The second part aka Leg 2 (and probably 3)

 When I descend from the taxi, the air is electric. It is that time of evening when everything is beginning to come alive. I merge into the streaming pedestrians and we all cross the big road together. It is two lanes each direction with a concrete divisor. It stretches so far in each direction that people can often be found crossing in the middle and carefully hopping the wall. Even old ladies and women in fancy African attire. First one leg, take a moment to stradle and shift the weight, then the other leg. A hop down and huddle against the wall as the traffic screams past. I hate to watch it. Little kids gear up like they are about to take off on a marathon, looking first one way then the other before madly dashing out and over.

I cross at the light, which is marginally safer. Just on the other side is a stop for the bakkas. The callers are always trying to persuade me- and all the other passersby- to join them. "Transfer Liberte?" they ask while trying to usher me inside. I wonder where this Liberte is and vow to find out one day. A gas station is right off the corner and it is always a little hazardous trying to get across its exit and entranceway. If traffic is particularly bad, the bakkas come flying through here in their attempt to find a shortcut. I have occasionally had to jump to the side or stop mid stride in an effort to avoid getting creamed.

Once past the station, I am mostly on safe ground. There is a walkway off the roadside and if that isn't enough room, there is also a dirt path even further from the roadway. There are a few large stores here, but the real excitement is in the street vendors. There is a hat man with all manner of headgear from baseball caps to wide brimmed floppy sunhats. This evening, he is trying one on for a customer, which makes me smile. The hats have always seemed to hold a lot of dust and be just a bit too worn to truly look attractive but this man, wearing one of the floppy brimmed blue hats, makes it look just fancy enough to buy. He is holding a small mirror in his hand and I think it is an unusual technique- him trying the hat on- just odd enough to work. I am walking fast though, and so I don't see how the story ends.

My eyes have moved on to the umbrella men. One of them is busy sewing the plastic tarp that covers the metal spindles of his umbrella. Other large umbrellas are tightly wound and leaning against the wooden fence. These are not the small carrying umbrella but the large kind used for sellers. A glance across the street reveals a mass of them covering the fruit and vegetable stands that run the opposite length of the road.

Just after comes the ballerina-flat vendor. His shoes are laid out neatly on a large white cloth in row after colorful row of ballerina flats. This is the beginning of shoe alley. From here to the taxi station I pass shoe sellers, all with their own particular style of displaying their footwear. Most pair them up and set one at an angle, mimicking department store displays. Some just throw out a big pile and customers can be seen rifling through searching for a match. I always keep an eye on the shoes and the shirts and other odd items for sale, window shopping as I walk.

As I near the corner, things get busy again. There are women frying plantain chips and another bakka stop which always makes for a crazy interlude. People hopping in and out, the loud bang on the back metal door signaling the driver to speed off or to stop and let people out.

There is a small road to cross with a triangular island of shoe sellers. It appears to be nothing more than a dirt path but taxis can come speeding in or out unexpectedly. I've learned to pause and look carefully before stepping out and making my way over to the 'gare.'

The taxi station here is bustling, as all taxi assembly points are. Amidst the jewlery and food and phone credit stands are commuters and long lines of taxis waiting to be filled (on a good day. Some days the taxi lines are empty and it is just us pedestrians waiting for a taxi to come along so we can jump in.) This is the collection point and so not everyone is taking the same route. I must make my way over to someone who usually asks my destination. When I tell them, they call out "Appelle Guiraud" and whoever is going in that direction will beckon me over. Here taxis don't leave until they are full and, while this doesn't usually take too long, there is always the possibility of a wait.

Once we are cleared, we make our way into the bumpy streets of Palmeraie. Leg 3. Back on wheels, I am relegated once again to staring out as the sights pass me by. I do more window shopping, keeping my eyes on favorite clothes to see if they've sold and imagining coming back one day just to shop. I never do.

I read the same store names and think the same thoughts about them on my trip. My favorite- Top Shop Babi, which I can always hear in a Kinsahsa friend's voice. The theme of this store is Peace, Love and Fashion and her voice reads me the sign every time I pass. There is the great tree with moss and vines hanging down under which sit more fruit sellers. The tree is all that is left of the jungle that once covered this area and it is beautiful and lonely, out of place and wonderfully grounded all at the same time.

