Asylum denied

In the midst of other research, I came across this account of an asylum seeker who was ultimately denied his request in 2007. It is obvious that the judges have never been to Congo. While there is no way of knowing whether the case merits the decision, it is possible the appellant could be telling the truth. Or perhaps better put, the reasons offered for dismissal do not necessarily support accusations that the appellant is lying.  

The judges claim that too many of the details don't add up, the events are unbelievable, too vague at times, or too many inconsistencies at other times and...all too often, simply mysterious. Sounds very Congo. Very in keeping with the way life works here- messy, incomprehensible, illogical, at odds with other accounts, and always full of conflicting perspectives. Yes, that is a description of daily life here.  

The story is that the appellant was a member of UDPS, who eventually led a sub-cell of the party, and participated in a march during which he was arrested. Hie was incarcerated, moved several times, did not know where he was being held, yet finally managed to escape. The details of the escape were especially troubling for the judges. It seems the man was randomly put in charge of other prisoners, and, at one point, inexplicably sent outside to purchase soft drinks. During the purchase, he came into contact with someone who had been sent to help him escape. He was put into a car and accompanied out of the country, first to Brazzaville, then Benin, Cote d'Ivoire, Tunisia, and finally England, where he was making his asylum appeal. 

The decision outlines all of the inconsistencies and small details that the judges held issue with. I say again, it is clear they have never been to Congo. The first sign of something amiss in Congo would be a story that is neat and clean and makes perfect sense. Nothing in Congo follows the logic of the world outside. There are several reasons for this, but one simple contributing factor is that people don't often ask questions. They don't often seek clarification. People themselves are content to follow where the road takes them. Mbisi alandaka kaka bisika mayi ezo tshola. Fish always follow where the water runs. Fish don't stop to question why the water is running that way, or who decided the water should flow through here, exactly. No, fish can't even see the river banks and cannot tell what is coming up ahead. But they are content to swim along with others, and where they are not content, sometimes they are more simply pulled by a current they cannot resist. Can fish swim backwards? 

Even when asked, questions cannot always be answered. While there might have been a time when I, too, would consider it highly implausible that a prisoner would be sent outside to buy drinks, I now understand that something like this could easily happen. Perhaps the guard was implicit in the escape plan (money can be a powerful persuader, and it likely wouldn't take much.) Perhaps the guard was feeling lazy or just wanted to exercise his power by ordering someone else to do something mundane. It seems more plausible that he was part of the plan. It is probably too much to think the man at the drink stand was coincidentally there. Certainly he'd been prepared with a car and driver and a time to appear. Certainly a guard had been instructed to feel rather thirsty at a particular time of day. Or maybe just to get the man outside, however he could, and that is the creative idea he developed. 

As far as escape plans go, it seems to make perfect (Congo) sense that one wouldn't offer their name or too much explanation about who they represent, where the destination would be or why any of it was happening. The less said the better. Going along with a stranger is surely a non-decision when considering the alternative is to return to prison. If, while buying a drink outside prison walls, a stranger comes up and says get in the car, the soon-to-be ex-prisoner can only imagine that person was sent by God. Of course, he would follow. And if God's messenger refused to introduce himself or offer details of the why and how, the soon-to-be ex-prisoner could only accept the silence and continue to be thankful for his chance at freedom. 

He is not thinking about the need to document the reality of his situation. He is not remembering which day it is or which hour. He is palm sweating, breathing hard, calming heart, keeping eyes wide while trying to not look, hoping this is not a dream. Moving forward. Following the water as far as it goes and hoping there is not a net in front of him. 

Research and interviews with people who have spent time in Congolese prisons all support many of the details of the experience. Not enough food, unsanitary conditions, constant movement between holding places. Beatings, torture. It's really hard to determine if the appellant is describing things as they are rumored to be or as he lived them. It all sounds completely plausible to me. Right down to the idea that he can't remember if he spent one day or a week in Benin. Knowing Congo, knowing the way things happen in the cloak of night, where days blend into another, where you are shuffled along without clear knowledge of intention or direction but simply instructed to do and so follow, yes all of these things seem completely plausible. That is the grand problem here. The lack of logic, consistency, and reason leads too often to situations that seem incredible. But that doesn't mean at all that they aren't true. 

The judges want formal membership cards (the appellant did leave the prison and the country directly. Was he supposed to stop home and grab all of his papers and cards and belongings?) They want letters that show position and rank, dates of entry and promotion without really recognizing that meeting minutes and lists of presence are not habitual protocol. It seems very much as though the decision takes all of the cultural considerations out of the equation. I am sure it is hard to determine truth from a part of the world where multiple truths exist with such frequency. 

