Muanda: Part 1/3: Preparation

Muanda. Moanda. What to make of a place that cannot decide how to spell it's own name? In researching this small coastal town, I found it spelled both ways, either way but no "official" way. I decided I would spell it like the locals...only to find they apparently hadn't decided either. 

There are so many small stories born from this short excursion- of course the road trip always makes for its own story. The way there and the way back are two completely different tales. Our four days at the Catholic Charity were pretty comfortable and conveniently situated. But nothing in Congo is simple or straightforward. Nothing is boring or empty. Every aspect of life is intricately woven into the layers above and below, seen and unseen. Every fiber of time is connected to the present moment, to future moments yet to be revealed and past moments we may never understand. The trip to Muanda was no different. 

Departure 

In the beginning, there was the couvre-feu. Congo has been under curfew since early December. Everyone must be in by 9 pm. It sounds like a simple idea, until you consider Kinshasa is a city with over 14 million people and a transportation system that does not meet even half the need. There are simply not enough resources to get everyone home in time. Our bus to Moanda had a 6 am departure. Or rather, we were instructed to be at the station by 6 for baggage loading and ticket collecting. With no guarantee we would find transportation to the bus station at that early hour, we decided to stay overnight in Limete, just down the street from the station. 

A brand new hotel, Ixoras, had just opened- super fancy and ultimate in luxe. It was clean and fresh with all working parts- a bit of a rarity in Kin. The staff was overly attentive. People appeared from around corners like magic, ready to solve any problem. When my electronic key card wouldn't open the door to my room, I barely had time to turn around before a man materialized next to me. "Problem, miss?" It bordered on creepy. But it did solve the problem. In seconds. I was slightly confused, suspicious even, about the way he just appeared, knew my problem, and offered a working card- the skeleton key of cards I imagine, which felt odd, although I suppose all hotels have master keys. The same man came around later, to announce the time and ask if I need to get anything from outside before the curfew. He took the opportunity to point out the inner bolt on the door- which he said I should lock for security.

I stepped inside and look around. Everything inside the room was electronic. Once entering, the card is placed in a small holder by the door and this activates the power- the lights turn on, the tv, fans and air conditioner are activated. The arrangement seems a bit risky in this land lacking stable electricity. We'd chosen the cheapest room- which still seems pricey for Africa. However, the normal complaints were avoided- the a/c worked, the bed was firm and sheets were clean. The water was running, the internet was fine and there was even a fire extinguisher under the sink. I suspected  the level of luxe might even beat out the former Grand Hotel of Kinshasa- now the Pullman- although I have never actually seen a room there, so I'm only guessing, based on the mere fact that Ixoras is new. I wonder what it will look like a year from now. 

Clean, crisp, cozy

Construction workers just outside 
the window, but friendly. Added
bonus: water from the tap.

Kinshasa has a surprising number of hotels and I am perplexed by the market. Who are the clients in need of such fancy places? Ixoras is a large building on the corner of the 7eme rue in Limete, just across from the communal patch of land that seems to house the spirit of the community. We stopped there after purchasing some snacks and finger food for the road from a little supermarche nearby.

Nearly every place in Kinshasa holds a memory and this patch of land is no different. I'd spent time here watching karate and capoeira classes offered outside on the cement. I held my breath as kids did spinning kicks and hand stands on concrete. It was vibrant and busy six years ago. Now the space was largely taken up with tables and outdoor eateries offering small items such as brochettes or ntaba and soda. The smoke from the metal barbecues hung in the damp air. We chose a table under an umbrella, barely dry, and had a snack of peanuts while the kids drank soda and watched the night descend. 

We slept in a big comfortable bed, the night sounds muted because of the curfew. 

The next morning we woke early and prepared to walk down to the bus station. Although someone had come around in the evening to let us know they were closing up because of the curfew, we hadn't really understood what that meant. In the morning it became clear. We couldn't get out. The metal gates were closed and locked. No one seemed to have the key. I spent some time discussing this with the person at the front gate. Not only was it necessary to have informed the guests the night before- especially for those who might have an early morning appointment- but it was just plain dangerous to have us all locked inside with no quick way out. Eventually, and this was a good 10-15 minutes later, someone emerged with the security guard and a key. Alarming to imagine....surely we would not have slept so well if we had known. 

We made it to the station with plenty of time to stand around and watch the people queuing, the sellers arriving. I took notes on my phone of what was being offered- items deemed important enough to warrant getting up and arriving at the bus station by 6 am. Some things made sense: bread, there's always bread. Water. We'd already stocked up the night before but one of the women walked by shaking her head at us as if to say, you don't want water? Everyone wants water. There was the phone credit guy, yelling Mega, Mega- which is what you buy for internet connection. It would be a long ride, surely you want to have your internet topped off. Someone was selling masks, someone is always selling masks.

Dependable, professional service

Other items were more questionable. One young boy walked by selling large plastic bags. It seems you would have already packed the items you need, but you never know if someone might develop a last minute desire to stuff more things inside a bag, tape it up and add it to the pile of luggage. He didn't have any luck today, but perhaps on other mornings he'd been more successful. There was a man selling bibles and I tried not to see it as a sign. My last trip down this patch of winding mountain road had been absolutely terrifying. I was hoping that the commercial bus and early hour would lend an aspect of professionalism and safety. They definitely came through on timing. They'd collected tickets and started calling names right on time. Mbalia and I were one of the first few names called so we had our choice of seats. It looked fairly comfortable, mostly clean, and we were ready to start the adventure. 

Someone lent us a cube which turned
out to be excellent entertainment
for the week

                                                               We chose the best seats

On community

Community, belonging, loss and resilience- Kinshasa- the community I feel most at home in- has all of those things. Living here, I move among different worlds through multiple layers and each one contributes something to my sense of belonging. Sometimes it is a confirmation of who I have become, sometimes it is a confirmation of the parts of me I have left behind, the me I am not. any longer. Most often, it is confirmation of the me I have crafted and nurtured and allowed to bloom. Communities do that- they tell us who we are, who we are not, and who we want to become. They mirror our faults, embrace our flaws and welcome us in as we are. They give us a chance to grow. 

