My aunt has accused me on more than one occasion of being brave. Something about moving to Africa and living and working here. I might have felt brave (or rather scared out of my mind) the first few months, maybe even the first year. But after 8 years? It's just become a place I live. I guess, in the absence of fear, it is hard to see bravery.
Even though I live in a huge city, I am lucky enough to be able to maintain that small town feel. As humans, we tend to develop routines and create small pathways of daily use. I definitely do this. My world in Abidjan is limited and so develops a cozy, familiar sense that makes it seem safe, for the most part.
Moving around here has an infinitely safer feel to me than getting around Kinshasa, though I adapted there. I can recall many more moments of needing to be hyper aware and even fleeting sensations of fear. Here? Not so much.
Well, at least it hadn't been that way. While I am always aware of my surroundings, it has been possible to relax. This past month, however, developers (?) tore down the collection of kiosks and little market stalls that filled the corner known as 9kilo (neuf kilo.) People were left without homes, shops or any way to care for their families. Everything. Just gone. The view of that area is shocking and discouraging- it's become a waste field of rubble and broken dreams. Not to worry, though, the trucks have moved in and are shoveling it all out- to make room for some over-priced collection of apartments or stores no doubt. I think about photographing it but (aside from my continuous problem securing a "real" camera) I don't think a photo can really express the tragedy. It is reminiscent of the roadside on the way to Bassam, miles and miles of ruins. Or the way Kinshasa police often moved in and destroyed businesses and storefronts. Piles of smoldering wood and broken concrete mixed in with bent umbrella frames and torn plastic.
Some people will argue that those cement block shops and wooden tabled vegetable stands are ugly, an eye-sore. They clog up traffic and create unsafe places where people loiter. I don't know if any of it is true. Those small cement buildings are beautiful in the way they represent the creativity, the entrepreneurial spirit, the desire and drive and motivation to face each day with energy. Those wooden vegetable stands with their black plastic umbrellas are beautiful in the way they represent the strength of women to persevere through a hot day, earning money to care for their children. There is beauty in the way those umbrellas shelter generations of mothers, aunts and daughters as they talk and laugh together, do each other's hair, and prepare food for the community passing by. There is beauty in their interactions and personal connections. It is the beauty of human will.
Whatever replaces it will be sterile and square and painted in a dull and lifeless color. I will never be able to see it as pretty or prefect. I think I will probably always see the shadows of evil lurking on the edges, remembering everyone whose lives were disrupted and discarded without a second glance.
It's left many people desperate, this development. Last week, when the evening nanny didn't show up I wondered what had happened. She travels a bit to arrive and so there is always the possibility of gbakka accidents or other problems. I couldn't reach her for the entire weekend, which only added to my concern. When she finally arrived on Monday evening, she told me her story.
She'd taken a local local taxi to 9kilo. There were two men in the backseat, one on each side of her. The driver took a round about way, a little bit longer, a little bit darker, a little bit more secluded. The two men robbed her of her phone and all her cash. They slit open her purse and took whatever was inside.
I'd read stories about this in the newspaper. The cases I'd read happened in a different part of the city but described a similar event. You get in a taxi that isn't really a taxi but a group of people working together to rob you. It's this last part that is most unsettling to me. A man working on his own just has to deal with his own guilt (or lack of.) He can deny and be secretive, yet possibly harbor a better person inside. When you work as part of a team to deceive, steal and potentially harm another person, it seems to add an entire level. There is no denial, no secrecy but an out and open admission of who you are. When other people look at you, they will only see a crook and bandit. The fact that someone commits their crime with others means they are accepting of this part of themselves, maybe even proud of it.
I don't know if it is my age, my sensitivity, or my limited social involvement, but thinking of those three men planning and menacing a single woman is very disturbing to me. It made me pause the next few times I hailed a taxi. It even made me reject a few, taxis filled with men, taxis with only 1 spot open that was not close to a door, taxis that just didn't "feel" right.
Before I rejected too many taxis, however, I recognized my sense of fear. I realized that it would never work if I gave in to it. (I have to get around somehow, right? Unfortunately, most taxis are full of men, though I have often thought of creating a women only taxi service.) However, there was nothing left to do but take in a deep breath of bravery and common sense and hail a taxi. Just. get. in.
