Collective Monsters

I’ve been seeing monsters everywhere and it’s not just because I’ve recently finished reading The Girl In Between by Leakan Zea Kemp. That story was wonderfully odd and slightly unsettling in a way so many of the books I’ve been reading lately haven’t been.  

The monsters have been around long before I began that journey. It has to do with the construction going on everywhere. The corner of horses has been razed. Just another casualty of progress. But I have found a tragic poetry in the removal of their grazing grounds, now filled with machines, overturned dirt and cement. It’s a huge road project that is turning over all the back country lanes and transforming them into highways. It will be pretty when it is finished, in that sterile, carefully planned and organized way. They will plant trees and flowering bushes in the round-abouts and along the road edges. There will be enough green to please the eye and dull the senses, making one forget to even wonder what it looked like before, wild and untamed. Beautiful and natural.

Getting around the traffic backups as a result of the construction means taking even longer short cuts, through Akuedo- a name I love to say. Akuedo is a village by Abidjan terms and the streets there are small, barely wide enough for two cars to pass. There are no high walls hiding the houses. They have doors that open directly onto the sidewalks. The windows are covered with wooden shutters giving the place a quaint European feel.  I enjoy the disorienting aura of this small town all the while knowing it is just lying in wait, a vulnerable victim of progress that is encroaching. In a year, or maybe less, the monsters of steel and concrete will have arrived to tear down houses, enlarge roadways and build row after row of apartment buildings lacking character and history.

I am in the middle of this change and it is painful to watch. During the rains I ponder the effect of all that cement working as a barrier between earth and sky, disrupting the natural relation of water falling down and being soaked back up again. I imagine the water as a living thing (and isn’t it really?) surprised as it hits the once soft and supple terrain, shocked by hardness and forced to scatter, searching for a place of comfort, soft soil to welcome it home again.

I see these monsters cloaked in a shadowy haze, like something from a Stephen King novel and I wonder what will happen when there is no more soil left for the rain to soak into. What will happen when every inch has been broken and defeated and the world is covered in concrete? Maybe it sounds dramatic or extreme but I fear most often that no one is taking it seriously enough.

 The construction/destruction debate is not the only evidence of energy being devoured. Once the metaphor is in my mind I begin to see signs of it everywhere. I search for solace in the world of dance and when it fails me, I blame it on the monsters. I've been seeking not just to replicate what I knew in lives past but to make it better. When my day to day fails or even when I want to celebrate, I turn to dance. Making art is generally something I do alone, a private exploration of my inner emotions and reactions to the world around me- but dancing? It's something I turn to for that sense of sharing and belonging. Its a creation made in multiple and seems to be most pleasing when there is a team of people sharing energy together. And that's what the draw is- that sharing of energy in community.

The past few weeks, however, I have been the only person in my dance classes. They've morphed into private lessons. While this seems like an amazing opportunity I have come to dread the moments I am there. They are stale and stagnant, slow moving and boring. My dance classes have suddenly become incapable of sending me off into that other realm of freedom and liberty of thought and simply just being. I remain rooted in agony. It's because of the monsters. I've come to steal energy and it's not there. My dance teachers are tired and unmotivated. They know I will never dance like them and so they offer up watered down movements while they focus on easing their pains from the rehearsals and performances of the previous weeks.

I am tortured by this change because if I don't have dance to turn to then I have nothing and there must always be something. I know I am the monster that's come, not to share energy but to gnaw and gnash and gobble up all I can before making a hasty retreat back to my lair, where I will dine greedily on my treasure until it begins to wane. Only then will I venture out in search of more. The problem is the source appears to be drying up and I need to find a new well, a new village to plunder of its energy children.

Of course, in some stories, the dragon is remorseful- he doesn't want to be trapped forever stealing children and gorging until his belly is full, sleeping away weeks in a coma of digestion, rising only to be forced to steal and pillage again. He wants to be a happy dragon, living in peace with the villagers and using his fire breathing capabilities to light their cook stoves and share stone soup.

With this new metaphor in mind (not all monsters are bad) I set off for my dance class determined to reach deep inside and find some energy to share. It's been mostly successful. I am forcing myself to dance with enthusiasm and exuberance I don't really feel. I push through the awkward moments of feeling silly and frustrated by steps I cannot master. I demand repeats of what I do not know and add my own flourishes to steps I love. I try not to care that the drummers are sending out tsunami waves of energy with their rhythms and I know I can never repay them. Guilt has no place here. I dance to the best of my ability and hope they will accept it.

In the end I suppose it could be a matter of pretending until it's real, fake it until you make it. Though no amount of pretending or faking is going to save the green spaces. Maybe art is the first step to making that change, though at times it seems too small and insignificant a step. A beautiful quote from this school suggests otherwise.  

There are many practical and physical things that need to be done - but the problem is mobilizing people's will and purpose. Essentially, what needs to change is our perception of the world and our relationship with nature. A feeling of connection to the natural cycles and interdependence of the world will assist individuals to see the cycles and balances in their own life, and from there potentially move to a community and worldview. 