 Kinshasa is a physical place. I know her curves and turns, her backroads and short cuts, her dark narrow paths and her wide -open boulevards. Kinshasa streets are overflowing with movement and people, with vibrant energy that is nearly visible. I sway with the rhythms of mechanical noise: horns- whistles- the rev of engines and the banging on metal rooftops signaling to drivers that the taxi bus has filled up and needs to move out. I am seduced by the sounds of neighborhood destinations sung into the crowds : Victoire, Victoire, Boulevard, GDC-Sola, Sola, Zando. I move my feet to the click clack of the shoe shine boys announcing their presence and the cling clang of scissors on machines as ambulant tailors search for a hem to sew or a rip to repair right there on the spot in a city street where a young man will kneel down and paint my toenails with the care of a mother I never had here in Kinshasa everyone calls me auntie, mama, eeh mama! Kinshasa where everyone is related especially if you have a dollar or a franc to spare, to share, because in this community what’s yours is mine and mine is yours and yet, we’re all connected but somehow,  not.  Because in this city, belonging means being part of the crumpled masses, struggling to survive to stand up to be seen, belonging is tucked in the crevices of loss and grief and frustration. 

In Kinshasa, belonging means sharing but the kind of sharing that moves beyond freely giving and into barely holding on while others take, pulling, pushing, shoving, fighting to have what I have what you need what we both want or don’t want or can’t find but we know it’s here because the masses are closing in on us crushing down to take that small thing we are trying to protect. We’re so distracted by this small thing we forget the big things, the real things, the children in the streets who are watching, repeating, pushing, shoving, defiantly standing in front of cars who have no space to go around because living in the city means one next to one next to one next to one… sharing the spills, the smells, the suffocating embrace of a neighbor whose come to give story to their troubles and offer a piece of the little bit of nothing in their pocket. 

 Kinshasa is lux, extreme VIP, diamonds, gold and minerals shining in the night sky like a star twinkling just out of reach so you grab whatever is close and you wring its neck before it has a chance to turn on you and admit that without that sparkling, shiny bit of bird’s nest treasure you’re really just one of the masses nothing special education on a fancy paper printed out at the cyber café on the corner whose walls are crumbling cement cracks running across the ceiling if you look up there is always someone waiting there to take your place and so you hold on and pay out dollars you don’t really have to dress better and drive faster than the masses you are stealing from.

Kinshasa is self- hate and group love, trying to find pride in a people who are not sure where they’ve come from but have a definite vision of where they want to go. Kinshasa is speaking a language that’s not your own and living another voice inside where you keep it dark and hidden because you don’t want to pass it on to your children but those children in the street are making their own language when they got cast aside and thrown away because the people of God proclaim there is no God but spirits working their evil in the youth and the family is a sacred construct but only if you have a dollar or some francs to share to build their business of preaching the word whose roots lie in the destruction of culture and the erasure of  an  entire  community 

 

    of people whose bond is deeper than language, deeper than the terrain they share, the forests, lakes, the little slice of ocean, it’s a people whose loss and trauma cuts deeper than the wounds of generations upon generations bleeding into the soil that’s been ripped open and gouged out to prop up the kingdoms and institutions of art and culture and knowledge on foreign ground where people lock themselves in offices and houses and separate little fiefdoms, hoarding their material wealth as if it had meaning, looking down on the survivors of those they’ve slaughtered with contempt and disgust in order to mask the responsibility they share for the murder and destruction of the original spirit of community 

Kinshasa is resilience, never willing to give up or let go but showing up every day, women raising their voices, youth who will not accept a future that has no place for them and together they rise above a past that’s born them into poverty, despair and loss turning these struggles into strengths, giving their time, their energy and their voice to call out and re-claim the riches of this land as rightfully their community,

Nazali kozónga

The Kinshasa stories are already beginning and we haven't even arrived yet. Maybe my penchant for being there is about the abundance of source material. In the wake of world events, and US events, I've begun to see such connections.

The Black Lives Matter movement translates slightly different into Africa, but it's there. Undoubtedly. The latest rumors in Kin revolve around doctors who may or may not be diagnosing coronavirus correctly. Some say they get a cut for every patient identified, as higher numbers leads to more international aide. In one account, the amount of dollars being paid directly to the doctor per covid death was extraordinary- much too extraordinary to even be considered as possible...and yet, the person telling me wasn't really sure he could count on the doctors. It's easier to believe that your own doctors would kill you for cash- and that Westerners would offer that kind of cash for dead Congolese.

The entire premise points to everything that is wrong with the Africa-Europe/America relationship. Reparations are needed for black lives all over the globe. Trust is eroded, has been eroded, and the West hasn't really done anything to gain it back- better to take advantage of the ability for stories to run wild, paving the way for an even wilder reality.

But then, something like this story comes out and it's easy to see how the unbelievable takes root and grows into the mostly, probably, maybe. A friend shared this image, which sums it all up. While the rest of the world is welcoming emergency shipments of supplies- and in Africa, countries like Nigeria, Ethiopia and Rwanda are benefitting from billionaire Jack Ma's donations- RDC is playing host to European politicians (whose own countries haven't fared all that well in the face of corona, it bears pointing out.) Twenty-nine thousand Cuban doctors dispatched to fifty-nine countries...so how does RDC end up with.... this?

                                           Top: European delegates arriving in Kinshasa 
                                          Bottom: Cuban doctors arriving in Italy Matteo Bazzi/EPA

It's hard to dispute that perhaps there is some mineral conspiracy here- people don't need to actually arrive in person, in the middle of a pandemic, to discuss a humanitarian donation, do they? I could not find evidence of Jack Ma arriving in Ethiopia. In fact, Kagame tweeted his thanks  along with Ethiopian Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed, who received the goods for dispersement.
              *               *               *          *           *             *         *
While doesn't seem like the time to be writing something personal, I guess this is the place. It's true, tozali kozónga, we're headed back to Kin. As soon as airports open, that is. I am dreaming of deep jungle green and rich earth rain. I am trying to remember that returning will be different, because of time passed, because of the new world we are living in. But also because I am not the same person. A lot of growth has occurred in these past five years. Eyes wide open this time around.

 This post isn't really a what-we'll-miss-about-Lagos, it's more like a what-we'll-need-to-readjust-to.

• Untethered- This post about needing to be connected on the streets of VI to order Uber or Bolt is sure to have a different feel in Kin. There are so many different layers of being that it is seems completely possible to find a community fit without the need for constant attachment to internet or a mobile phone. I could be wrong about that, but I am hoping for off-grid options.
• Banking- This post talks about the ridiculousness of all things money in Nigeria- from stacks of naira as high as a coffee cup to the instant suspicion associated with trying to conduct any financial transactions. Prices won't be cheaper, but ATMs spit out hundred dollar bills in Kinshasa. Back to needing crisp new bills for spending, greenbacks preferred. This article from 2014 attempts to explain why dollars still rule. As far as I could tell during my October visit, Congo is still a long way from weaning off the dollar. 
• Our apartment- It has not been a source of cozy- and on the contrary, I have dreaded it's pristine white walls and floor to ceiling windows (that peer directly out into the neighbors floor to ceiling windows) but it is bright and new. I was remembering how I had to adjust to the Kinshasa dim. My latest trip through Kin's Ndjili Airport was sparkling with the shine of the newly constructed. But I am not kidding myself about school housing. We are likely to find it in much the same shape as we left it. Including a porch, however, which I am looking forward to with deep longing. 
• Isolation- VI has been a terribly isolating place to live. I am hoping the same will not be true of Kin. And even if it turns out to be so, those birds in the jungle...especially the night ones...are good company. The sounds of Kin are different too. The streets sing, full of vibrant energy. VI streets are simply clogged with traffic. Which is not to say that Kinshasa streets are miraculously clear...not at all, most likely worse. But they are interesting. And rhythmic.
• Organic delivery- I am completely not attached to this service, but it has been a luxurious find since lockdown. Lagos has had a thriving delivery service well before lockdown, and VI caters to it's elite class in remarkable ways. Finding several quality organic vendors- who deliver- has been a small wonder. 