Sometimes the drivers take a side road, which is dust covered gravel and has tires placed carefully in sculpturesque positions in the middle and off to the sides. I think it is meant to bar the road from traffic as it is being worked on but nothing deters a taxi driver. They speed down the road, their tires kicking up rocks and dust and they veer sharply to the left or right avoiding the artwork. It is a mini Indy 25 that they all seem to enjoy. Back on the main road, they resume a normal pace and merge with traffic.

It isn't long before my corner approaches and I get out. EDEC takes up the entire block. The entrance I use is about halfway down and there is a beautiful broad leaved tree just outside. I really love the shade and comfort this tree provides as it stands overhanging the green metal door that leads into the school. There is some work going on in the yard, creating an outdoor performance stage, and I hope it will never reach this tree.

My entire journey takes about 30 minutes but it is enough to make me feel as if I have crossed into another world. By the time I arrive, I am ready to be enveloped by the music of the drum.

Photos of the grounds inside the gate- early in the school's life
It doesn't look quite so neat and orderly these days

I'm pretty sure these are living areas- they are so fascinating
but I haven't seen the inside of one yet.It's hard to imagine
 just on the other side is a bustling street corner jammed with traffic

Au rythm du pays

Now that it's finally time to leave, I still don't feel quite ready. Each year in Congo has been marked by some rhythm and this year, the rythm du pays. It's a common response to "Ca va?" and I tend to hear it more once the dry season has begun. In the rhythm of the country. I have come to understand it as meaning going with the ups and downs- but mostly it seems in reference to the downs. The struggles and constant battles for everyday survival the Congolese are so well known for.

I've come to accept so many things about the way life works here. I guess more than anything, year 4 has been about shedding my old rhythm and moving more in harmony with my environment.  Unexpected waits don't seem to bother me so much anymore. Run ins with traffic police have been scarce, traffic "rules" are more apparent to me now and I can blend in with the flow seamlessly. I've become acquainted with most of the good shortcuts (there is nothing quite as satisfying as averting those Kinshasa traffic jams with a good back street trail.) I've learned enough of the language to usually get the gist of a conversation, even if I can't really respond yet. I don't hear those horrific cries of mondele so much (except those cute kids who live across the street. I have seriously been thinking of going over to tell them my name so when I walk outside I can listen to chants of Soumah......) I can't really explain that last one, perhaps I just don't notice it anymore. I am still clearly a mondele, but maybe it is just that when I do hear it, it doesn't bother me. Acceptance. I am the outsider here and will always be so, thanks to my luminescent white skin ( I don't think I actually glow in the dark but sometimes walking around at night can make me feel like I do.)

Au rythm du pays basically means life is hard here, and then sometimes it gets a little bit better. But it's never really a sure thing, the getting better part, and I guess that suits me. I always have been one to do things the hard way, learn life's good lessons long after I should have, stubbornly persist when maybe I shouldn't.  Being here has become kind of comforting. We're all struggling for something.  And even if I still dream of Guinea and aspire to dancing in Senegal, America seems to be calling to me less and less. When I walk out the door there, it's just going to be an ordinary day.

When I walked out my door today, I passed an army truck overflowing with singing soldiers. I saw another wedding at the communal building and I passed two funerals. I was saluted by one red beret carrying a terrifically impressive weapon. (I'm still not quite comfortable saluting back, being a common citizen, so I just tried to make my eyes respectfully wide and gave a small head nod and a smile.) I listened to the music of the street vendors clicking, clacking and calling out their wares. Someone even called me mademoiselle. Africa must be making me younger.  I finally ended up at a graduation party for a six year old. They were celebrating her move to primary school. The music was loud, the food was plenty and the young boys were dancing joyously to their favorite Congolese hits. I marveled at the way they flawlessly performed the latest moves and I took sheer joy in their beauty and abandon. It could easily be a different story but that's what I left with. Images of children loving their life together. One good moment au rythm du pays.