paintings, I had just one more friend to seek out. I'd saved a painting for him- for the new office he'd told me they'd found- and I was anxious as well to ask some questions about the state of the state. I still had the boy in the road on my mind and I also wanted to know which government minister would be in charge of such things (realizing of course the problem has implications far beyond a government program. But you have to start somewhere, right?)

Ben stopped by on Wednesday afternoon and we launched easily into one of our long discussions. I'd almost forgotten how good it feels to talk with him. He is intelligent and thoughtful and full of direction.  And very hard to read. All qualities that have left me feeling, at various times, hopeful, inspired and woefully inadequate.  Stagnant and action-less.

But on this day I felt hopeful. I remarked on the ways he'd grown, more confident, more connected and more sure of his purpose. He updated me on the progress of his organization and how he was ready to step aside in November- hold elections for a new leader. As a founding member he'd been with the group since its inception and had worked hard to help it grow to this point. He told me more about the various projects they'd begun and the areas of social development they were working on.

One of the newer projects involved 4 orphanages around the city. They were working to provide regular food donations, tutoring in French and basic studies to get the kids school ready and computers with internet access- and classes to learn. They'd helped the kids to organize themselves into a form of government, the older ones being responsible for the younger. Representatives responsible for speaking out and standing up for the rest. They'd given out cell phones to those most in charge so they could connect with peers in the other orphanages-form some sort of social support network. Rely on each other as they grew.

He told me also of some of the complications that arose with adoption, which had been one of the results of the organization's fundraising and awareness efforts. Increased adoptions = increased numbers of Congolese children leaving the country. For many there appears to be a fine line between the costs of adoption and simply selling children. The organization became aware of children being stolen from the village areas and brought into the city to be sold. It can be hard to see the difference, I think, from the midst of poverty and corruption.  There had been several news items in the last few months alluding to similar issues. This one read a bit differently in the newspapers here. The on-line article makes her sound guilty of something while the printed reports suggested a lot more legality in the process and a lot less transparency by the courts. Apparently the girl had been legally adopted for years and no one was quite sure where the outrage and questions were suddenly coming from. Lack of proper pay-offs it was surmised. There is no end to the frustrations and delays involved with adopting- Italy even sent a plane  to retrieve children adopted by Italian parents. In the end, both Ben and I recognized a myriad of complications involved with adoptions as a main objective. He stated that the goal of his group was to be able to provide children with the same advantages that other Congolese children have- hence the concentration on food, education and access to a support network.

While Ben's group focuses on children in orphanages, I began to steer the conversation towards the plight of street children. Another complex and challenging issue. Orphanages are places where the kids live. Street children, on the other hand, often frequent day centers for a meal or a reprieve but they return to the streets- sometimes preferring the freedom and lack of rules that life offers. After years on their own, structure can be hard to handle. Trust is probably another issue they grapple with. And for many, I imagine though have never confirmed, being thrust back into the church - as orphanages and day centers are often beneficiaries of church charity groups and have members come in to preach to kids- a confusing and potentially terrifying experience. Especially for those whose families have tossed them out on advice from pastors or who have themselves been victims of abuses performed in the name of exorcism.  Any intervention must include a component on family education and consequences for  pastors. The research available on this seems inexhaustible. Every major NGO has conducted a study and written a report from UNICEF to Save the Children to Human Rights Watch. While everyone seems to recognize the problems and identify steps towards solutions, the process is agonizingly slow. And much too late for many of the kids already on the street. Like the boy I saw in the road.

I shared my story with Ben - the first time I'd actually put spoken words to it. I shared my shame and indecision and regret. " Was it over by the military camp? By Avenue 24 November?" he asked me shortly after I began.  "No. No it was out by Ndjili, " I told him.