Maybe my aunt is right. Conquering whatever fear we face in the daily routines of our own lives requires bravery. Hailing a taxi, smiling at an angry boss, facing a brand new day without a loved one, saying goodbye to our children as they embark on adventures of their own. It all requires bravery.
Showing posts with label city life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label city life. Show all posts
12.3.16
13.6.14
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 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.
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.
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.
 |
| My morning "view" it's just a lot of green |
 |
| And more green....a warm cocoon of trees and plants |
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 |
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 |
28.5.14
Everything is more
I should have known by the rambling, wordy, preachy tone of my last post that I was getting ill. The mental clarity is always first to go. I had wanted to write a simple post about a short ride. Instead of just appreciating the man in my life for qualities I love- his sensitivity to others, his willingness to go out of his way and do the unexpected- I ended up getting swept away by the frustration of the entire situation of street kids in Kinshasa. And my inability to actually do anything to change it.
I've been thinking about them the entire time I have been sick. Because the illness descended upon me the next day like a plague and as sick as I've been feeling, I am thankful to have a bed to crawl into. Clearly 2014 is not the year of health. I am doubly "blessed" to be living on campus and working in a school- both situations which make me highly susceptible to plagues. Living on campus means it is possible to go to work - despite being slightly ill- and return home all the while never really leaving 'home.' Its so much easier to trick your mind when getting to work only involves a 5 minute walk- though, admittedly, sometimes that walk can seem like miles.
Working in a school of course means being locked up with 26 kids and all their germs for 6-7 hours a day. Every day. It's always a bit scary to me to witness how fast the germs spread. Half of my class was wiped out for a week. And then it was my turn. As I struggle to get back to feeling 100% (I'd settle for 75% at this point) I watch my colleagues all fall, one by one taking their turns. If it were yellow fever or something deadly, well, our story could easily turn into the next blockbuster disaster film.
I wonder why getting sick has seemed so much more intense over here in Africa than anytime I've been in the US. I've tried to think back accurately- not with the cloudy haze of time and memory influencing- and I feel pretty certain that my illnesses here hurt more, last longer and feel closer to actual death than anything I've experienced in the US. Here are a few of my nonscientific thoughts on why:
1. Bigger, badder bugs- simply put, this tropical climate is the perfect breeding ground for the biggest, baddest germs. The hot, moist air is just what those invisible guys need to grow to their biggest unseeable selves. Just when you think you've gotten them beat, you step outside into that thick humid air and they get a second wind, springing back into life and kicking your butt again.
2. Small, stingy vegetables- Maybe this one only relates to Kinshasa, but I am convinced the small vegetables that look as though they clawed their way out of the ground, survivors of some weird vegetable holocaust provide such little vitamin content that most of us are walking around in a nutritionally depleted state to begin with. The germy bad guys move right in with ease since our vitamin armies aren't up to the task of taking them on. Of course, nuclear vegetables should be able to put up a good fight. I'm probably just buying in the wrong places. Surely there are healthier places to get vegetables, like the cemetery.
3. Everything in Africa is more intense- just to remind you how precious life is. Most of the things about daily life in Africa have more to them. (And remember, it's ok for me to be completely biased because my disclaimer clearly mentions a nonscientific study.) People don't just go to the store- they dress up in their finest cloth with mesmerizing patterns and bright, bold colors and parade through the aisles with a regal air. Kids aren't just cute and adorable here- they have huge, deep eyes that seem to be able to look into the depths of your soul and smiles the wattage of sun rays. They dance and sing and move through their day with agility and fierce joy even if they happen to be lugging gallons of water or carrying a smaller sibling off to get candy at the corner store.
The streets don't just hum with commuters, they sing and sway with the greetings of neighbors. Sometimes they break out in pushing, yelling fights. They laugh and cajole and suck their teeth in disbelief- look at those two fighting...tch tch tch. Cars don't just roll down the streets at quitting time- they belch and burp and cough out fumes. They squeak and rattle and wheeze, and every so often, they explode like gunfire.