In essence, defeating the monsters within, our collective monsters.

A family of horses

I’ve been wanting to share a picture of the horses I pass everyday on my way to school. My camera was stolen, however, so instead I’ve been feeling disappointed about that. But then I remember I am supposed to be painting images with my words. In which case, here’s a portrait of the horse family.

 They live on the corner of what used to be a quiet intersection, aside from the early morning and midday school pick ups. In true Abidjan fashion, a new road is coming and so the quiet intersection is now turning into a traffic stopping round point. Back in September, there were two horses and they could be found on either side of the roadway, sometimes in a small patch of grass barely an arm’s length wide.

Over time, they have become a more permanent fixture on a large corner of the block. Another horse joined them and sometime in February a new colt made an appearance. Unlike the older horses, which are always tethered by the ankle to a rock or post, the new baby was free to roam. He (or she) leant a decidedly spring-like feel to February despite the climbing temperatures. I enjoyed watching him wobble and frolic next to his parents (if, in fact, they are related. I never signs of a bulging belly.)

A small structure eventually appeared as well, an open stall with a black tarp roof. The impending new road lies in contrast to the apparent permanence the horse stall suggests. To  the right of the field lies a large hole in the ground with a sloping entrance. It’s the kind I see dug for wells next to lettuce farms. Just beyond that is a collection of bushes and small trees shielding the horses from the main thoroughfare. A collection of women used to sit selling fruits and phone cards and some sort of breakfast meal from large plastic tubs. Most of them have been displaced by the construction. They’ve either moved across the street or down to the corner. I cut across the field on a dirt path which has since become a short cut for cars. The horses don’t seem to notice my presence or be bothered in the least by the increase in traffic.

 A neighborhood begins on the left, though I have never really considered the horses belonging to any one of those houses. I rarely see a person attending to them, and the one or two times I did, I hadn’t the nerve ask the million questions I harbor. Who do the horses belong to and what is their purpose? They are clearly not for riding and I can’t imagine another reason – not just for having horses but for adding to the herd.

 I enjoy walking this way and feeling a bit of country in my morning- only to be spit out in a sea of buildings and traffic and people. For a brief moment, I am on a quiet lane in the middle of a village. Abidjan is practiced in creating these dizzying alterations of scene. Nowhere is this more apparent than on my way to my Wednesday afternoon conversation in English. I meet with a teacher from the high school at her place in Akuedo. This past week a taxi driver offered a mere 1000 franc to take me there and I was so surprised I had to ask twice.

He took the back road that travels behind the primary school, past the lycee and over into Palmeraie. The road we travelled was red dirt and full of holes. The path was lined with palm trees and village houses. These houses are wooden in construction and often have black tarp nailed to the top or sides. They appear small from the outside, maybe one or two rooms and are ageless. It is hard to tell if they are going up or coming down. We travelled on this road for 5 minutes or so. Five village minutes, meaning we drove in frequent starts and stops, mad dashes forward from 0 to 20 and then back to 0 again all the while swerving from right to left to avoid potholes. The car buoyed up and down like a sailboat. A less seasoned voyager might have felt a twinge of motion sickness.

 No sooner had I been lulled into a sleepy country state than we rounded a corner and joined civilization again. Concrete houses in progress sprang up, corner stores and roadside sellers appeared. Just like that we were back in the city. Sort of. I still had the feeling of being far from anywhere but I could imagine a short walk straight down this road would end in the congested nightmare that is the conjunction of Palmeraie and the grand route. There is such a palatable sense of change in the air. I know in a few years, everything that feels remote and natural will be replaced by commercial buildings, high rise apartments and over- sized villas.

 For now I enjoy the calm and tranquility of the neighborhoods I find myself in. I like the small town feel of each cartier. I am a little saddened by the inevitable growth and expansion. And I wonder what will eventually happen to the horses. I like their presence in my morning. But I know they cannot stay there.

 Even as I question their purpose, I reflect upon my own. A few days ago I’d had a sense that this is it. And I had to wonder briefly if I was ok with that. Is Abidjan the resting place? Is it here that my boys will grow into men? And what of me? I’ve yet to feel I’ve found that just right spot. I can’t know what the future will bring. I can’t even really see past the next 6 weeks to the end of the school year. I remain like the horses, all snuggled in their patch of grass and weeds, a small family enjoying each other as progress marches on in their midst, waiting for time to tell how the new roads of change will affect them.

How buildings go down...

This disturbing article appeared in my FB feed this morning. Construction is prevalent all over Kinshasa and meant to be a sign of the up-and-coming economy and development.

The problem of course lies within the means of achieving this prosperous goal. The article suggests that faulty materials used in the building may be the cause of the collapse. I am left to wonder who exactly, if anyone, knew about the inferior metal.

Was it the owner of the building, hoping to cut a few corners and save some cash? Was it the construction company themselves, hoping to shave dollars off the cost and pocket the difference? Was it the vendor of the iron bars- knowing the material was not suitable for such construction but selling it anyway?