And then he shared his own story. Of a girl in the road that very same morning. Early on Sunday he'd received a call. Ben has become something of a go-to guy for citizens around the city. When they don't know what to do, they call him. A woman had called around 6 in the morning to say there was a child in the street. Ben arrived shortly after and found that she was dead. Also a victim of being hit in the night by a car. He took some photos, arranged some branches and leaves in the road- the Congolese version of flares or orange cones- to alert travelers to proceed with caution and called someone from the Red Cross. Ahhh.....so there are the missing steps. The things I could have done for the boy I saw in the road, 40 km away and an hour earlier.

When the Red Cross guy showed up the police wouldn't let him remove the body. They insisted on having a form from some official department or other. "It's Sunday," Ben reasoned. "No one is open today. Are you going to leave her here until Monday?" In the end, they accepted formal Red Cross identification and let the man take the girl away. A day or so later Ben received another call requesting payment for the hospital and morgue services. He'd been working with his group to arrange a funeral, had prepared some words and a photo of the girl. But the payment and the burial he felt were the responsibility of the state.

He was so matter of fact and so competent in his handling of the entire affaire. I tried to imagine looking at a dead child in the street and taking pictures. Arranging branches. Checking a pulse. I want to be the person who could take charge in such a way. But I am not there yet. At least now I have a better idea about what to do next time. Ben assured me my intentions were what counted. I tried to grab onto that feeble statement- it's written in all the Good Books that God or Allah or Jehovah sees inside our hearts and minds and those are the ideas that count. But the child didn't really need intentions. He needed action. He deserved a funeral just as the girl in the road is receiving. An acknowledgement of a life lived, however short, however difficult and filled with suffering it might have been.

As our talk turned to civic education and the related painting I wanted to present, I realized how much I am still learning about how to live in Africa, how to be a better person, and how to take real, meaningful action. Several people have accused me of being brave in the last month or so. I don't think I am really there yet, but I certainly aspire to be there. Soon.

Six years in a box

The packing process inevitably begins with one of two self delusions. "It won't take that long," is the first hurdle one must cross. It could be the biggest hurdle because it is the one that leads to delay. Procrastination is one of my high arts. I have spent years justifying it in 2 ways. The first is based on a grand theory I have that mental work counts and so while I may appear to be putting off whatever task I am charged with, I am actually preparing mentally- which I believe is an essential part of the process, perhaps the hardest part and, once conquered, will lead to speedy and efficient action. Yeah.

The second is due to a college professor I had during my undergrad studies. He uttered some (deadly?) words of wisdom about my progress on my final art presentation that was a required part of graduation. I had worked and reworked and thrown out so many beginnings and parts of paintings......until the big date was just a week away. In the end I was able to produce 5 quality paintings as part of a series, with a bona vide theme and an artist's statement that made me sound like I'd been working on it for the whole semester. And I had, of course, mentally.  My professor was so impressed with my work he gave me an A+  - as much for the finished product as for the pain and confusion he knew all too well I had muddled through to come out on top. "Procrastination is a form of perfection," he'd said. "I've been there too. It is a process of delaying and thinking and working out how to get it just right. Until the last moment when it all just comes together." He'd given credit to my wayward approach and validated a habit that may or may not be to my benefit. It's become a way of working and as long as it's successful.....why fight my natural rhythms?

So, despite promising to use spring break and a variety of long weekends throughout the year to get a head start on my packing, I am here with days to go and a house full. The second grand delusion I am currently working through is, "We don't have that much stuff."  It's easy to look at a clean, neat house and think there isn't much hidden behind the doors, in the cupboards and the drawers. It's easy to think you have mastered the material demon and conquered attachment to earthly items. Until you have to think about leaving them behind forever. Added to this is the fact that we are not making a "stock up" trip to the US. In fact, a trip to the US seems like a far off uncertainty. What may have once been considered easy-to-replace has now become we-might-really-need-that.  Never mind the that-might-come-in-handy urge. That temptation needs to be silenced. No air play at all. That voice must be replaced with a series of no nonsense questions: Are you really gonna miss that? When is that last time you used that? How much does it weigh? And finally, compared to (insert much more useful, treasured item here) which do you really need?