No one just hops in a taxi- first there is the seduction of the serenade - the singer of destinations. Next you are swallowed into a crowd of strangers, possibly entering a shoving match with a mama or a papa and then you must throw yourself into the already moving car, slamming the door just before a motorcycle comes whizzing along the side nearly taking your arm and half the door off with it.
Once sealed inside the small steel oven, traffic coasts to a standstill. It doesn't just get backed up- it tangles and weaves and takes up three lanes on the wrong side of the street. It flows over onto the sidewalk- drivers honk and bang on rooftops, they squeeze through narrow openings, cut off oncoming traffic and idle in fast anger going nowhere. More small fights brew, further stalling progress, more commentary is shared on the deplorable state of the state, papers become fans while pocket tissues are bought from sidewalk sellers to wipe the streams of sweat and taximotos zoom in all directions using every inch of available space. Pedestrians jump from hood to hood of motionless cars in an effort to cross the crowded streets. Heads lean back and naps are taken. Stomachs growl.
Food to go isn't just sold from sterile stalls along the roadside packed in Styrofoam containers and plastic bags - goats are whacked and hacked in front of you while their little cousins bleat nearby nibbling on stray cardboard and patches of grass awaiting death. You get to pick out the exact part of the carcass you'd like roasted before your very eyes while beers are served and bottle tops are unhinged with bare teeth. Little packets of meat are wrapped in brown paper served with fermented flour in a banana leaf and handed over like French cuisine.
With this kind of excitement, why would anyone expect to just get a little cold and get over it? No, you get exploding headaches and all over muscle soreness. There are mists of nausea and waves of dizziness. Your body fluctuates between hot and cold. Doctors everywhere want to offer you the quinine drip which results in ear ringing and vague staticky radio sounds. Coughs dig deep into the lungs and those little germy guys build whole cities down there. And if you want a bowl of soup to comfort you, you need to get up and start chopping vegetables.
I miss comfort food most when I am sick here. I dream of soup from a can and would happily consume all that extra sodium and brave the risks of eating food laced with BPAs. I miss Tylenol in a liquid form for the boys- though this past bout with the mystery plague and side dish of fever has me actually impressed with Doliprene and it's amazing all over fever and pain reducing effects. I didn't take it myself, but the transformation in Mohamed was stunning. I guess the medicines have their intensity value as well. Everything is more.
For me? Well, after 4 days I finally started chopping vegetables. I came up with a soup even Healthy Choice doesn't offer I think- potato-onion- noodle- corn- spinach- eggplant- thyme and extra garlic. Despite the random ingredients, it held true to that northeastern soup taste I was hoping for. A little comfort to get me though this last plague before heading out of Kinshasa forever, as the kids say.
I've been thinking about them the entire time I have been sick. Because the illness descended upon me the next day like a plague and as sick as I've been feeling, I am thankful to have a bed to crawl into. Clearly 2014 is not the year of health. I am doubly "blessed" to be living on campus and working in a school- both situations which make me highly susceptible to plagues. Living on campus means it is possible to go to work - despite being slightly ill- and return home all the while never really leaving 'home.' Its so much easier to trick your mind when getting to work only involves a 5 minute walk- though, admittedly, sometimes that walk can seem like miles.
Working in a school of course means being locked up with 26 kids and all their germs for 6-7 hours a day. Every day. It's always a bit scary to me to witness how fast the germs spread. Half of my class was wiped out for a week. And then it was my turn. As I struggle to get back to feeling 100% (I'd settle for 75% at this point) I watch my colleagues all fall, one by one taking their turns. If it were yellow fever or something deadly, well, our story could easily turn into the next blockbuster disaster film.
I wonder why getting sick has seemed so much more intense over here in Africa than anytime I've been in the US. I've tried to think back accurately- not with the cloudy haze of time and memory influencing- and I feel pretty certain that my illnesses here hurt more, last longer and feel closer to actual death than anything I've experienced in the US. Here are a few of my nonscientific thoughts on why:
1. Bigger, badder bugs- simply put, this tropical climate is the perfect breeding ground for the biggest, baddest germs. The hot, moist air is just what those invisible guys need to grow to their biggest unseeable selves. Just when you think you've gotten them beat, you step outside into that thick humid air and they get a second wind, springing back into life and kicking your butt again.