Last night I happened to read a Twitter thread about a bank robbery. One of the guards was said to have made off with slightly more than a million dollars. Immediately the commentators have suspicions. How can a guard know the code and obtain the key to the vault. Surely he was helped by someone higher up. Or maybe he was paid to take the official blame for this while the real thieves make off with the rest of their cash. Or he was just set up completely and hasn't gotten any money, just the blame. Consensus on the thread is that the guard played a minimal role and those to blame hold positions in the higher echelons of the institution. They also recognize that the monthly salary of the guard, who is supposed to keep millions of dollars secure, should probably be reconsidered. Someone making 400$ a month in charge of millions will always feel tempted, they say, though no one offers an ideal amount that would somehow make the millions less appealing. Is there ever an ideal amount that, once reached, satiates the desire for more?

I noticed that the story was immediately pulled apart and analyzed with a cultural bent- people understood motivations, circuits of information, possibilities for corruption and collusion- all of the kinds of things missing from the English judges consideration. They understood impossibilities and hierarchies of action. Meanwhile, over in England, the judges were looking at photos and analyzing random object placement. In one photo, a chair is empty. In the second photo, there is an item on the seat. What does that mean, exactly? A shirt that appears white despite beatings and bleedings? Is that evidence? Somehow, it seems less plausible that a group of men would get together and stage a photo than the possibility that in the minutes between photos, an item may have been placed on a chair. Or that a shirt might not show the effects of being hit. I really wonder how clear the photos are and what is apparent and what must be construed. 2005- the date of events- is not that long ago,  and yet it was an era before deep social media, before everyone seemed to have a camera in their pocket. What is the quality of the image and what does it really show? 

I would be much more suspicious of a story that includes places, names, dates and hours. I would be much more suspicious of membership cards, letters, and photographs with all the right people and props in all the right places. And it seems likely, to me anyway, that if someone were going to lie about their experience, they would make sure to have all of those details. They would prepare a list of days and minutes, making sure to rehearse the sequence of events. If someone were making up a story, they might add some drama- an escape through a door left partially open by a guard bribed with cash or promises of grandeur. It seems to me a made up story would have full characters, a car chase, a plot. Something more than silence. Confusion. The appellant makes a statement about his bloody nose...which he saw "mixed with my tears." It is a big statement, an admission of crying. In all of my interviews, the participants talk about beatings and torture. They talk about hardship. No one talks about tears. Or crying. Or giving up hope. And the appellant is not really talking about that either. He is talking about having a bloody nose, which does not mean gushing. A bloody nose can be a quiet, subtle affair, especially when watered down with tears. 

There is really no way to know if the story is true. In the end, it remains just a story. A story that has been offered sincerely, or embellished, or made up entirely. Although, I suspect, nothing is ever entirely false, just as nothing is ever entirely true. There are only bits and pieces of reality and dreams and skewed perceptions; there are only misunderstandings, miscommunication and outright denial mixed in with sensual information, a network itself susceptible to misinterpretation, highly impressionable by environmental factors. Memories can be funny things. A little bit of what we thought would happen, what we wanted to happen, what really happened, and what would have been better if it had happened instead. 

Whatever happened, I sympathize greatly with the appellant, who is told outright that his story is a lie. It simply didn't happen. How to digest the fact of someone denying your reality, your existence, your story? We are only the sum of our stories, and if these are rejected, what are we left with? Who are we left to be? 

Shape shifters and stone benders

I’d been looking for a new house. I had hoped to replace my current brood of neighbors with trees and birds. I wanted a move out of the “city” and into the foresty mountains just outside of town. I want nature to greet me every morning, although I might argue that I have that in my current place. Really, Gemena is one big village. There are a few things to consider while I wait for the perfect place to draw me. 

One, and perhaps most important to me, is light. I can appreciate windows with glass window panes that allow the sunlight to fill up each room. Many of the houses I have been considering have small windows with wooden shutters. Once the window is closed, all light is extinguished. There are reasons for the small windows. Most of life is lived outside and so there is little need for expensive glass panes. 

There are also thieves. The farther from the city, the more frequent the tales of robbers in the night. In my small circle of acquaintances, the majority of them have a tale of thievery. It is disheartening in a place where poverty is extreme. The goods available to steal hardly seem worth the trouble, and yet, their absence means the difference between living in poverty or living in destitution. People tell stories of having every single thing stolen from the house- the food, the clothes, the small stock of flour for foufou.

I am a light sleeper and I wonder how it is that the occupants never seem to wake up. There are stories to explain this. I am told the fetishers, those who know the magic, have small stones they place outside the door. With one tap, the stone releases energy that puts the inhabitants into a deep sleep. So deep they are able to lift your sleeping body and steal the mattress from under you. Alternatively, they are known to cut holes in the mud house walls or to remove the bricks one by one until there is an opening to enter and extract goods. The best fetishers don’t need to bother with that. They are able to hit the wall and be inside, where they will amass all the materials in one pile, hit the wall again and be outside with the treasures. 

This was the explanation my boxing coach offered for what happened to him. I had brought back a few small items to support his growing junior club. Nothing big, a head guard, some mouth guards, sparring mitts and some jump ropes. He went to the president of the league to offer thanks for putting us in touch and to show him the fruits of that connection. Maybe this attempt at respecting cultural norms went awry. 

