The Breaking

I meant to call this Paquinou....and write about the Brock beer ads I've been seeing around in honor of the Easter holiday (Paques in French...Paquinou presumably a French-Baoule hybrid of some sort.) The ads play on the -inou suffix and suggest Brockinou....a beer for the holiday. (Gotta respect Ramadan, a holiday which inspired Maagi cube to post 10 meter wide images of family and food with some kind of tagline like 'add some flavor to your holiday.' Turns out the alcohol ad is a point of contention among Ivoirians. Paquinou has a reputation for "sex et alcool a gogo' among some.)

I've been told Easter is an important holiday for Baoule and the symbolism of rebirth is strong. They make pilgrimages to Yamoussoukro to experience mass in the largest cathedral in the world, as well as to their villages. The city sons and daughters return to their families to help with all number of village matters from settling disputes to holding funerals. The holiday also falls in conjunction with the beginning of the rainy season and all things agriculture come into focus. The most important agenda, however, is the development of the village. Meetings are held and decisions are made about where funds will best be spent to advance the standing of the village. Everyone must be present for this.

It is ironic then, that just this morning I passed a scene of the Breaking. The Breaking happens all over Africa, I am convinced (I have only witnessed it in 2 countries, but I feel certain it is a continent wide occurrence.)

There is a corner by the mosque that was in rough shape when I first moved here. The street in this area was comprised of half built - or half fallen- cement storefronts and exposed iron rebar. Slowly, the shops were repaired, painted and open for business. A hairstylist, a boutique, a women's clothing spot. Little stores, not much more than a 3 or 4 meters wide inside. But someone's livelihood.

Out front, the usual collection of cell phone minute sellers and women grilling plantains or peanuts, small stands selling bread and street snacks. Several someones earning a living.

This morning, traffic backed up at this intersection- not really so unusual on a Friday afternoon (the mosque draws a crowd) but on a Saturday morning, something was up. As we passed, I saw military with guns, a rare sight around town. They were blocking the turn off and guarding the line of entrepreneurial businesses. Men were working to carry a refrigerator out of their shop and across the road. Women grabbed all they could carry, making trips back and forth across the busy street.

A large yellow bulldozer cranked up it's engine and began ramming right into the first steel structure. It wasn't much, a shack really that had housed some women's dresses and hair supplies. It crumpled in seconds. The men were still struggling with the refrigerator a few meters away.

Crowds lined the street. Everyone came out to witness. To help. To express their disdain. The Breaking continued. I completed my few errands and was on the return about 20 minutes later. Two guys were carrying the sign for their barbershop across the street- a heavy, fancy sign designed with lights. A soldier was using a hammer to pull down the tin roof of the former boutique. All of the contents had been ferried across the street by now. They'd been dropped in a huge pile and a chain of humans was tossing the goods, fireman style, one by one down the line and finally into a waiting van.

I am never really sure why the Breaking occurs. When we'd first passed, a woman in the taxi was distraught. She mentioned that they'd done this once before. Visions of the crumbling walls with beautiful designs came back to me. At that time, I'd wondered why this stretch of the street was in such disrepair. Now I understood.

What I don't understand is how they'd been allowed to rebuild. Time, money, an almost sense of security. Then, broken again. There are many 'reasons'- from not being there legally to someone else "buying" up the land and deciding it will be developed for another purpose. I can't dispute or discuss the reasons. I don't have enough information about the details.

The method, however, clearly could be improved upon. And the timing. During this season that is supposed to be about rebirth, new beginnings, and community development, there's a whole lot of families who woke up employed, business owners, perhaps barely scraping by but scraping....suddenly out. Just done. Nothing. Doesn't bode for a good start.

I hate the Breaking. It's discouraging, confusing and reinforces the powerlessness of the people. Surely there is a better way. The big ugly mess on the corner will be a visible reminder for weeks, if not months to come of spirit of the people. They'll clean it up, clean it out, and rebuild.

Until the next breaking.


  

Shinrin-yoku...and other sights

I spent a recent afternoon giving private lessons in a beautiful backyard mesmerized by this tree. I could barely take my eyes off her, imagining all sorts of intimate interactions between us. I wanted to draw her curves and fill a canvas with her full green top in sloppy strokes and thick piles of paint. I felt an intense need to climb her branches, hang a hammock in the dark, cozy middle and be rocked to a deep and comforting sleep. I longed to be encompassed by that tree. I yearned to set up a camp beneath her canopy and pass days and nights listening to stories of wisdom as the wind rustled through her branches.

In the end, all I could do was snap this photo, which doesn't really do her any justice at all.

A few other random photos - not sure why my camera phone always seems to be on it's last legs...more of that magnetic aura surrounding me, interfering with all things electronic....

The shoe pile...love this place

Mbalia's sweet school- reminds me of my own pre-school,
Toddler Town, with a similar wide porch and bright colors
(although my pre-school had two red & blue wooden soldiers
out front- definitely nicer without the soldiers)

And this one from the RDC Embassy...I don't know if the original color was blue (seems like maybe it should have been green) but the irony of a national office of tourism struck me a little too hard as I struggled to accept my visa woes.

Na Pasi

The Congo visa story does not have a happy ending. It has been a difficult week of ups and downs, hopes built and squashed, possibilities presented and retracted. In the end, I just couldn't make it happen. The demands were too convoluted and too expensive to meet.

While it is not a personal thing, (my own search for a visa included numerous tales of others jumping through hoops and standing on heads only to be denied at the end, despite all their acrobatics and money and effort ) it still  feels personal. It is a reminder that I am - yet again- an "other." I do not belong and have no connection to claim. This Congo that inspires an intense longing and desire to fill my senses with her air, her sounds, her energy. She has rejected me.