Still, tough decisions have to be made. We are limited by the number of containers and suitcases we actually have on hand and by the cost of extra baggage. Books are heavy. Drums are heavier. Paintings are oddly shaped.  We can't take everything. With each day closer to our deadline, my resolve lightens. I become more and more un-attached. As I sit in the midst of my mess, I keep seeing Christian with his two bags. It's a good reality check.  He left his entire life behind, all his dance contacts, his music connections, his apartment and everything inside it. He packed up all his clothes, a few mementos and some necessary papers into 2 bags and set off for a brand new country. I have 12 containers at my disposal. Surely I can do this.

I am reminded that we are three people- though honestly, it's not the boys who have so much stuff. When I stop to consider, I realize I am not quite sure what is even in all these boxes. Little items to make our new home cozy. A bunch of clothes I can't actually wear right now. Blankets and towels. But really, what does packing up our entire life look like?

It's taken me months to accept that my paintings will have to be
removed from their frames. Aicha came over to help and lend
moral support. I'm fearful they'll never get restretched and remain
in a roll in the back of a closet somewhere.

A few paintings are on unconventional materials and can't be
removed from their frames. These get the ultimate in packing
treatment- wrapped in Vlisco fabric, gracious gift from a parent

Piles of books we hope to take

Piles of books we won't be taking

More piles....piles everywhere

Except it really looks like this because I am packing in the dark
3 weeks and several work order requests to have the light repaired =
a semi-romantic, candlelit packing experience

Half empty closets and more little piles

Bags of old shoes and clothes for my street kids- who have
managed to disappear these past two days. Nowhere to be found.
Were I cruising the boulevard with empty pockets, however,
I know they would surround me by the dozens. 

This egg holder makes the to-go pile for a variety of reasons 

A sculpture- luckily lighter than it appears- in the stubborn
must go pile (Ivory Coast flag added by me for moral support.
It will make a box, board the plane and liven up our space in Abidjan.) 

The boy in the road

By the time I saw him, I guess he was more of a body in the road. It was 5:30 am. Still dark on a Sunday morning. I had just dropped Christian off at the airport. The roads were clear and the ride there had been without incident. Well, except for an odd little skirmish between two drivers. We'd come upon them having a meltdown of some sort.  Though there were 4 lanes- 2 in each direction- one of the cars was on the wrong side of the road. The other, a small van, was preventing the car from returning to the correct lane. Every time the car sped up or slowed down, the van followed suit.  I kept my distance from the two, uncertain what exactly was transpiring between them and how long it had been going on.

Four a.m. is an odd hour to be out in Kinshasa. While traffic is thin, most of what is out there are people still finishing off their night. It means they are well intoxicated and full of whatever ambiance they've just left behind at the club. We were a considerable distance from the city center however and so I couldn't really tell when or where the dispute had begun. A car crept up behind us and seemed to sense the good reason of our strategy. He also stayed far behind. The two dragsters sped off into the distance.

We came upon them again, pulled over to the side of the road. The car who'd been following us had begun to pass us and then swerved over into the lane of oncoming traffic- empty now. I did the same as we passed the odd couple, figuring it best to take no chances. Leaving the two behind to sort out their differences, we continued on to the airport without further excitement.

Ndjili was quiet and we easily made our way inside to pay the fees and taxes and check the bags. Then it was that time.....the time to enter where only ticketed passengers can go. Christian and I said our goodbyes and I made my way back to the car. Kinshasa already looked different to me without him.

The sun had not yet risen from its slumber as I made my way back to Kintambo. Sunday mornings are a jogging morning and I'd remarked on more than one occasion the number of joggers that gather together for the early morning run. The closer to the airport you get, the more you encounter until it is a steady mass of people, many jogging in the median- a practice I have never quite understood but vaguely sense to be a bit safer than trying to make your way down the nonexistent sidelines.