2. Small, stingy vegetables- Maybe this one only relates to Kinshasa, but I am convinced the small vegetables that look as though they clawed their way out of the ground, survivors of some weird vegetable holocaust provide such little vitamin content that most of us are walking around in a nutritionally depleted state to begin with. The germy bad guys move right in with ease since our vitamin armies aren't up to the task of taking them on. Of course, nuclear vegetables should be able to put up a good fight. I'm probably just buying in the wrong places. Surely there are healthier places to get vegetables, like the cemetery.
3. Everything in Africa is more intense- just to remind you how precious life is. Most of the things about daily life in Africa have more to them. (And remember, it's ok for me to be completely biased because my disclaimer clearly mentions a nonscientific study.) People don't just go to the store- they dress up in their finest cloth with mesmerizing patterns and bright, bold colors and parade through the aisles with a regal air. Kids aren't just cute and adorable here- they have huge, deep eyes that seem to be able to look into the depths of your soul and smiles the wattage of sun rays. They dance and sing and move through their day with agility and fierce joy even if they happen to be lugging gallons of water or carrying a smaller sibling off to get candy at the corner store.
The streets don't just hum with commuters, they sing and sway with the greetings of neighbors. Sometimes they break out in pushing, yelling fights. They laugh and cajole and suck their teeth in disbelief- look at those two fighting...tch tch tch. Cars don't just roll down the streets at quitting time- they belch and burp and cough out fumes. They squeak and rattle and wheeze, and every so often, they explode like gunfire.
No one just hops in a taxi- first there is the seduction of the serenade - the singer of destinations. Next you are swallowed into a crowd of strangers, possibly entering a shoving match with a mama or a papa and then you must throw yourself into the already moving car, slamming the door just before a motorcycle comes whizzing along the side nearly taking your arm and half the door off with it.
Once sealed inside the small steel oven, traffic coasts to a standstill. It doesn't just get backed up- it tangles and weaves and takes up three lanes on the wrong side of the street. It flows over onto the sidewalk- drivers honk and bang on rooftops, they squeeze through narrow openings, cut off oncoming traffic and idle in fast anger going nowhere. More small fights brew, further stalling progress, more commentary is shared on the deplorable state of the state, papers become fans while pocket tissues are bought from sidewalk sellers to wipe the streams of sweat and taximotos zoom in all directions using every inch of available space. Pedestrians jump from hood to hood of motionless cars in an effort to cross the crowded streets. Heads lean back and naps are taken. Stomachs growl.
Food to go isn't just sold from sterile stalls along the roadside packed in Styrofoam containers and plastic bags - goats are whacked and hacked in front of you while their little cousins bleat nearby nibbling on stray cardboard and patches of grass awaiting death. You get to pick out the exact part of the carcass you'd like roasted before your very eyes while beers are served and bottle tops are unhinged with bare teeth. Little packets of meat are wrapped in brown paper served with fermented flour in a banana leaf and handed over like French cuisine.
With this kind of excitement, why would anyone expect to just get a little cold and get over it? No, you get exploding headaches and all over muscle soreness. There are mists of nausea and waves of dizziness. Your body fluctuates between hot and cold. Doctors everywhere want to offer you the quinine drip which results in ear ringing and vague staticky radio sounds. Coughs dig deep into the lungs and those little germy guys build whole cities down there. And if you want a bowl of soup to comfort you, you need to get up and start chopping vegetables.
I miss comfort food most when I am sick here. I dream of soup from a can and would happily consume all that extra sodium and brave the risks of eating food laced with BPAs. I miss Tylenol in a liquid form for the boys- though this past bout with the mystery plague and side dish of fever has me actually impressed with Doliprene and it's amazing all over fever and pain reducing effects. I didn't take it myself, but the transformation in Mohamed was stunning. I guess the medicines have their intensity value as well. Everything is more.