Other questions abound as well- often I have wondered about the half-built buildings and the people that inhabit them, whether new owners of apartments or squatters who've found a temporary place to stay. It's not a sight I am accustomed to seeing in the US- half- formed buildings already open for business. I'm pretty sure there is some kind of inspection process required at several stages of  construction  and again upon completion.

The rescue team surely had it's work cut out. It was dismaying to read that perhaps witnesses heard the cries of children (or the cries of anyone) that were unable to be found. Watching the building go down, it appeared there was time to get out, though it is not clear if those inside were as aware of the imminent danger as the witnesses outside. (Of course, the video takes place only over 1 minute and with my slow connection, there are several pauses creating distortion in the actual time lapse. Upon reflection, one minute doesn't seem long enough to comprehend the situation and make a decision- or to run down three flights of stairs.)

As I drive through the streets of Kin, I often imagine taking a series of photos of the many buildings in their various stages of completion. The architecture is something to marvel at, with its many styles and inspirations- the one common thread being a flourish of grandeur. Round, arched windows, spiraling staircases, balconies and overhangs, massive guardian gates that reflect the intricate patterns of metalwork.  Like the proverbial book however, architecture cannot be judged by it's cover. It requires discipline, adherence to law and the integrity to follow safety rules despite any consequence to higher costs. All of these challenging qualities to come by in Kin.

Home Depot

Once upon a time I had a junk drawer filled with bits and pieces of inspiration. Nuts and bolts and rocks. Little things useful for nothing and yet, useful for everything. I knew then, somewhere back in an old, old post you can find it, I knew it would be one of the things I missed. Little things to pick up and create something else entirely with my hands.

Because we are all stuck here in Kinshasa this summer, it's just my hands that get restless. And this sense of failure that I can't entertain my boys. There are plenty of websites that say- it's good for kids to get bored- to create games of their own and find a solution to occupying themselves. I believe in this. I believe in made up games and inventions. I believe that life is not a circus and the greatest asset is having skills. Some kind of passion and motivation that moves you to create and design and develop to keep the mind occupied and the hands busy. Sure enough, sometime around 2 o'clock this afternoon they let me know they were going "spying." They donned their best gear and went out into the world armed with their imaginations, ready to fight the good fight against the imaginary bad guys- not the electronic ones.

Once upon a time I did the same thing. We were a small group of neighborhood kids. We loved to play Transformers. Apparently the Transformers are still around. I marvel at the things that still exist. The movies that continue to be remade, the music that just incorporates sounds from my youth as opposed to creating new sounds. I've heard the quote, from somewhere, here perhaps, something about everything being a remake. It;s impossible for artists to have truly new ideas. But still, I am left with a sad feeling, when I hear songs from my 8h grade prom folded into the newest remix. I guess, in the end, it makes me feel closer to my kids. We can still listen to the same music, no need to hide behind teenage closed doors. Not yet, hopefully never.

But once upon a time,  I was a person who started a business. Drifting Woods. And I scoured the banks of the reservoir, picking up bits and pieces of wood, fashioning them into lamps and tables and boxes. I can't remember who that person is, that shamefacedly tried to sell bits and pieces of nothing, no solid craft behind her, boxes with crooked edges and hinges slightly off. I had power tools at my disposal and Home Depot. I miss Home Depot. Home of the entrepreneur. I had a love of art and belief in myself that I can't quite remember now.

Instead, I am left to question what it means to be white in Africa. Because, while I've always questioned what it means to be American. I am not sure I have ever really examined what it means to be white. It's on every Black kids list, African or not. What it means to be black. If you ask students to make a list of who they are, inevitably the black kids write Black and the white kids write nothing.

But I have a friend who told me in her seventh grade year she set out for two goals, to lose weight and to understand what it means to be Black. Most white kids never go through this. Identity seeking on the basis of skin color. White kids just don't think that way. In America.

In Africa, you get a chance to be the minority. To be white. And to feel the frustration of why you can't just drive down the street without being a target, why you can't just go shopping and get a fair price, of why all the artists call you up and want to meet with you. Second guessing, every single minute, what do they want from me? Friendship? Advantage? Connection? Prestige?

Because, being white in Africa, is never just about being in Africa. It's always about second guessing. Never really being sure.  And I guess it's just the equivalent of being Black in America. You never really know what's about skin color, what's about economic status, what's about who you truly are. Everyone should experience it. The frustration, the doubt, the constant worry about what is real versus what's imagined. Being a foreigner in a strange land- and caring about it. Not just a tourist, but someone who lives there.

Because this is us now. Living here, in Kinshasa, no vacation to fly off to, no family to go visit and welcome us with loving, open arms. How we missed you. Nope. We are just here. And I miss the hardware store. Because at the end of the day, making a cozy home, with painted walls and fun fixings is what gives comfort. Traveling down to Victoire and haggling with prices three times the worth only reminds me - I'm white in Africa.

I suppose the only thing that can help me is the language. I understand it but can't yet speak it. A summer project perhaps. It will go a long way to helping me navigate the outside stalls and road side venues  that serve as our version of Home Depot. And right now, I really need a good good hardware store.