Later that night, thieves infiltrated his small room and stole everything except the three shirts he’d been using as a pillow. I can still see him shaking his head as he describes the porridge he likes to eat every morning. “They even took my breakfast.” It’s hard to imagine why. 

Clearly this theft was more than just for capital gain. Likely intended for moral oppression. The next morning at training, some of the young boxers were refusing to participate. He tried to send them home, telling them discipline is everything. When they reluctantly got up and tried to join, he refused. “No, go home and come back tomorrow when you are ready to work. Otherwise you are just a distraction for everyone else.” 

“Oh, so you don’t know who has your phone?” They alluded to other items that had been taken. It escalated quickly from there, with threats and name calling. People don’t take easily to outsiders here. They told him to go back where he came from. And if he didn’t? They made it clear they had connections which they would easily call in. Arrest, kidnapping, whatever it took to keep him from training. 

He was calm during the telling. He has a sweet smile and a soft face- so incongruent with his boxing passion. My coach in Kinshasa was the same. Exuding gentleness and inner peace. But at that moment in the story, I could see tears filming his eyes. He knows he does not have any support here, a Kinshasa transplant like me. No friends to call on if anything did happen. No family to notice he was missing. 

Like many of us visitors to Gemena, he came here for work. A stepping stone to a better life, to more opportunity. But boxing is his passion and the thought of giving it up was breaking through his cool composure. For a second. He took a visible breath and offered up a hopeful smile. I wondered where the strength came from. 

He stopped by a few days later to confirm he’d retrieved some of his things. Brand new boxing items in Gemena were bound to stand out. But his tale is one of many that I’ve heard, though the others were less personal, perhaps. You can never really be sure what motivates someone to come and take away your little bit of nothing. 

I ran into the president of the league later the same day I’d heard the story. This guy is a shape shifter to me. I’ve have seen him three times and each time I did not recognize him at all. The first time he had a hat and cowboy boots. His nose was long, his face rough and dark. He was tall. The second time I saw him in Kinshasa was at the Palace du Peuple, of all places. He was dressed smartly and blended in with the atmosphere of the capital. This final time I was leaving the medical clinic, walking down the rocky dirt road. He called me from a distance and came running over. He appeared short and young with smooth light skin. I never know it is him until he tells me his name. I know his name. We walked and talked, and I wondered at the coincidence. 

He started the conversation by asking me to support the league with supplies. I told him I’d learned my lesson about gifting people things. I felt my efforts had brought a cloud of jealousy raining hate and anger on the young boxer. I launched into a lot of sideways talk with the president, not wanting to come out and tell him the story, but assuming he should know. He pretended innocence. I told him as the president, he should be aware of what was happening amongst the clubs. And even more, he should be playing a role in bringing them together, to represent the city. A win for one was a win for all. 

I led our discussion to talk of the civil war, something that had hit Gemena hard. I asked him if he had been present then. Yes, he had. All the more reason to understand the seriousness of interclub conflict. All the more reason for him to take a leadership role in bringing about unity. He had little room but to agree. Honestly, I don’t know where these words came from or why I felt so strongly. 

Living in extreme poverty makes everything feel extreme. Living in Gemena has been full of opposition- fluctuating between the possible and the impossible, trying to discern between truth and fiction, deciding whether to hold onto hope or give in to despair. The answer is just yes. Because life in Africa keeps showing me that multiple realities exist. All things can be true at once. Science and tradition. The seen and unseen. Gentle thieves who steal your things in the night and ask you to donate to their cause in the light of day.

The man on the porch

 There's a man who sleeps in front of our door every night. We know him, sort of. His name is Pierre and he is our sentinelle, our guard. I wonder often if we need to have a guard, and everyone assures me we do. Living in Africa as a stranger means you need a guard outside your door. I have had a lot of experiences with sentinelles, from those who stay in a guard house near the gate of the property to those who are further away, guarding the entrance to campus. But this time, we live in a house, without a fence or a gate, and so I guess that is what merits this man sleeping just outside our door.

We have a porch with iron bars around the front. It would be a nice porch for sitting on at night and looking across into the sky. But Pierre's grass mat takes up most of the space. He usually begins by sitting on the ground in front of the porch. It's a comical image, this small thin man sitting on his large square mat with the pink house looming behind him. It doesn't seem possible he could be guarding any part of it. 

Most of the guards I have had experience with are often older men who appear somewhat frail. I am always perplexed about the criteria that has propelled them into the position of guard. Pierre came with the house. He is actually a very good guardian. I hear him getting up every few hours, circling the perimeter, shining his light in all the windows, and checking the doors to make sure they're locked. 