For me? Well, after 4 days I finally started chopping vegetables. I came up with a soup even Healthy Choice doesn't offer I think- potato-onion- noodle- corn- spinach- eggplant- thyme and extra garlic. Despite the random ingredients, it held true to that northeastern soup taste I was hoping for. A little comfort to get me though this last plague before heading out of Kinshasa forever, as the kids say.
22.9.13
A random collection of facts
I've been trying hard to break out of my doctor and traffic jam rut. It's been difficult. You might think I spend all my time driving to clinics, when, in fact, I am a fairly healthy person who spends a lot of time at home. Hence the reason why I have been finding it hard to come across topics for my failing blog. Among other reasons, change is hard and words have been scarce lately.
But I do have a random collection of thoughts that might make for light reading. I'll merge the doctor/traffic stories with a few others for variety.
I spend a lot of time pondering where to go next in life. Working at an international school sort of compels you to be constantly considering where to move on to. Not many people are in it for life- well, not settling down in one country anyway, and certainly not in Congo. I think a lot about the pros and cons of living here. Things we miss most are just walking around and having somewhere to go. Life in a city kind of rules out nature hikes- life in Kinshasa kind of rules out public parks- but other cities often have museums, cultural centers, cinemas or other pastimes to keep the family engaged. Dining out seems to be the major venue of entertainment here.
What stands out is the lack of tourism. There aren't beaches, art festivals (ok, there is a jazz festival every June, and the newly launched Toseka comedy festival) or other attractions to pull people here. The lack of tourism has a definite effect on the psyche of the people. Foreigners are seen as cash cows, overflowing piggy banks ready to vomit US dollars to anyone who asks. African countries with a healthy tourist trade get the idea that their culture is valued, interesting and can serve as a point of engagement with the visiting foreigner. They are willing to exchange a service for a fee. Congo doesn't rank on this list of 25 least visited countries in the world, but it does make the top 10 of Africa's least visited countries.
Customer service is a huge obstacle to making Kinshasa a tourist destination. While I have noticed occasional improvements, the rule of thumb still seems to be the customer will get served when and if the service provider is ready (and finished talking with her cousin, mother, boyfriend and inspecting her fingernails or checking her phone messages, updating FB status, etc.) I had the opportunity to check out the new Canadian clinic in town (not sure what the Canadian part refers to- where the materials came from- Quebec- or perhaps where the owner is from? Kin does have a large population of Indian/Canadians.)
As a new patient, I was checked in by filling out my information on some kind of touchscreen tablet. The Congolese receptionist was gushingly nice and even stopped her conversation with a technician to assist me. I waited a mere 10 or 15 minutes to see the doctor, who seemed equally attentive. He did ask me to be patient for just one minute (I noticed he answered an email) and his phone only rang 3 or 4 times, but he did keep the conversations short. The next day I received my own email with lab results and a prescription attached. Of course, campus connection prevented me from opening my gmail and had me running around the house and even into the backyard trying to find a hotspot. All in all, the operation was impressive and congenial.
Kinshasa has low tech conveniences as well- one of which is the fact that you don't always have to buy the whole thing. Meaning there are a variety of goods that are available for purchase in smaller quantities, quantities to fit a tight budget. Probably most of Africa is like this but I find comfort in knowing I can get a little bag of milk powder if I am running short just as my pockets are empty. I remember counting change in the US for gas or a gallon of milk. While there are no coins in Kin, a bundle of 100 or 200 franc serves the same purpose. You can buy flour, rice, sugar, peanuts and peanut butter all in quantities to suit. It seems pretty much anything that comes in a container can be opened and portioned out. Paint thinner, red oil for cooking, gasoline for the car, phone units. I even remember the pharmacy downtown with a pill hawker out front. No need to buy the whole bottle, just one or two ibuprofen for the moment. Of course, once opened.....buy at your own risk.