I am sure more things will reveal themselves. At the pace of life these days, I am just hoping that airports will open and we'll find ourselves in a beautiful place once again. I am also hoping I will find a few of my friend-family connections still there. There's going to be a lot of grief to manage in the next years and being in a place where I feel completely invested and connected is going to be a help.
A return, yes, but also a new chapter.

The obvious things

I still wake with images of Kinshasa streets. There is a certain place, there, I want to visit or a certain street, here, I want to walk down. There are neighborhoods and markets and shady tree spots I want to frequent. Just the other day I battled with an overwhelming urge to go to Kintambo magasin. Weekly I miss Bandal, and in the middle of my yoga class I was overcome with sensations from a certain curve in the road through Macampagne. When I hear the apprentis call out for Liberte I think I hear Limete and a surge of hope rushes through me. Today, I was trying to clarify a number to the cashier when I said septante- a number that only exists in Kin (and maybe Belgium.)

I cannot tell if these urges stem from merely spending so many years in the place or from real love and affection. I remember well my love/hate affair with Kin- though, admittedly, near the end I think I was more in love than in despair.

With another impending departure, I am left wondering what I will miss - what I will not miss- and the hidden secrets that will only reveal their tenderness once I am absent.

I try to be especially observant these days. What do I see, smell, hear, feel as I travel through the city? What is unique to Abidjan and what is part of the deeper African thread that connects countries on the continent?

I've begun a list of the more obvious things, hoping the subtle will emerge from the shadows and make themselves known while I still have a chance to appreciate them in person.

I am certain to miss the cool breezes that seem to blow through every street in the evening hours, effectively erasing the heat of the day. I will miss alloco and garba and attieke...staple foods of the street, frying fish at 9 am alerting me that the noon meal is nearing. Perhaps I will miss the afternoon siesta- or the long French lunch- when neighborhood streets, engulfed with the midday sun, are quiet and empty. School children have returned home for lunch, a nap, a bit of time with their family, though it is not our school children. The American school toils on through the heat and takes no breaks to reunite with family in the middle of the day.

Perhaps I will wax nostalgic for the strong smell of coffee and coco that emanates from the Nestle factory. There is the possibility to search online and actually find results, though real communication about events always seems hidden and hard to come by. There are art galleries and grocery stores and malls all filled with bright lights and shiny items I don't really need. Will I miss this? Perhaps I have grown too comfortable here in the heart of one of Africa's most complacent cities.

I snapped these photos of a trend that impressed me from the first. Businesses post their code of ethics and offer "I-statements" to their customers as a way of education. Although Ivory Coast ranks 38 on this list of literate countries (and falls well below RDC) Abidjan seems to be teeming with a literate population. Bookstores are full and Ivorian authors prominent...though some titles elicit smiles rather than curiosity. 'I'm leaving my wife for the maid,' or 'I'm in love with house-boy.' The bookstore in Cap-Nord, one of the smaller shopping centers in Riviera III, hosts an author book signing nearly every weekend. Success seems possible.

Customer service problem? Just point to the sign

These I-statements are so appealing to me

A well-developed middle class has led to other pastimes, like day-time T.V. This past vacation I spent some mornings in the gym and caught snatches of a talk show with pertinent issues of the day- 'My family falsely accused me of sorcery and abandoned me. I found refuge in my art [painting,]' and 'Hairstyles that are inappropriate for young girls,' that last highlighting how weaves and heavy braids pull on little girls' fragile heads, complete with young guys who say it is beautiful and women who wonder why it is necessary for a 5 year old to look like a fashion  model.

Abidjan is home to Africa has incredible talent, a show that I happened to watch a few times and then got hooked after I stumbled across 2 groups I know personally. I had to stay tuned for their appearances and 1 of  the groups made it to the finals. It was fun to cheer them on---and in the process I have developed a terrible crush on Fally. Silliness.

Aside from interesting TV, Abidjan works in many other ways that are appealing to foreigners. There are lines and systems, people listen to the police and drive (mostly) on the right side of the road. There are emergency numbers to call, and while I have criticized them in the past, I now recognize that they do respond and they do try to serve the population.They have a facebook page  and admit there are challenges to overcome, even as they train new recruits.

The difficulty in addresses is something I won't miss, or rather, will probably experience in a completely new way. The most puzzling thing about Abidjan is that there are actually street signs- so many streets are labeled with a mysterious number system that no one ever uses. E678 is at crossroads with E544.  I like to imagine how effective it all might be if they were labeled with actual street names, and then I try to imagine what those names would be. It leaves me feeling just slightly nostalgic for the street signs of America. I remember with fondness the names of streets I haunted, streets I avoided and streets that hold memories of more than one kind.

These signs are everywhere...
but no one knows what they mean

I won't miss the stink of the lagoon just after crossing the bridge (which does have a name.) There is a project to clean it up, but it's been going on for the 3 years I've been here and I haven't noticed much improvement. I wonder if it is actually possible to clean up a body of water- though all the perimeter signs announce a grand partnership and a grand plan for a new vision and a new lagoon. I see what they do in my neighborhood, on the other side of the lagoon and I think there are a million 'sides' to the lagoon. No one is monitoring them all and people continue to be people.

A lot of Abidjan brings me face to face with how people are ruining our planet. I envision us as little parasites running amok, creating disease and bringing damage to our host. The constant building and prevalence of cement are particular soul killers to me.

A friend in Mali has been sending me pictures of the earth there, 'just 15 min. from the school,' he writes. I interpret a pleading desperation to his messages. His words hold a life sustaining quality, as if he is saying, 'just hang in and once you get here you can breathe.' Sometimes he will even count down the weeks for me. I didn't know I needed this.