The joggers run facing traffic and many can also be found wearing karate uniforms, doing the random boxing move and other exercises. I drove through the darkness keeping my eyes alert. At one point, as I crossed a small bridge, the number of people crowded on each side of the road left only a narrow passageway for the cars and taxi buses to pass through.  Here the people had assembled to perform a variety of exercises including a jumping twist turn and squat thrusts and whatever else you might imagine training athletes doing. They were a mixed group of people, young and old, boys, men, and women. All getting their early morning work out in.

I'd just passed the bridge and the throngs of people when I saw him. The exercisers were beginning to thin out, being replaced now by the vendors and those on their way to church. The road opened up but the sides were still filled with people. Some random groups of joggers ran down the middle of the road next to the cement divider.  And there he lay in the middle of the 8 lane highway. A young boy.

I can't remember if I swerved to avoid him or if I was already in the lane just able to pass him. My mind  first tried to understand what it was in the middle of the road and then to make sense of it. An impossibility.  It's a person. A boy. Sleeping. Not in the middle of this kind of road.  This huge highway of road that is filled with taxi buses and cars racing through it. Not this road that would, in an hour or so I knew, be completely overflowing with traffic and pedestrians and vendors and police.

But still, sleeping seemed to be the best my mind could do at the moment. Because life was going on all around us. Women were carrying bowls of bread to be sold, people waited for taxis- a big crowd of people was waiting for taxis to my right and to my left, just on the other side of the cement median, guys were jogging by. Heck, someone was crossing the road on foot. Surely they all saw him there. He must have been hit- except there were no crowds of angry, yelling people, as accidents normally draw. There was no car stopped anywhere in sight. Just the morning darkness and this boy in the road.

And me driving by, leaving him behind as everyone else had done. I thought about what I could do, what I should do. I couldn't really come up with anything. There is no 911. There's no police or ambulance to call. By stopping, I would immediately implicate myself in the accident and become a source of blame requiring some monetary intervention. What I wish I'd done was stop at the crowd and inquire. Ask someone- do you see that boy? what is happening? Because even now, I can't stop seeing him and wondering.

At that moment, Christian happened to call. I might have been able to continue driving in my stupefied state if he hadn't called just then. As it was, I burst into tears. He became immediately alarmed and had to call me back two more times to make sure it wasn't I who had hit someone. By then, I'd pulled off the road, the confusion swirling through my mind to such a degree I could no longer talk and drive. I'd already missed my turn.

"A small boy," I told him, "just there in the middle of the road. And no one was doing anything about it." Even me, I added to myself tempted to go back. To be sure I saw what I thought. To try and make something happen. Christian offered solace but told me to go home. Keep driving, just go home. The only sensible advice in a country like this- where the best intentions always lead down the path of the worst consequences.

The sun was beginning to rise and I continued on my way, thankful that the daylight meant no one would accidentally run over his body in the cover of darkness. The light would compel the passersby and the police to take some action. Too late, surely, but action nonetheless.

And me? What of my action?  My responsibility? I took it all as another sign that it is time to get out of this country. Before I really begin to detest the person I am becoming.  Upon arriving home I did the only thing I can think to do. Packed up all our old shoes and the boys old clothes and set off to find my groups of street kids. Because it could have been any one of them out there, in the middle of the road with no one to care and no one to stop. Its a useless action.  It doesn't do anything to make me feel better about what I saw or how I responded. I'm haunted by the boy in the road.

Magic in Kinshasa

The very last days are upon us and I am beginning to get a sense of how real this is. We're leaving. I am keeping a mental list of things I'll miss and...maybe things I won't miss so much- inspired by a hilarious teacher's speech during our annual faculty goodbye dinner. He began by remembering last year's dinner and a particular speech he'd made about missing someone's spouse. "Turns out," he said this year,"I didn't exactly miss him as much as I thought. There just wasn't a void. Now --- on the other hand, him? I actually missed a lot this year. Should have saved my big speech for him."