Traffic poses its own set of risks and I would not be surprised if car accidents ranked among the number 1 cause of death. This website suggests Congo ranks 7th for highest traffic related deaths (not sure how access and availability of medical care is calculated into that ranking.) While you can't always put much stock in the ranking systems of the media, observations certainly count for something. My first grade art class began the year discussing different types of lines. I was surprised when one of the boys began to explain how double, single and dashed lines were used in the road. They really knew a lot about lines but this small bit of knowledge doubly amazed me since there are no lines on the roads in Kinshasa. It has occurred to me (my driving thoughts include brainstorming ways to fix Kinshasa road rage, impatience and 'me first' attitudes) that painting a line on the road might be one small step. I also propose raising the curb to about a foot or so (or maybe installing the fire and ice barbed wire or broken glass spikes that are so popular on property wall tops directly onto the curb to prevent cars from driving onto the sidewalks. Beautiful commentary about those very walls and glass shards here.) People say when Kabila the father was president the infamous third lane would never have happened. They don't usually elaborate much on his methods for maintaining roadway control but hints usually suggest something severely effective and severely severe.
But I do have a random collection of thoughts that might make for light reading. I'll merge the doctor/traffic stories with a few others for variety.
I spend a lot of time pondering where to go next in life. Working at an international school sort of compels you to be constantly considering where to move on to. Not many people are in it for life- well, not settling down in one country anyway, and certainly not in Congo. I think a lot about the pros and cons of living here. Things we miss most are just walking around and having somewhere to go. Life in a city kind of rules out nature hikes- life in Kinshasa kind of rules out public parks- but other cities often have museums, cultural centers, cinemas or other pastimes to keep the family engaged. Dining out seems to be the major venue of entertainment here.
What stands out is the lack of tourism. There aren't beaches, art festivals (ok, there is a jazz festival every June, and the newly launched Toseka comedy festival) or other attractions to pull people here. The lack of tourism has a definite effect on the psyche of the people. Foreigners are seen as cash cows, overflowing piggy banks ready to vomit US dollars to anyone who asks. African countries with a healthy tourist trade get the idea that their culture is valued, interesting and can serve as a point of engagement with the visiting foreigner. They are willing to exchange a service for a fee. Congo doesn't rank on this list of 25 least visited countries in the world, but it does make the top 10 of Africa's least visited countries.
Customer service is a huge obstacle to making Kinshasa a tourist destination. While I have noticed occasional improvements, the rule of thumb still seems to be the customer will get served when and if the service provider is ready (and finished talking with her cousin, mother, boyfriend and inspecting her fingernails or checking her phone messages, updating FB status, etc.) I had the opportunity to check out the new Canadian clinic in town (not sure what the Canadian part refers to- where the materials came from- Quebec- or perhaps where the owner is from? Kin does have a large population of Indian/Canadians.)
As a new patient, I was checked in by filling out my information on some kind of touchscreen tablet. The Congolese receptionist was gushingly nice and even stopped her conversation with a technician to assist me. I waited a mere 10 or 15 minutes to see the doctor, who seemed equally attentive. He did ask me to be patient for just one minute (I noticed he answered an email) and his phone only rang 3 or 4 times, but he did keep the conversations short. The next day I received my own email with lab results and a prescription attached. Of course, campus connection prevented me from opening my gmail and had me running around the house and even into the backyard trying to find a hotspot. All in all, the operation was impressive and congenial.
Kinshasa has low tech conveniences as well- one of which is the fact that you don't always have to buy the whole thing. Meaning there are a variety of goods that are available for purchase in smaller quantities, quantities to fit a tight budget. Probably most of Africa is like this but I find comfort in knowing I can get a little bag of milk powder if I am running short just as my pockets are empty. I remember counting change in the US for gas or a gallon of milk. While there are no coins in Kin, a bundle of 100 or 200 franc serves the same purpose. You can buy flour, rice, sugar, peanuts and peanut butter all in quantities to suit. It seems pretty much anything that comes in a container can be opened and portioned out. Paint thinner, red oil for cooking, gasoline for the car, phone units. I even remember the pharmacy downtown with a pill hawker out front. No need to buy the whole bottle, just one or two ibuprofen for the moment. Of course, once opened.....buy at your own risk.