Oh, but I miss my Kinshasa jungle. I realize that is what made all the difference. There was plenty of building in Kin, plenty of construction and tree chopping. Plenty of garbage strewn streets and trash filled waterways, but being able to retreat to the tranquility of the jungle patch every evening, my eyes drinking in the green, my ears soaking up the sounds of bird calls and night noises, my skin absorbing the rich air....yeah, I can't get that back. An oasis in the middle of the city.

There isn't much that disturbs me about Abidjan. Not the way my frustration and anger rose up at times in Kin- where officials of one rank or another often seemed overly profuse in their stubbornness, eager to create an issue where none really existed for the mere entertainment value (though I always suspected much of this was due to the sheer powerlessness and poverty that people endure, requiring them to seek some small salvation and sense of dignity in whatever exchange they can. As if the manifested power struggle affirmed existence. I influence you, and therefore my presence holds value.)

I think the biggest thing I will not miss is the sense of lethargy and mediocrity that I feel. It is probably important to say that this is potentially a highly personal interpretation of things. But it has been a constant source of frustration. People are satisfied with 'just enough' and I rarely find that push for more, for excellence. I am speaking mostly in terms of the art world and it is fair to say my experience has been limited- although this appears directly linked to the fact that I have not been able to find a situation that meets my stringent criteria.

A neutral observation that doesn't really fit into either category is the prevalence of strikes.  There is surely a post to come about this phenomenon, but the power of striking is something the Abidjanais know well. It was one of the first conversations I'd had with the taxi drivers, and it continues to be a presence. Abidjanais have learned how to organize and collectively make their voices heard. They recognize the value and power in this. The numerous strikes haven't yet affected me on a personal level, not much more than an occasional nuisance, which I mentioned once to a taxi driver who immediately admonished me.  "The strike is not easy for them, either. But it is important." An obvious reflection I somehow missed. The truth is, sometimes I don't understand how the strikes help, or who they help. Or if they are even effective. But there is no doubt they've become woven into the fabric of the city, a city I don't anticipate missing much as I embark on the next leg of my journey.

call of kinshasa

My artist friends (and mere acquaintances) from DRC have been calling me. They are looking for residencies and invitations for work in Abidjan, "meme just pour la fete de decembre." One of them finally clearly said he was looking to escape the turmoil of the elections.

Even as I still dream of (returning to) Kinshasa, they are looking to leave. The photos of recent events speak to their fear.

This photo is already being called "historic" Supporters of the opposition assemble

Or maybe it is this photo, which I find incredibly shocking. Kinshasa is not the US (or Paris, despite the delusions of Bandal) and calling out your president like this just doesn't happen. Or, at least it didn't.

People are tired, it's clear and elections or not, something is going to happen come November.
I have another friend who has fled under threat of arrest and I am sure he is watching the events from afar with un coeur brise. It can't be easy for him to be so physically distant from what  has been his passion for years.

So I am here, wondering how to get back, wondering if I really want to get back and thinking of all those who haven't a choice in leaving or staying.

My summer has been full of (work) and trying to determine my future path. Just when I think I have my goals set, someone shares this video with me and I know where I am going.

It is not just the saga of the street kids, but the emerging street families that presents the most concern. I'm praying on this one. While the country deals with elections and presidential glissement, there is a section of the population that will remain forgotten. Unfortunately it's the section that is generally thought of as the future.

Telema!

While I am busy collecting notes on my neighbors and words of wisdom from my growing boys, their is one voice that's missing. My favorite poet. Since Congo has lost all ability to send and receive texts messages, my conversations with Christian have waned. Feeling so far apart and unconnected, coupled with my other woes, has sent me spiraling into despair on more than one occasion.

As a result, I have thought more frequently of those who  live in a constant state of isolation (North Koreans) and of those whose contact with the greater world is intermittent (villagers, third world dwellers, poverty stricken humans.) Even here in the capital, phone service can be reduced at times to nothing more than a frustrating (albeit somewhat sexy) French voice letting you know your call just can't go through right now. I have spent a sick day or two feeling trapped in my home, unable to call a friend for help- only getting through after hours of repeated dialing and sending the boys out to the phone cabin where reception is possibly .5% better.

But I wasn't dying (or, at least, I didn't die) and for folks in Kinshasa the situation is surely more serious. Aside from the fact that there isn't a local emergency number to begin with, communication with friends and family is severely limited. And receiving news from outside the country? Hard, hard and harder.

Its not just about finding out what is going on out there in the wide world, or letting those you love know you're ok (or not ok, as the case may be,) but it is more about making sure the world is aware of what's going on inside. Witnesses. There is nothing comparable to the feeling that no one can see you and no one cares. Or even KNOWS what your reality is.

Telema is a website launched in response to the recent events in the country. It is a continuation of the efforts to educate the masses, educate the youth, mobilize the people. While  "the Congolese issue is an African issue" and ultimately a world issue, the real power to change things starts and stops with the Congolese themselves.

Its  hard to be so far away and still feel like I am lending my full support. But there it is, using my art to spread the word. One small thing I can do right now- hoping to find more small things leading to an avalanche in the future. Its all coming, slowly, slowly. |Sure would be a lot easier if I had the words of my poet to sustain me.

The boy in the road

By the time I saw him, I guess he was more of a body in the road. It was 5:30 am. Still dark on a Sunday morning. I had just dropped Christian off at the airport. The roads were clear and the ride there had been without incident. Well, except for an odd little skirmish between two drivers. We'd come upon them having a meltdown of some sort.  Though there were 4 lanes- 2 in each direction- one of the cars was on the wrong side of the road. The other, a small van, was preventing the car from returning to the correct lane. Every time the car sped up or slowed down, the van followed suit.  I kept my distance from the two, uncertain what exactly was transpiring between them and how long it had been going on.

Four a.m. is an odd hour to be out in Kinshasa. While traffic is thin, most of what is out there are people still finishing off their night. It means they are well intoxicated and full of whatever ambiance they've just left behind at the club. We were a considerable distance from the city center however and so I couldn't really tell when or where the dispute had begun. A car crept up behind us and seemed to sense the good reason of our strategy. He also stayed far behind. The two dragsters sped off into the distance.

We came upon them again, pulled over to the side of the road. The car who'd been following us had begun to pass us and then swerved over into the lane of oncoming traffic- empty now. I did the same as we passed the odd couple, figuring it best to take no chances. Leaving the two behind to sort out their differences, we continued on to the airport without further excitement.

Ndjili was quiet and we easily made our way inside to pay the fees and taxes and check the bags. Then it was that time.....the time to enter where only ticketed passengers can go. Christian and I said our goodbyes and I made my way back to the car. Kinshasa already looked different to me without him.