I am a very light sleeper and all of Pierre's movements wake me with the rhythm of a newborn. Every two hours the metal gate creaks. I hear his radio emissions, his coughing, and all of the other sounds of humans. I am sure he hears ours. Pierre never gets a day off. He sleeps outside in the rain and in the cool crisp air of the dry season. I have been wondering how to find a solution for this. Of course, it is to hire another guard so they can share hours. I wonder also about Pierre's family, who say goodbye to him every evening and his wife, who sleeps alone every night. 

We need another guard at work, so those sentinelles can also have a day off. I wanted to suggest Pierre switch over to that job. It pays better than I can pay. But then I would be left with the problem of finding someone to stay at my place, in much closer proximity than I am really comfortable with. 

I was pretty convinced for about two weeks that I didn't need a guard. We have metal bars on every window and metal doors with locks and bolts. I thought I could put a padlock on the gate around the porch and call it good. But then I passed a Twitter photo someone had posted after a break in. Their metal window frames had been ripped from the concrete and were hanging loosely like crepe paper after a Halloween raid. Concrete is nowhere near as solid and strong as I had been led to believe. The thing about having no guard is that, if a band of thieves did show up, there is no one to call. There is no emergency 911 or police response team. I would just be here on my own, waiting it out or worse. 

I'd been joking with a colleague about the problem of guards and she recalled a conversation she had with her guard- something about "if I have to kill someone..." to which she said, ooooh no, we're not going that far. But he had slashed someone's leg one time. An intruder trying to get at....whatever is there. Which is really the problem. There's nothing here to take, but no one would assume that. We'd all be getting hurt for nothing. 

Guards in Mali had the same preoccupation, only it was a bit more severe. Terrorist intrusion is a much more probable event in Bamako than I imagine it is here. Of course, you're only imagining until it is real. Suddenly, the unlikely is happening and either you're prepared or not. 

Here I have heard mostly stories of stealing goats or chickens. We don't have either of those. We do have some electronics, and I suppose those are appealing to a potential thief. I am not opposed to Pierre. I do wish he had a place a bit further than the door. On the rare occasion I have to go somewhere at night, he is quick to question me. Am I really explaining my agenda to a strange man on my porch? Yes, at my age, I must still justify why I would be going out in the dark. 

While Pierre seems prepared to tackle night invaders, I have noticed he doesn't consider children part of his duties. The boys often come peering at the windows, asking to be let in, or trying to convince Mbalia to come talk to them. Like everything in Gemena, sometimes it is easy to laugh off and sometimes it is just downright annoying. 

I've come to accept we will have a person sleeping on our porch every night, at least for now. We can aspire to a guard house, or a fence, or even a new house in an entirely new area with a yard and a wall and guards who keep their distance. But you can never really escape the experience of having people in your space, milling about, noticing things, needing things, shining lights randomly in the night. It's part of life in Africa as a stranger. Even after 15 years, I still fall into that category. Even here in the village, I am still not part of life. 

There is one place where we don't have a guard. One place that feels a bit like home. We miss it. Maybe we'll have a chance to get back there soon. For now, we're managing with the man on the porch. 

Rachel Ray

 The handle of my pot is inscribed Rachel Ray. The writing is script, the fancy kind that evokes images of gourmet kitchens. I wonder if Rachel Ray knew she'd be spending hours over hot charcoal, the blistering heat blackening the smooth olive green of her exterior. I don't think Rachel Ray intended to be full of grease that never really scrubs off in the tepid washing water. Her nonstick interior and rubber handle were not made for braving the rough African culinary landscape. Rachel Ray did not know where she was headed. Perhaps she would have chosen to be a spatula or a tall, cool water bottle - the expensive sleek kind Europeans favor.

Maybe I am underestimating Rachel Ray. It could be that she enjoys basking in the fire of warm coals. Maybe she savors quiet nights and predictable food preparation. It could be that Rachel Ray would have been terribly unhappy hanging from a kitchen island, hosting dishes whose names she can barely pronounce with ingredients that have to be flown in. She might like the simple life of simmering rice and hot tea. 

It might just be that Rachel Ray is flexible, capable of adapting to any environment.  Maybe she is courageously braving these moments while waiting patiently to see what the future has in store. For now, she is dependable, convenient, and holds just the right amount for our family of two. 

Baby Protest

 The baby voices outside my window were sweet and innocent. So cute. There wasn't a hint of the power and determination hiding within. It was mid-morning and I'd come home to use the internet and get some writing done. The deadline for my last paper had passed, twice, and I was scrambling to put something intelligible together. 

There is no such thing as privacy in village life. All of my neighbors know when I come and go, the hours I wake and sleep, the visitors I have or don't have. They know if I'm late to work or have stopped home for lunch, usually a cup of tea, in the afternoon. There is no hiding from the babies. They say goodbye to me every morning and are usually the first to greet me when I return.  The babies like to dance, and we'd gotten into a habit of listening to music while I cook in the evening. But this morning, I had one objective: writing. 