I am left searching for the next step. Luckily, there are quite a few things to be done. Among them- start learning Bambara. It will be helpful to have some familiarity with the language before we arrive. July will be here in no time.

-And while I am too tired to try and make a smooth transition, this story somehow feels connected to me and has been popping up in my on-line browsing, inbox and social media. An overwhelming sense of powerlessness fueling so many human interactions these days.

Syria

Between embassies

Trying to get to Congo on the end of a kite
The kite string broke, and down they all fell.....

When I was at the RDC embassy, a woman came in full of loud laughter which served only to mask the berating nature of her words. She was supposed to leave for Kinshasa that night and was wondering if she should cancel her plane ticket.

I gathered that she had family there, grown children with a Congolese spouse from the sound of it. She herself was clearly Ivorian and she was having a terrible time getting confirmation. But she barged into the office and sat down in the middle of my meeting with such confidence and familiarity that it seemed clear she'd done this before.

I've been having wildly fluctuating ideas about my trip- everything from it's too expensive to a soul searching why am I even doing this to I really need this trip- and throwing in the visa uncertainty isn't helping. I am trying to adjust to no expectations. If I get the visa, great, I will go explore, reflect, and experience. And if I don't, then I'll find a plan B.

But even as I try to will my mind into accepting this flexible, free flowing attitude, a stubborn part of me is resisting. Why? Why the hell is it so hard to get into Congo? (And of course, being me, this is having an immediate adverse effect. It's so hard to get into Congo that I simply must get in. I'm not sure I even really want to go, but if they are going to refuse than I just have to try harder.) 

I did some quick searching to try and figure out why some countries are more difficult to get into than others. Congo didn't actually make any of the lists I found about unwelcoming countries or those with the hardest to get visas. And while these sites break the cost/effort ratio down for travelers, they don't really explain why a country would want to essentially refuse visitors.

Campos and Kimeria each write about their perspectives on African travel and visa procurement from the economic standpoint and as a curious traveler. I've also long experienced the difficulty of non-Americans in trying to get a US visa. But knowing it all exists doesn't explain why.

The US will state their fear of immigrants entering (in search of the dream) and then having no means of support. In recent months, this fear has been expanded to include all sorts of other random reasons and just plain coming out with the truth- racism- or ethnicism. The US doesn't really want you unless you're rich, white and male.

I'm not really clear what kind of visitor Congo is looking for. Connected, I guess. On my original visit, I was told by a secretary that I should have someone at my embassy call someone at his embassy. "You know, between embassies," he said, "things can happen."

In search of ghosts

There are always a million reasons why I haven't written -most to do with logistics, ie  my magnetic interference with all things electronic- but it is also the continued disenchantment with this city (through no fault of her own, perhaps.) I feel a need to add that last part because I know plenty of people fall in love with Abidjan- and a friend of mine wrote me these words, which probably have a ring of truth to them. "All countries are fabulous, it's just the heart perspective from where we're experiencing it."

And the heart perspective these last 3 years has been a little traumatized. I think I have needed a lot more nurturing and immersion than I can find here. Phil, the infamous camel drawing, blogger, traveler and restaurant owner, shares his thoughts about learning a language here. Granted, the post is a few years old, but it reminded me of all that I loved about learning Lingala. I completely agree that "if you  can understand how a language operates you are learning more than a means of communication, you are learning about a culture."

Not having a language to learn has thrown me off a bit, although truly the contracted French here really qualifies as it's own language. A stop in the Kinshasa embassy filled my ears with Lingala and made me realize once again how much I miss the sounds of African languages. So, before I get started with my Bambara studies, I am off to reconnect with my Lingala.

Preparing to return to Congo is an exercise in itself. A friend suggested perhaps I am searching down ghosts and it is more than possible he is right. But I have made several appointments with strong women, hopefully to inspire and motivate me. Maybe even kill off those ghosts altogether.

I've acquired a list of little bits of nothing intended to give a picture of life here (taxi drivers who pick you up with one destination agreed upon, only to change their mind half- way through and drop you off at a random location, without charge, but less convenient for finding new transport; a supremely congested traffic jam reminiscent of Kinshasa lock ups; the way a neighborhood street will fill up with tents for a wedding or birthday, and a soccer field transformed into a nighttime cafe) but none of these inspire a real story.

My experiences here have been tainted with the overwhelming amount of time I spend working. While understanding the French elite has opened a new perspective, it is not exactly the one I've been longing for.

So I am off in search of ghosts and whatever remnants of myself I left behind in Congo before embarking on another adventure- new language, new customs and new dance rhythms to learn.

** I've just come across this phenomenon of Japanese forest bathing. I've long recognized living in the jungle was a huge part of my seduction to Kinshasa. I have a deep love and attachment to trees, Instead of chasing ghosts, I will imagine a soul soothing forest bath.

Some images from around town:

Traveling preacher- a little morning church on your doorstep 

Piles of bones- tree slaughter continues

These great musicians played at our arts fest-I'm pretty sure
that's the music manifesting itself 

The weaver let me try his "bike." Even
though my mind repeated the steps, my
feet didn't always pay attention. 

How many years does it take to get lightning
quick like him?

The tents go up, the road closes. Celebration underway

I love this tree at the dance studio
It's like she's wearing her own
costume

My neighbor and I had a discussion about
whether tables at night on the soccer pitch
was ridiculous or entrepreneurial...
A few days later the addition of a small tv
 (rabbit ears style) seemed to give some merit
to her ridiculous vote. 

More of the balafonists...it was great to play
with them. Looking forward to more lessons
in my new spot 

Definitely gonna miss my favorite pottery teacher
and his wry grin whenever the pots get too "artistic"