The sun had not yet risen from its slumber as I made my way back to Kintambo. Sunday mornings are a jogging morning and I'd remarked on more than one occasion the number of joggers that gather together for the early morning run. The closer to the airport you get, the more you encounter until it is a steady mass of people, many jogging in the median- a practice I have never quite understood but vaguely sense to be a bit safer than trying to make your way down the nonexistent sidelines.

The joggers run facing traffic and many can also be found wearing karate uniforms, doing the random boxing move and other exercises. I drove through the darkness keeping my eyes alert. At one point, as I crossed a small bridge, the number of people crowded on each side of the road left only a narrow passageway for the cars and taxi buses to pass through.  Here the people had assembled to perform a variety of exercises including a jumping twist turn and squat thrusts and whatever else you might imagine training athletes doing. They were a mixed group of people, young and old, boys, men, and women. All getting their early morning work out in.

I'd just passed the bridge and the throngs of people when I saw him. The exercisers were beginning to thin out, being replaced now by the vendors and those on their way to church. The road opened up but the sides were still filled with people. Some random groups of joggers ran down the middle of the road next to the cement divider.  And there he lay in the middle of the 8 lane highway. A young boy.

I can't remember if I swerved to avoid him or if I was already in the lane just able to pass him. My mind  first tried to understand what it was in the middle of the road and then to make sense of it. An impossibility.  It's a person. A boy. Sleeping. Not in the middle of this kind of road.  This huge highway of road that is filled with taxi buses and cars racing through it. Not this road that would, in an hour or so I knew, be completely overflowing with traffic and pedestrians and vendors and police.

But still, sleeping seemed to be the best my mind could do at the moment. Because life was going on all around us. Women were carrying bowls of bread to be sold, people waited for taxis- a big crowd of people was waiting for taxis to my right and to my left, just on the other side of the cement median, guys were jogging by. Heck, someone was crossing the road on foot. Surely they all saw him there. He must have been hit- except there were no crowds of angry, yelling people, as accidents normally draw. There was no car stopped anywhere in sight. Just the morning darkness and this boy in the road.

And me driving by, leaving him behind as everyone else had done. I thought about what I could do, what I should do. I couldn't really come up with anything. There is no 911. There's no police or ambulance to call. By stopping, I would immediately implicate myself in the accident and become a source of blame requiring some monetary intervention. What I wish I'd done was stop at the crowd and inquire. Ask someone- do you see that boy? what is happening? Because even now, I can't stop seeing him and wondering.

At that moment, Christian happened to call. I might have been able to continue driving in my stupefied state if he hadn't called just then. As it was, I burst into tears. He became immediately alarmed and had to call me back two more times to make sure it wasn't I who had hit someone. By then, I'd pulled off the road, the confusion swirling through my mind to such a degree I could no longer talk and drive. I'd already missed my turn.

"A small boy," I told him, "just there in the middle of the road. And no one was doing anything about it." Even me, I added to myself tempted to go back. To be sure I saw what I thought. To try and make something happen. Christian offered solace but told me to go home. Keep driving, just go home. The only sensible advice in a country like this- where the best intentions always lead down the path of the worst consequences.

The sun was beginning to rise and I continued on my way, thankful that the daylight meant no one would accidentally run over his body in the cover of darkness. The light would compel the passersby and the police to take some action. Too late, surely, but action nonetheless.

And me? What of my action?  My responsibility? I took it all as another sign that it is time to get out of this country. Before I really begin to detest the person I am becoming.  Upon arriving home I did the only thing I can think to do. Packed up all our old shoes and the boys old clothes and set off to find my groups of street kids. Because it could have been any one of them out there, in the middle of the road with no one to care and no one to stop. Its a useless action.  It doesn't do anything to make me feel better about what I saw or how I responded. I'm haunted by the boy in the road.

Mask of the Colonels

Anyone living in a big city knows the dangers are constant. Anyone living in Kinshasa knows exactly what to worry about, which places in the city require extra vigilance and which places are probably best to avoid and when. And of course there are the everyplace worries about car accidents. I think car accidents are the number one cause of death in African cities. If not number one- very high on the list. Drivers are crazy- self-centered and full of the intoxication that comes with suddenly being able to travel faster than the speed of a pedestrian (when not stalled in the tangled threads of traffic created by aforementioned intoxication that is.)

In light of the recent fight across the river, a new concern has popped up on the radar. Not for me but for my guy from Brazza. He's been working at a local school here in Kin for the past 7 or 8 years and people know him well. He's got a solid reputation around town and everyone from high ranking generals to affluent ex-pats call him for dance lessons, wedding preparations or special events. He knows how to light up a dance floor and he's magic with his students. Which inevitably brings a bit of jealousy from those on the fringe.

He's had endless difficulty with the security at the school despite his every effort to create a genial atmosphere (and constant gift giving of shoes, hats and francs.) After a break-in last year, the school turned to police security and that's when most of the confrontations began. However, despite a few dramatic escalations, its always been something he's worked around (installing one of his dancers at the gate to open for students so the police aren't bothered with this menial chore- that happens to actually be their job...)  or muddled through (ignoring comments, glances or other affronts in an effort to make his students feel welcome and create a tension free atmosphere.)

Since the Kin-Brazza conflict however, things have reached a new level. Several times last week the comments weren't so harmless and the insults weren't restricted to just a few but instead spread to an angry mob. Chauffeurs and security personnel were caught up together in a band of ethnic hatred. Christian became a target for all the perceived wrongs of his government and countrymen. Threats of violence and death were hurled and repeated with increasing detail. They promised to invite the kaluna and suggested any dark night they could be waiting in the shadows after a class.

It's hard to know when threats are idle or should be taken seriously. I'd hoped to have a conversation about this with him to try and figure out how the next few weeks should go. Did we really have something to worry about or were they just shooting off steam? News stories flashed through my mind and I sensed with horror the ease in which a mob mentality could overrule any personal connections or logical thought an individual might have. Mobs are scary, powerful things. And kaluna need very little to ignite their raging hostilities that simmer constantly just beneath the surface. They  harbor a volatile sense of injustice and are ready to act on it for any cause, real or imagined. And a few well placed francs goes a long way.

Before I could gather details and get what I'd hoped was an accurate perception of the danger, I found myself seated at an outdoor table greeting a colonel and his group of military men. The colonel made a point of not getting up when I reached over to shake his hand, a sign of his apparent importance. He was interested in purchasing Christian's car and this meeting was intended to secure the details and arrange a final selling date (which has since come and gone.) While the men waited for cold beers to presented, they engaged in small talk and eventually things got around to the situation at the school.