I shut the door, closed the curtains and huddled up close to my computer. I'd barely written a few sentences when the tiny voices began. "Mama Soumah, mama Soumah, open the door." I ignored them for a bit, but babies are not easily ignored. I tried reasoning. "I'm working, come back later. I am working hard." That was really as far as my Lingala could stretch. I realized their concept of working was far different from what I appeared to be doing. Work was outside, cooking, sweeping, carrying water. Work was loud with laughter or singing or even yelling. I was inside, quiet, alone. What kind of work could I possibly be doing?

My paper was about Congolese social movements and the legacy of protest. I was busy writing about students calling out the assassination of Lumumba and the university massacre of the 90s. I was immersed in public demands for Mobutu to resign and the masses imploring Kabila to degage. Outside my door, the sweet voices turned indignant. "MAMA SOUMAH." It was clear whatever else they were saying meant, we know you're in there and we're not leaving until you open up. That's when the banging started. Things escalated quickly from there. The rascals started rattling the doors, pounding their fists, shaking the metal window frames. The cries turned into screams. I kept quiet and tried to concentrate. A real live protest was erupting outside my door. What better ambiance?

After what seemed like far too long, one of the mamas showed up to see what all the commotion was about. There was more yelling, threats of violence, babies crying, maybe even some real violence, and then finally...quiet. 

The girls didn't hold it against me, nor I against them. We met for our regular dance-cooking party that evening, and we're still working on boundaries. My paper is finished and I am presenting a summary tonight. Luckily, it will be around midnight my time, the babies should all be sleeping. 

beaute parfait

I don't speak Lingala. It's a pretty essential skill for living in Gemena. I've been taking lessons forever, but it was too easy to mix in some French in Kinshasa. It was fun to think I was making progress there with little phrases and random words. But I was  never under any delusions. I do not speak the language and it is very apparent here. 

Moving someplace where no one understands you is complicated. Isolating. Frustrating. Some days are better, some are just plain bad. A friend told me I should give it 6 months to really get in the groove. Another acquaintance told me six months to learn the language. People say Lingala is easy. Anything is easy once you know how. 

Communication is more than just language. People's expectations often get in the way as well. I am pretty sure my whole life has been complicated with effective communication, but it's taken on new dimensions here. When people are faced with a stranger, they make assumptions that override reality.

When I say Congo Voice, the name of the building where I work, moto taxi driver's hear Congo Airways, because that's what they know and seeing a white woman means travel and expense. When I say batiment Sanguma (building Sanguma, which is what the building where I work is commonly known as) they want to take me to the Sanguma orphanage. White people go to orphanages. After two months in such a small town, they mostly know where I am going now. And those who don't get a lot of chiding from other taxi drivers when they see us turning around. People know everything here.  

Questions are also complicated. If I ask a 'how much' question, the answer doesn't usually come out as a number. It starts with a story. There are a lot of stories, which can be entertaining, but it leads to hanging conversations. Something like, how much is the flour? Leads to...well, the baker said we should buy this brand because it's better quality and when we buy the other brand.......If I am not careful I can get caught up in what the lady down the road said last time we used only X brand and how it affected her sales and then her children were hungry and one of them got sick and is now in the hospital....what were we talking about again? The conversations get layered with one connection after another until I know all about somebody's uncle who crossed the border into Central African Republic. It's only after I've returned to other tasks that I realize I still don't know the price of the flour. 

I've been implementing some strategies, but nothing has proven consistently effective. I tried a new nanny/housekeeper today and although we talked about corn, and made nibbling on the cobb motions, and used the Lingala word for corn, I came home to a vat of fufu made with maize. I guess she couldn't find corn and this seemed like a reasonable substitute. 

It was that kind of day- one communication failure after another. I brought folders over to the medical clinic to help organize the records, which are currently in piles. I'd hoped to get them all into their own folder and maybe eventually into plastic tubs to keep the dust off. I even imagined labelling the tubs A-D and E-H. Such a system could be good. But it would take more than an afternoon- not just to organize but to get the idea across. 

I brought the files, as promised, and was prepared to spend the afternoon putting papers in and labeling with a sharp black marker. Organization can be so satisfying. I'd been promising to come help with this task for weeks. I intended to listen first, to get a good grasp of the current organization method- I know some people can have that messy desk and still pull out exactly what they're looking for. I was not trying to upset a system like that. We couldn't really get to the part where I could take the first step though. Somehow, it just didn't translate. Or maybe they weren't really expecting me to sit down and stuff files. Or maybe they didn't want my help. Or didn't want to complete the task. There are so many possibilities about why we couldn't land at common understanding. I finally left the folders, and the intention, for another day. 