I am trying to remember that often it is the unexpected, hidden things we miss most. And so I keep my eyes wide and try to see Kinshasa with new eyes each time we go out. I'm also trying to build a few last minute memories of happiness to take along the road. For all the nuisances and misunderstandings of Kin, I do know her. And I sense it will be the knowing of her that I miss most.

In my search for those memories on the go, I set out with Nabih for a magic show at my favorite cultural center, l'Halle de Gombe, a place I know well and can be counted on to live up to expectations. Everything there is fabulous. They were offering a free show in the library and I was ready for some good old fashioned fun and disbelief. I found it was a lot easier for me to suspend my belief as an adult than many of the kids (read: Nabih) found it. Even as their faces were lighting up with joy and surprise, they were also trying hard to discern the trick, to figure out the secret and call the magician on it. For the most part, I had as much fun watching them as I did watching the show- when they were cooperating and being wowed and awed by the performance like proper children should. I found such delight in going with the illusions and not worrying about how it was all done.

The magician performed an assortment of the expected magic tricks- slights of hands with magic balls and scarves appearing out of ears and out of hats. He ate a balloon and spit out a deck of playing cards. He transformed 3 different sized ropes into equal sizes and eventually into 1 long rope. He made water magically appear in a pair of porcelain bowls.

Rabbit out of a hat trick--er, rather, rabbit eggs out of a hat

But he also did some fascinating mind reading tricks. He bent metal forks- despite several men in the audience testing them out and being unable to bend them one way or another- into shape or out of it. He levitated himself off the floor, made a cup of water hang magically in the air and performed a spell binding routine involving a moving flame and a dancing red light. He got the kids up front involved and for the more sophisticated tricks he moved into the back of the audience and involved some of the adults as well. I had a smile on my face the entire time. Such joy. He must find so much pleasure in making people happy.

The flame moved from this candle to the fabric
to his arm and back to the candle. It then transformed
to a red glow, was displaced onto a drinking glass
and took a tour into the audience popping up
from under shirts and behind ears.......

Some of his tricks involved music, adding to the mysterious ambiance of the performance. About halfway through the show, just after one of the fork bending tricks I think, several people in the back got up to leave. Based on the magician's response, fled would be a more apt description of their departure. He appealed first to them and then to their colleagues who stayed. "Do they think it is sorcery?" he inquired. He went on to explain that surely for everything he does, there is a secret. He's studied for a long time and practices often. It is an art. But there should be no confusion with religion. Religion is great for the soul, for the spirit but magic is something else entirely.

He went to lament that in the past there had been many Congolese magicians, often appearing in France and Belgium and right here at l'Halle. But now, not so many. They had stopped the practice of illusions and began calling themselves 'priests' and were suddenly quite wealthy. "Something to reflect on, non?" He posed the question to the crowd- a bit of social education happening on the spot. "Be careful about who you put your trust in."

It reminded me of a play I'd seen just the week before at one of the local schools. Two of the kids were pastors and used their deep voices to impersonate the Sunday sermons. "Au nom de JesusChrist," they intoned while raising their hands above the head of a child. Though I missed many of the small details of the play (my French doesn't handle garbled microphone speak very well) the lesson was clear. Be wary of priests proclaiming child sorcery and magic.  Be careful who you put your faith in and how much control you give them over your life.  And love your children. Cherish them, value them and keep them safe.

It was a bit disheartening to me to hear my own child being so cynical about the magic show. I myself had been enthralled. He claimed to know how all the tricks were done and didn't really receive my request to suspend belief and let the awe wash over him. Despite the fact that he's growing up and getting ready to go out into the world apparently, I welcomed the entertainment as pure fun. I was enraptured and simply delighted. Magic in Kinshasa. One memory in a box all wrapped up with a bow and ready for packing.

Open up your imagination......