I felt a small ray of hope to hear these men recognizing that the world of politics should not play out in the hands of the masses- citizens are not their government policies- but that idea was quickly followed with recognition of the general ignorance of the population and the willingness of certain groups of people to get caught up in these kinds of affairs as an excuse for aggression and violence. In short, the colonel advised Christian to stay home. At least for the night classes. No need to risk it. Hearing a colonel suggest retreat kind of put things in a different light. Perhaps it was wise to take the situation seriously. At least for the next few days. After all, the first confrontation had resulted in being accosted by the police and taken as far the 'beach' where the ferry leaves port for Brazza. It would have taken mere minutes to be thrown on a boat or tossed in the river- never to be heard from again. Luckily, he is a gifted talker and somehow managed to get out of that situation. But there's no counting on luck.

Eventually the beers were presented, though warm and were since rejected (wait...what?! rejected beers in Kinshasa??? preposterous!  I have never heard of or seen this before- and it is only just now in the writing that little puzzle pieces of suspicion are beginning to fall into place. No beers, no follow through on the deal, hmmmm. Could all those words about the error of politics being played out by the masses have been a polite but insincere front? A mask of the colonels? This is how the seeds of doubt and hatred get spread and continue to grow- in the fertile grounds of suspicion and incomprehension.The ease in which the emotions and sentiments of man can be manipulated is alarming.)

Things do seem to have calmed a bit since then. For caution's sake he had his dancers teach one night class but has since returned to his regular schedule. The lull of routine taking over as the persistence of fear is not one that can be continually sustained.

A residue remains however, that feeling of being trapped in your own skin- proud of who you are but powerless against those who harbor hate for no other reason than the very skin you inhabit. It's the story of human societies in countries all over the world- this flame of hatred both powerful and senseless- based on little more than the chance of birth.

UPDATE: Christian says there are plenty of people in Kin who would refuse a warm beer- including himself. See how easy it is to spread misinformation and undeserved suspicion...?

When Brothers Fight

I've been reading In the Time of Madness: Indonesia on the Edge of Chaos by Richard Lloyd Parry. I haven't found it to be great writing- though I am admittedly very much near the beginning still. It has received good reviews in terms of being an accurate portrayal of a country's decent into war and strife.
So far I am feeling like it is just a string of horrible events only slightly related and without much story line. I can't put anything in context. Maybe it's coming.

What I am struck by, however, is how fast or perhaps how deeply two ethnic groups become opposed to one another. How entire groups of people can be overcome by fear and loathing to such a degree they are blinded to the humanity of the other. One reviewer on the GoodReads site mentions that current state of Indonesia being such that it is "ripe for future strife and mob mentality..."  I am not exactly sure what conditions she perceives as creating a culture more likely to cave into mob mentality. It seems to me any group of people are prone to this when faced with uncertainties that have been allowed to grow to mythic proportions, i.e. the deliberate or unintentional perpetuation of ignorance about a situation of group of people deemed "the other." It could happen anywhere.

And it's happening now in Kinshasa. While I can't seem to find much in the news or anywhere online (a few videos of demonstrations and the predictably disturbing graphic photos that reveal no source or caption to confirm contextual information that so often pop up on FB) word on the street is prolific. There's a fight going on between Brazza and Kin and it's not real clear who the bully is- depends on which side you're talking to.

Previously, whenever I'd heard mention of the sister cities, I'd always heard it in the context of 'we're all one country, just separated by a river. They are our brothers." Family ties have severed in what seems like a matter of weeks (actually appeared like an overnight phenomenon to me but it's probably just due to the lag time in my ability to get information from informal sources. I don't really have numerous connections. Just an American girl in Kinshasa.)

I was able to unearth a bit of history while fact searching and, as it turns out, this isn't the first time tensions have erupted between the countries.  In April 2011 there was an attack on the Presidential Palace on Kinshasa- with said attackers reportedly coming from Brazzaville. While I'd heard the story at the time, what I neglected to understand was that the alleged attackers hailed from Kinshasa but had been taking refuge in the Republic of Congo. The incident brought up renewed interest in trying to have General Munene returned to Kinshasa where he is wanted to serve a life imprisonment for his part in a rebellion. Tensions go even further back to the time of DRC's first President, Joseph Kasavubu.

What has been particularly disturbing to me this round has been the surprising sentiments from people I thought I knew (realizing of course, that you can never really know someone. If there is one thing I am learning in Africa, it's this. Beyond the masks used for dance and ritual lie a myriad of socially constructed masks behind which one can never be sure what is hiding.)

Statements of outright hatred and prejudiced made against an entire country of people. After reflection, it is really not so new. When I was traveling in Guinea just after the assassination attempt of their president, it was often remarked, " Oh, you're American? Ok. Good thing you're not French." And on one occasion, "No, she's American, not French," was called across a backyard we happened to be passing through as an introduction and request for continued passage. Good thing I guess, because citizens are not separated from government policy and when in a foreign land you are no longer just your own person.

While it may be nothing new (kidnappings of foreigners across the continent serve as a daily reminder of this phenomenon- how quickly one can be turned into a pawn in the game of political chess and warfare)- it is fairly cliche to admit that because it is now something I can hear with my own ears and witness with my own eyes, it is ever more surprising.

I've heard several versions of the story- from the idea that the Kinois in Brazaville are there without proper documents and are accused of thug-like behavior and as such have been asked to leave. Only they haven't necessarily wanted to leave and haven't exactly been arrested and deported but have been beaten and even killed on the streets. A populace that has risen up and taken their frustrations into the immediacy of the moment.

This has incited Kinois both in Kinshasa and living abroad. They are rallying against the violence, calling for Congolese from Brazzaville living in Kinshasa to go back home as well. There have been threats from both sides of the river.  The biggest problem seems to be no one is exactly sure how it all got started. This article suggests an affront towards President Nguesso in March, with the expulsion of the Kinois from the country as a retaliation in saving face.

In the end, it seems unlikely a true story will emerge, impossible in fact. Politics has no truth. And it is always the ordinary citizens, caught up in the uncertainties, the deceptions, and the insecurities of the 'big boys' who will suffer.

I keep hearing that voice in my head, as I sat with two best friends, one from Kinshasa, the other from Brazzaville. "We are brothers. There is no difference between us." So they said then. One can't really be sure what will happen now that the brothers are fighting.

No Longer Mates

I've spent nearly every day of 2014 curled up on the couch, the bed or the floor calculating the hours it might take to digest whatever small food I ate last and trying to hold on. Apparently I have a phobic reaction to throwing up. Dry-heaving, no problem but actual vomiting results in all sorts of panic attack symptoms. I'm not sure when this developed, or why, but I can see it is deep rooted and borders on a psychosis.