The biggest communication snafu came just hours before that. Since my first trip to Gemena back in September I have been deeply disturbed by this sign. Now that I go by it everyday, it's unbearable.

rond-point sage fils

It is a large billboard on one of the main roads advertising beauty cream- or skin lightening cream- which is a whole conversation of it's own, and has been a controversy in Africa for years. What I hate most about this advertisement is that it depicts a white woman with the title "perfect beauty." I think there might be 4 white women in Gemena. And this board certainly does not show the ideal African beauty. My first response was graffiti, or some creative art overtop of the sign. Being such a small town, however, does not lend well to anonymous defamation of such a public space. I took a more diplomatic approach. I went to the mayor.

He directed me to the Chief of Arts and Culture who suggested I write a letter requesting permission to put up my sign. I have an idea for replacing this board with images of real women from here- two girls, in fact, who are stunning and intelligent and symbolic of the potential for youth and young girls in particular to be the future of Gemena. I wrote a letter, in French, with all the French frills and distinguished salutations and margins that begin to the right of the middle. It was a good letter. I had my Lingala teacher look it over. We added some more fancy French thoughts. He was really impressed with the concept. We were both impressed with the final request.

I brought the masterpiece to the printer, hoping to get the required three copies to deliver, and while I was waiting, there was another French professor there. Everyone got involved in this letter, making corrections and discussing the idea. It all seemed so clear. Get rid of the "beaute parfait" and replace it with the real beauty of Gemena. 

The Chief of Arts and Culture called me with an appointment this morning so he could deliver the official response. No problem, he said. He had a formal permission letter from the mayor himself, complete with all the stamps and signatures. (Actually getting the stamp required two trips, because nothing happens without a little hiccough here.) All that was left was payment. While I was waiting for the receipt (the Chief appears blind in one eye, so he called in someone else to write the receipt, which was printed on red paper and hard to see- we had to step outside into the daylight, only the guy he called didn't really have a steady hand. Every time he put pen to paper, his hand shook so much, he had to call another guy to write the receipt, and there was a lot of discussion about what to put where... which left time for some stories.) Stories turned out to be revealing because I guess no one really paid attention to the part where I wanted to replace the existing advertisement. They thought I was going to put up my own board. Huh. 

I did not have plans for that. So now I am faced with two alternatives. Put up my own board exactly the same height and directly in front of the other board, or appeal directly to the advertiser. With the way my communication skills have been going lately, I am not sure how effective that will be. 

I am also trying to determine the best approach. What could be a win-win situation? Putting their company logo on the board? Not for the cream but just for the distribution house which offers a variety of products. Or maybe just offering to buy the space from them? While I recognized the importance of revisiting the medical filing idea at another time, this is one idea I am not prepared to let go. Maybe I just need to go back to my original solution...I think Gemena is probably pretty quiet around 1 am......

Bidons and buckets

 Water is the source of life. We all know it, but we don't give it much consideration. Until we don't have enough. When water is scarce, it becomes a top priority. Water was one of the first considerations after moving. How to get it, where to keep it, and how to use it wisely. 

Indoor running water is rare, even in Kinshasa. You can find pockets of it, and certainly whole neighborhoods that have access, at least occasionally. But everywhere in Africa the search for water takes effort and time. Gemena is no different. Water can be bought from Regidiso, the national water supply company. Regidiso stations are sprinkled all over the town. People bring their yellow containers - the bidon- to the stations throughout the day. There is an attendant at the well who collects money and monitors the filling of the containers. Bidons are an essential accessory for gathering and storing water. The next level up in water storage involves the large blue or sometimes black plastic barrel placed somewhere inside your house, usually the bathroom. The blue barrel is where you source your water from all day, parceled out in buckets. Buckets for washing dishes, buckets for washing clothes, washing self, flushing the toilet. Whatever you need water for, you're going to need a bucket. 

We're pretty lucky to be located not far from the well, although I am told it can run dry. It takes about 10 bidons to fill our water needs for more or less than a week, depending how many clothes need to be washed or other unexpected events. 

We keep our large blue barrel in the bathroom alongside the sink. I am always perplexed by the intricate bathroom appliances. There is a sink, a toilet, and a fancy shower head- none of it actually working. I have visited a house where it all works, at least occasionally. But I wonder if the set up here ever worked, and who thought there would be running water- or why there isn't running water. All the parts exist in case someone wants to take the next steps. I know it is possible. 

For now, we are on the bucket system and I don't mind it at all. I could make a good case for why everyone should be on the bucket system. It makes water sacred again. It doesn't take long to figure out how much a bucket full of water can do- or a half bucket. It's always better to take less. And it's not as heavy lifting out of the barrel. All the water chores and water needs take on new meaning when you know you're on a ration. 

I often think back to one of my first extended stays in Guinea. We were on the second floor and they kept bringing water every morning. No one ever showed me how to flush a toilet that is not hooked up for automatic flushing. I guess they assumed I knew. It turns out the toilet works perfectly fine if you just fill up the tank manually. For every flush, you need to pour a bucket or a half bucket of water in the tank. This makes you very aware of how often you are flushing and how much water it actually uses. I suspect if people in Europe had to use the manual fill method, water-less toilets would get a lot more attention...and funding. (I sense a series of posts about how, if these problems were affecting other parts of the world, there would be whole new outcomes. From electricity to water to malaria...solutions exist. Access remains inequitable.) 