Traffic poses its own set of risks and I would not be surprised if car accidents ranked among the number 1 cause of death. This website suggests Congo ranks 7th for highest traffic related deaths (not sure how access and availability of medical care is calculated into that ranking.) While you can't always put much stock in the ranking systems of the media, observations certainly count for something. My first grade art class began the year discussing different types of lines. I was surprised when one of the boys began to explain how double, single and dashed lines were used in the road. They really knew a lot about lines but this small bit of knowledge doubly amazed me since there are no lines on the roads in Kinshasa. It has occurred to me (my driving thoughts include brainstorming ways to fix Kinshasa road rage, impatience and 'me first' attitudes) that painting a line on the road might be one small step. I also propose raising the curb to about a foot or so (or maybe installing the fire and ice barbed wire or broken glass spikes that are so popular on property wall tops directly onto the curb to prevent cars from driving onto the sidewalks. Beautiful commentary about those very walls and glass shards here.) People say when Kabila the father was president the infamous third lane would never have happened. They don't usually elaborate much on his methods for maintaining roadway control but hints usually suggest something severely effective and severely severe.
19.6.13
District Mont Amba
They come bearing gifts. Tomatoes, an eggplant, a batch of humus just made the night before. Friends, colleagues, people I barely know stop by to drop off their perishable food. It's food they can't eat in the small time before their departure from Kinshasa. They are bound for vacation, for trips abroad, for reunions at home in whatever land they lay claim to.
Since I am staying, I become a worthy recipient of these small items. I take them gratefully and hope that I too will have time to consume them before they perish. Wasted food makes my heart hurt. Sometimes, staying in Kinshasa has the same effect. I remain to witness the stories of those who cannot go.
While there are more and more recounts of brightness and positivity Kinshasa remains a city, an overwhelming city plagued with dangers. LOOK'iN is one example of a magazine that has great success taking the ordinary and splashing it across glossy pages to transform it into something glamorous. Browsing through its stories, one might begin to get a different image of daily life here. And to be certain, there is an element of culture, art and hope for the future. But for many, life in Kinsahsa remains a battle against fear and for survival of the individual.
It's only the second time a story of violence and apathy has reached me personally, but both times they arrived in a cloak of silence. I am amazed at this process. I welcome a friend to my door and pleasantries are exchanged. He's not so well he says, but still we focus on preparing food and he offers small gifts to the children in preparation for their voyage. He is disappointed because as he was getting out of the taxi, someone grabbed the shoes he bought, but he makes small talk as he hands over brightly colored baseball caps and jackets. Stolen shoes a mere inconvenience of life in Kin.
It's not until much later that he retreats to a bit of solitude and I approach quietly, with patience, to hear the real story. I've learned this is the only way to draw him out. "A man must reflect," he says when I ask if everything is ok. And again, we enter into a discussion that's not really related to the issue at all. More minutes pass before he finally lets me in.
It seems he was on his way- from somewhere to somewhere- the timing is not so clear. Out by 6ieme rue in Limete when he saw a boy that reminded him of his own son. Clean, well dressed. Just a boy walking home. And a gang appeared, gathered him up and began to cart him off. The boy is screaming for help, that he did not do anything and all the people along the road are just watching this. They are hearing his cries of "Where are you taking me?!" and they are doing nothing. It's the koluna, Kinshasa street gangs that are armed, violent and much feared. It seems they do pretty much whatever they want. We'd just been telling stories about them the night before. How, in a certain district, the people are in their homes by 7 pm afraid to come out again. The women who sell bread no longer go to the bakery in the wee hours of 3 and 4 am to collect their wares but wait until full morning light. They don't set out from their houses until 6 or 7 am.
In that night, my friend could see only his son. "I could not support this," he said, shaking his head in wonder at all those who stood by as the boy was beaten and robbed. He approached the group imploring them to leave the boy alone. They began to throw stones and direct their rage at him. He sent his friend off to the corner of the street to call down the police who had gathered there. Eventually the boy was free enough to be sent off running, clothes in tatters, blood streaming down his face and devoid of his telephone and other personal items. When the police arrived, my friend was livid. He exploded in a rage of questions. "How could you just stand there watching?! Can't you tell it is not this boy, clean, well dressed, obviously a student with a family, who has done something wrong?" And the police just shook their heads and said, "It's always like that."