I've also learned about myself that if I am one day old and ill I will most likely become the crotchety old woman who yells at everyone and ruins their good time. Being sick makes me short on patience and low on kindness. This revelation reminded me of one I'd had during my last observed Ramadan. Being hungry makes one tired. It was such a profound thought to me that tired took on a whole new meaning. Not the sleepy, weary tired of staying up all night and not the exhausted, can't walk another step tired that comes from physical exertion, but more of a deep in your bones, invading every cell and slowly shutting down the mind tired that comes from not having enough nutrition to make the body function.

Being sick makes one crabby. Not the cranky, I didn't get enough sleep crabby but the snap at someone before even thinking with a just plain mean response crabby. Which shouldn't surprise me....it's an awful lot like my mother and as we age it seems inevitable we become more like our parents- no matter how little time we spent together. But it is disappointing. I wanted to be a better person than that. I wanted to be the sweet old lady who says uplifting and slightly mysterious things full of bits of wisdom, emitting a fragile strength that carries me through to my last tranquil day.  

I'm not dying, though I may feel like it at times, and so there is still time to develop this person who won't become a bane to the young nursing home attendants. I'm sure much of the strain has to do with job stress and the impending life changes facing me. Returning to Kinshasa after this last small vacation was particularly hard. I've been feeling a lot like this except I've been in the Congo for twice as long as the author, which makes things all the more poignant.

Last September, last summer really, all the way up until about October, I had thought I was staying. Putting down roots and making my final peace with Kinshasa. I was prepared to call it home once and for all. Sometimes I try to get back to that state of mind, when riding the streets at night with a cool wind and lazy city sounds filling the air made me feel cozy, comfortable and filled with a sense of  belonging. We know each other, Kinshasa and I. And we understand how to get along.

Events have conspired in such a way, however, that it turns out Kinshasa and I are not soul mates. We won't be hunkering down together to get the boys through their middle and secondary years of school. We won't be launching them off to colleges and futures out in the world and we won't be waiting to welcome them home with arches of woven palm leaves and open arms.

In between bouts of nausea and amoeba attacks, I've been using all my couch time to imagine new beginnings. What do I want to do with my life? Of course, in imagining new starts it's impossible not revisit the past with a bit of nostalgia for what could have, should have, might have been.

In remaining true to my resolve to be a better person, I'm trying to stay focused on the present. What can I do now? I see lots of nature in my future, mountains or water. I'm really hoping for a place that will allow us to spend more time outdoors. I'm trying to open up my mind to locations I hadn't before considered. Every so often, I dream about the paths I really want to take, though it can be easy to get lost in the tangled web of contradictions that always seem to define my future plans.  The illness doesn't just take over my body, but it corrupts my mind as well, leaving just as many days curled up on the living room rug feeling hopeless and stormy gray.

Sunny skies or not, the facts remain. There are four months left in Kinshasa and then the boys and I will be off on a new kind of adventure

en plein air

There's a new cinema coming to Kinshasa, or so the billboards around town seem to be announcing. Something like a drive-in, though without the car. "Everyone outside," the announcement demands. "Come enjoy the movies in the fresh air." Sounds like another good move for Kinshasa (and whoever is funding the business.)

It's another kind of outdoor calling that has me perplexed though. Apparently a new plan is in place for dealing with the Kuluna- Kinshasa's notorious machete wielding street gang that terrorizes whomever they want, stealing money, wares and killing randomly. It has become such a problem that residents of some neighborhoods are afraid to go out after 11pm or before 5 am. For some workers, this makes getting to their jobs on time difficult. Women who collect bread at several of the city's bakery outlets usually like to get there around 3 am. The decision between making a living and remaining safe has become a daily struggle.

The reaction from many locals is positive. Everyone seems to have a story of witnessing, just passing or knowing someone who has been murdered or victimized by the gangs. They take on a legendary status. A woman pregnant with twins, slashed across the neck, her babies cut out. Another woman seen by someone on the way to a friend's house....her corpse visible on the roadside upon the return. Kids menaced, shopkeepers looted, women selling fruits and vegetable losing their daily profits. The solution seems to be justice- or judgement- immediately. Anyone found in the act of a crime is immediately killed. In front of everyone -in order to send the proper message.

Saturday night we visited a place we like to go often, have a drink and watch the people coming and going. This particular evening, things seems so much more lively and full. People were everywhere. "You see," one of the men at the table said, waving his arm across the populated street front. "People are no longer afraid. They've been liberated."

Hmmm. Because of my presence, discussion ensued about the "justice" of it all. I worked hard not to be misinterpreted. I worked hard to try understand their perspective. "It's the African system," they said, referring to violence and force needed to bring about change. "If parents don't bring up their children right or can no longer control them, someone needs to do something. This is right. This is good." They felt it without a doubt.

I wasn't necessarily agreeing or disagreeing with the method, but posed several questions. What if it was your child who was in the wrong place at the wrong time..somehow mistakenly getting included in the Kuluna gang? What if it was you? Tempers rise and anger is rarely a clear lens with which to remember what you've seen. What if the victim was somehow mistaken for being an accomplice?

But mostly, I tried to bring up the underlying causes. My real reaction was not about the current plan, but how to prevent more kuluna from springing up. What drives someone to become that kind of person in the first place? I was thinking of basic human needs and the purposes of government- two topics we are currently studying in my classes. The government does have a responsibility to create livable conditions for its citizens. Or so I believe. And I argued that it is the absence of these conditions- water, electricity, food, education, a viable future- that leads to desperation. Which is what drives people to commit such acts. Or so I theorized.

Not to be confused with making excuses. Merely pointing out the need for the government to attack the problem on many different levels. In order to prevent a resurgence, or a morphing, it seems vital that basic human needs be addressed. And I remain stumped by the people's pleasure at such extreme measures all the while never recognizing how it came to be in the first place. Who allowed the gangs to grow to such proportions and hold such power?

There's no easy answer. "Beaucoup de securitie maintent,"  as one man put it- lots of security- at night- surely is a step in the right direction. There are many who would argue that out and out murder solves the problem of taxing a crumbling prison system. This article, from February 2013, reveals a lot about the various perspectives- governments, police, kuluna themselves. Adding to the complexities is the number of politicians and businessmen who employed the kuluna for their services as body guards and protectors during the elections. The police who find it difficult to give chase on foot and in the hot Kinshasa sun and a justice system which doesn't keep them in jail for long. This disturbing, shaky video captures rival gangs in a rain battle.

Kinshasa is not the only city to grapple with gangs. The US has a fairly entrenched gang system in place, both in the prisons and on the streets. Solutions are long and costly. They require investment, knowledge, support of the people. And alternatives.  This paper outlines a number of strategies tried in programs across the US. And there is infinite material available on the web discussing causes, preventions, reactions, and responsibilities of the actors involved (families, communities, schools, police, etc.)