I see the lines of people, all ages and genders, lined up to get water each morning next to where I sometimes buy my tea. It always feels simultaneously backward and progressive. It's not a hard stretch to imagine this as the future situation across the world. As water becomes more controlled and less available, people will be lining up to buy their share. For many parts of the world, it will take a dramatic adjustment to get used to, but here, it will be business as usual. On most days, I think everyone should move to the bucket and bidon system now. Maybe save the running water for hospitals and schools, or places with high public occupation. But for daily living, in personal houses, there's no reason why everyone can't benefit from being more fully present and aware of their water usage. 

Of course, it all takes time. No more washing machines or dishwashing machines. No more 'touch of a button' lifestyle. I absolutely admit that I can manage most of the adjustments, but finding time to wash clothes on my own would be a super challenge without help. We tend to chalk most of the excess and waste in Western lives up to time- there's no time, it's faster, easier, more efficient. But is it really?

It's merely an exchange of attention. By no longer focusing our attention on how we use our water,  we forget to be sacred with it. But it also means we are focusing attention elsewhere- and this seems like a good place to start. Are the things we've diverted our attention to really more important, or do they just seem that way? What could be more important than water, the source of life?

I am over here missing many things that make life comfortable and enjoyable- one of them going to the gym. Having time to focus on my physical self definitely feels like a luxury. And every time I heft a bucket of water from the large blue barrel I think about how strenuous all the lifting and carrying is. Even though I am on the bucket system, I'm not really on the bucket system. Someone else is carrying my water for me, either pushing it in a cart or making laborious trips back and forth to the well. 

At all times of the day I see women carrying water on their heads. Young boys carry water in that lopsided way, leaning far over to one side and walking fast until they stop, rest a minute, and go the next stretch. I see kids sitting next their pushcarts, relishing a moment in the shade, sometimes playing, sometimes just considering the scenes around them. Collecting water takes energy, community, and intention. 

I'm sure the people I am writing about would be happy to have indoor water. I am not trying to suggest that convenient systems don't contribute to health and happiness. I'm just wondering what the balance between working for water and mindlessly wasting water could look like.  

the way grief comes

Grief comes creeping in on tiny feet
gathering in a low fog across the floor
slowly rising, a mist unseen

After the initial shock
 of ceremonies and rituals
After the painful joy
of memories and moments

Grief comes creeping in on tiny feet
gathering in a low fog across the floor
slowly rising, a mist unseen

After everyone else has moved on
returned to daily tasks 
One day you're baking bread
Or washing dishes

And grief comes creeping in on tiny feet
Rising in a mist around you
Swirls of beauty and sadness
Lost potential
Vacant future

I entertain the grief
of the living
who do not know
what comes after

Blue plastic burns green and other things I shouldn't know

Before covid, Greta Thunberg was making headlines pretty regularly. Once the pandemic took over, all thoughts of climate change and what we could do to save ourselves dissolved into the more immediate concern of how we could save the Western world from suffering. 

I think of Greta a lot these days. I've recently displaced myself to Gemena, a little village town in northern Congo, and am having to learn all new things. The most pressing: cooking on charcoal. I've compiled a list of secret tips for cooking with charcoal, although I am not sure who else will need them. I don't mean the fancy backyard grills lighting up American holidays or summer weekends. I mean the kind of charcoal that comes directly from burnt wood. 

A Google search turned up these images

But my new stove looked like this

My first weeks in Gemena were filled with challenge- a list so long I filled two notebook pages with the many ways Gemena was winning. She really beat me up the first two months. It didn't help that, between navigating water access- both drinking and washing, which don't come from the same source- and food foraging, I was also trying to secure electricity and internet connection to keep my doctorate studies going (under the haze of malaria.) Way too much to handle, especially since I could not figure out how to light the charcoal.  

My goal was one match, one bag and I can definitively say, after weeks of practice and perseverance, I have achieved that goal with consistency. But I still think of Greta often. Because the secret to lighting charcoal in Africa begins with a plastic bag. Before moving here, I was very energy conscious. Very plastic conscious. I had cloth grocery bags even for produce. I stuffed multiple fruits and vegetables into one bag, confusing and annoying the store clerks. I selected my purchases according to packaging and tried to do all the minor things that now seem very insignificant in the face of millions of women lighting thousands of plastic bags every day across the continent. 

While Greta is jetting around the globe in eco-friendly travel,  I'm busy releasing dioxins into the air every night to prepare my evening meal. The small black bags are the most common, but I don't fare well with them. They burn too quickly. Lighting charcoal with black bags is pro-level. I am still at intermediate. The (plastic) water bottles I purchase by the 6-pack come wrapped in the most desirable plastic for burning. It is heavy and thick. It sustains the flame long enough to ignite even the largest pieces of charcoal. The medium sized plastic bags are usually yellow (those seem to disintegrate in seconds) or blue. I have occasional success with the blue bags. The blue plastic burns a bright green and melts into thin rivulets that streak the sides of the charcoal. Once a piece of charcoal has some melted plastic adhered to it, it will burn for awhile. The green of the flame is mesmerizing. 