No, it's not always like that. And it needn't be like that if there were repercussions. In our talk the previous night, we discussed how the street gangs often share their loot with the police, or how, if arrested, their friends might show up to pay off the officers who would then release them. It seems a circle of violence and apathy. And what ended up disturbing us both that night was not necessarily the violence but the people. It's the people who don't see their sons or daughters in the faces of the victims. The people who live without security and are consumed by a fear so great they choose to close their eyes and their conscience to the tragedies around them.
That's just one story of daily life here in Kinshasa, without the glitter and the glitz. I imagine a dozen or more similar events played out across the city last night. A real life Gotham City.
Since I am staying, I become a worthy recipient of these small items. I take them gratefully and hope that I too will have time to consume them before they perish. Wasted food makes my heart hurt. Sometimes, staying in Kinshasa has the same effect. I remain to witness the stories of those who cannot go.
While there are more and more recounts of brightness and positivity Kinshasa remains a city, an overwhelming city plagued with dangers. LOOK'iN is one example of a magazine that has great success taking the ordinary and splashing it across glossy pages to transform it into something glamorous. Browsing through its stories, one might begin to get a different image of daily life here. And to be certain, there is an element of culture, art and hope for the future. But for many, life in Kinsahsa remains a battle against fear and for survival of the individual.
It's only the second time a story of violence and apathy has reached me personally, but both times they arrived in a cloak of silence. I am amazed at this process. I welcome a friend to my door and pleasantries are exchanged. He's not so well he says, but still we focus on preparing food and he offers small gifts to the children in preparation for their voyage. He is disappointed because as he was getting out of the taxi, someone grabbed the shoes he bought, but he makes small talk as he hands over brightly colored baseball caps and jackets. Stolen shoes a mere inconvenience of life in Kin.
It's not until much later that he retreats to a bit of solitude and I approach quietly, with patience, to hear the real story. I've learned this is the only way to draw him out. "A man must reflect," he says when I ask if everything is ok. And again, we enter into a discussion that's not really related to the issue at all. More minutes pass before he finally lets me in.
It seems he was on his way- from somewhere to somewhere- the timing is not so clear. Out by 6ieme rue in Limete when he saw a boy that reminded him of his own son. Clean, well dressed. Just a boy walking home. And a gang appeared, gathered him up and began to cart him off. The boy is screaming for help, that he did not do anything and all the people along the road are just watching this. They are hearing his cries of "Where are you taking me?!" and they are doing nothing. It's the koluna, Kinshasa street gangs that are armed, violent and much feared. It seems they do pretty much whatever they want. We'd just been telling stories about them the night before. How, in a certain district, the people are in their homes by 7 pm afraid to come out again. The women who sell bread no longer go to the bakery in the wee hours of 3 and 4 am to collect their wares but wait until full morning light. They don't set out from their houses until 6 or 7 am.
In that night, my friend could see only his son. "I could not support this," he said, shaking his head in wonder at all those who stood by as the boy was beaten and robbed. He approached the group imploring them to leave the boy alone. They began to throw stones and direct their rage at him. He sent his friend off to the corner of the street to call down the police who had gathered there. Eventually the boy was free enough to be sent off running, clothes in tatters, blood streaming down his face and devoid of his telephone and other personal items. When the police arrived, my friend was livid. He exploded in a rage of questions. "How could you just stand there watching?! Can't you tell it is not this boy, clean, well dressed, obviously a student with a family, who has done something wrong?" And the police just shook their heads and said, "It's always like that."
No, it's not always like that. And it needn't be like that if there were repercussions. In our talk the previous night, we discussed how the street gangs often share their loot with the police, or how, if arrested, their friends might show up to pay off the officers who would then release them. It seems a circle of violence and apathy. And what ended up disturbing us both that night was not necessarily the violence but the people. It's the people who don't see their sons or daughters in the faces of the victims. The people who live without security and are consumed by a fear so great they choose to close their eyes and their conscience to the tragedies around them.
That's just one story of daily life here in Kinshasa, without the glitter and the glitz. I imagine a dozen or more similar events played out across the city last night. A real life Gotham City.
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