The thing about lighting charcoal, like most activities of village life, is that it takes total attention. There is no quick turning on the stove and heating up some water while you type a few last sentences of your term paper or tidy up the living room. No, with charcoal, you must sit and be attentive. You must be present. 

Initially, I was able to view this as meditative- a necessary and potentially healing moment in my day- a complete pause to do nothing but....well, burn toxic plastic, which did take away from the truly peaceful aspect. But flames are seductive. And blue bags have the most seductive burn. 

In order to achieve the one match, one bag goal there are a few preliminary steps. You have to choose the right charcoal. A mix of large and small pieces works best. Hollow out a little center area in the middle of your pile, creating a volcano-like dome. Prepare the plastic by holding the bottom, cupping your other hand around the bag and pulling it through. This creates a funnel like shape. It is important for the bag to be condensed enough to hold the flame but not so tight that it smothers out. Everything about fire is like this- a delicate balance between not enough and too much. 

Once the bag has a good shape, tuck it into the volcano. Nestle the charcoal in closer and light the bag. This part seems easy enough, but if you are using matches made in Congo, you can expect that several won't light, or the tips will spark and die out, the wooden stick might splinter, or the scratchy side of the box won't have enough phosphorus. Once you do get flame to bag, the trick is to make sure it catches with a living, growing fire. If the angle is not just right, the plastic will melt rather than catch fire. Melting plastic does not heat up the charcoal. You need the plastic to achieve a long burn with a steady flame. Once this happens, choose small, thin pieces of charcoal to gently place atop the fire . This is similar to a game of Jenga, removing pieces from the bottom to build up  around the top. You want the flame to have direct contact with charcoal. It is completely possible to have a slow steady burn that never actually gets the charcoal going. This is the attentive part. You cannot leave the charcoal to do it's own thing unless you gingerly, lovingly arrange all the pieces. You cannot achieve one match, one bag without proper set-up.

A strong steady burn

After the flame is going, whether green or orange or red, you then have the task of helping it spread. I think the next steps are optional. I imported these techniques from Kinshasa, where everyone is in a hurry. In the village, I don't really see anyone fanning their flames, but it's a tried and true from the city. A good fan will be made of cardboard or a stack of flat paper grouped together. Fanning your charcoal will help the heat spread faster and get you closer to the actual cooking part. It can take awhile to get the hang of fanning, as a technique, because too much oxygen kills the fire. Strong fanning motions can revive a flame that has gone out. It is very satisfying to bring back dying embers. 

After the charcoal is securely burning, you are ready to cook. It is helpful to have all your ingredients and meal plan prepared in advance. You have to think ahead. If you want warm water for bathing, or hot water for drinking tea later, or if you plan to make a two part meal- sauce and rice, for example- you should have everything measured and stirred and ready to go. In the beginning I experimented with two stoves, but that quickly evolved into the two pot method, since there are only two of us eating and we don't need to cook that much. Traditionally, people are preparing large pots of food for big families so they can't fit two pots on one flame. I think I can get a patent on the two-pot method.

One stove, two pots

The trickiest challenge of cooking with charcoal is having no refrigerator to store the food. Maybe not a problem for those large families, but for the two of us, avoiding food waste can be difficult. We have the most success with pizza, with or without cheese. It makes just the right amount for one meal. 

It took a few tries to perfect pizza over the open flame. A google search was helpful in this case. Best tip: cook one side of the dough and then flip, like a big pancake. After you flip, add sauce, cheese if available, and other toppings- like pondu, which is the most widely available vegetable here. Pondu, or manioc leaves, are eaten across Africa, though it goes by many different names and just as many recipes. In Congo it is mostly prepared with red palm oil, garlic, onions and occasionally dried fish or sardines. I've been advocating for pondu pizza since early Kinshasa days and I still believe it has the potential to be a great hit as a healthy snack item. 

My saga learning how to cook with charcoal was long and frustrating. Some evenings, I just couldn't win and my neighbor had to come over and light it for me, or bring some of her charcoal already warm and glowing. One night, a boy popped out from between a bamboo fence in the back. Apparently he'd been watching me struggle and came with a tool. It was a tin can with both ends removed. I didn't really understand how it was supposed to work, but he assured me it would be helpful. I wondered how many nights he'd seen me failing. Or heard me talking to myself, wondering why it was so hard, wondering if we were going to eat that night or not. He might not have been able to understand my English, but surely my body language and tone communicated everything. I was a stranger struggling to master an everyday occurrence. I can cross charcoal off my list for now, but it's a long list and there is much to learn.