This interesting quote "A gang is only as strong as a community allows it to be"  comes from this site by Mike Carlie. It brings to light the importance of considering all aspects involved and looking at the changing face of society. In America. 

It stands to reason each country would need to examine their own underlying causes and moral influences. Family and community play an important role in demanding programs and assistance for the problems developing in their neighborhoods. I don't have those kinds of connections...that would alert me to the actions of communities. Have they united and raised their voices as one? Have they called on the government to take action and save their children? Where do they turn for safety and security? How do they make their concerns heard?
There are so many levels to this need- education being at the base I think. Knowing that there are solutions other than direct murder. Knowing that there needs to be additional research, support, programs, and options. DRC is a huge country. Dealing with war and violence in the east seems to overtake the focus, leaving problems like those in Kinsahsa's quarters left hanging. I'm not sure how many, if any, NGO's or other development programs have a branch aimed at reducing gang violence. My initial search turned up only this link from the US Embassy referring to the eastern region of the country. Other searches refer to centers for street kids. Equally important in their urgency, but neither really addressing the unique problem of gangs.

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.

STOP!

I don't have much to say about this photo. Rather, I don't have much information to provide. But I have plenty of questions. There are two of these around the city that I have seen so far. A few months back, I saw something similar in message, though with a different image.

It's confusing to say the least. Irony at its best. I wonder who is the deciding force behind these banners.  The one I managed to snap a photo of is posted on the side of RTNC, the local TV and radio station. The other one is located downtown on the side of a building facing the boulevard.

It seems odd that billboards like this can be posted around the city when journalists are still on slippery ground. They are menaced, falsely accused, insulted, spied on, threatened and killed for reporting on this very topic.

I also can't really figure out who this message is intended for. If this were any other country, I might imagine a group of concerned citizens got together to send a message to the government. But clearly the government is aware of these signs, has, in fact, allowed them to be placed and remain hanging. So I am left to ponder....who are they talking to?

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.

Rebelle..times 10

I began watching Hotel Rwanda again...just to remind me. Sometimes a good film can transport you from the everyday into reality. Sometimes I need to remember what reality is for others. And as the film began, I thought of the need for films like that about Congo. Films, novels, children's stories. Anything and everything to make the people remember. And not even remember, but to know. The reality that continues today. Right now. Because I've been here for five years already and it remains the same. I see myself become complacent. I know that story- about the women in the east, about the children too young to see the things they do.  I know that story but what am I doing about it?

People have heard about Rwanda. They've heard about Darfur. But I'm not really sure they've heard about Congo. As I am watching the film, I remember Rebelle....War Witch, in the English title I believe. An amazing film. A Congolese actress from the streets of Kin who won an award even. But I'm still not sure people know about Congo.

The group I have been dancing with would like to celebrate their first anniversary by holding a fundraiser for the women and children in the east. A noble jest, as it is explained in French. It makes good sense- our group of women who come together to find strength, courage and community in dance. We want to show our support for women who need strength, who need courage and who have been let down and abandoned by their communities.

Big names can dot it. Eve Ensler held a dance in the streets for women. One Billion Rising. Even Kinshasa had a chapter.  Angelina Jolie has been traveling. And the word is- people need to take her seriously, although I find the picture of the woman sleeping next her really explains it all. Can any American female imagine taking a nap while sitting next to Angelina? Really? But were we to walk a day or two in the steps of that woman, filled with her memories, her struggles, her impossible view of the future, we might find Angelina a bit irrelevant as well.

But big names do draw publicity. They bring news and public interest and hopefully a bit of awareness. Perhaps I was a bit naive to think a small group of women here in Kinshasa could do the same. We've been trying to organize a dance event with our instructor since January. Myself, I was inspired by the youth in Kisangani who rallied together to present a concert for peace as well as the Eves and Angelinas of the world. We are women, and we want to support our sisters.

Organizing a concert in Kinshasa is not as easy as one might think. There is the problem of space, of parking, of inviting the people who are wealthy enough to donate but not so wealthy that they've already closed their eyes to situations they know too well. It's about attracting the people who need to know more and the people who care. Its about inviting the artists who can send a message and presenting an image of strength, solidarity and compassion. And its also about finding a way to do this on a shoe string. Because, franchement, we're not Angelina Jolie. We are a group of women led by a Congolese artist- from Brazzaville, a refugee of war with bullet scars to prove it- who wants to use his talent to support the women of his sister country.
 
To be sure, the women who attend weekly classes belong to the middle class. They have contacts. And we've been trying to exploit this- true Kinshasa style. True to business anywhere. It's all about the networking. Our efforts have led us down many many roads - many expensive roads- before arriving at a real possibility in negotiating with the Grand Hotel.  This appeared to be a lucky break. A soirée at the Grand Hotel could bring the kind of people who can really donate, who would think nothing of parting with a hundred dollars or so for the sake of an elegant evening and a good cause.

The hotel asked for a paper of confirmation from the Hospital Panzi, where we planned to donate the money. The hospital has made recent news concerning Doctor Denis Mukwege and his assassination attempt. Perhaps we aimed too high, because, although the doctor has returned home,  the hospital has yet to get back us. About whether or not they'd like to accept our donation. Which complicates things when searching for donors.

It's not the first time I've had this experience in Kinshasa.  The experience of trying to give money to people who may not actually be ready to accept it. In this case, however, I was doubly surprised. I guess you can never really get used to the way things work in Congo. Often without logic or reason, but with some kind of synchronicity that can't be counted on or determined. A charity that may or may not accept your gift.

The paper of acceptance is important because, as one hotel worker responded, "So many people talk of the women being raped in the east. But how can it really be possible? All those soldiers....acting like that all of the time. How can it be? It's probably just another scam to get money...."

This was one perspective I'd never really considered. That the Kinois themselves would consider it all a ploy for others to hold fundraisers and pocket the money. But of course, suspicion and connery abound in Kin's "every man for himself" atmosphere. Making it ever easier to believe the cry for the women and children of eastern Congo is but one more scam in the effort to line personal pockets with gold.

While our plans have not yet been realized and the evening of dance and art remains, as yet, uncertain, perhaps any money we raise would be more productively spent on films, children's books, pamphlets, and photos to be distributed on the streets. Because awareness starts at home. And the Kinois need to be the first to rise up for their compatriots, their sisters and children who are living the unimaginable. We need Rebelle times 10. So people remember. 

Truth?

The kids are fond of posting this on FaceBook. Truth. One word- a question, an invitation. This post is often followed with what's meant to be real sentiment. A private emotion. Vulnerability. They label it truth almost as a disclaimer or warning of sorts. "Don't blame me (judge me, hate me, love me) for what I am about to say, it's just the truth."

When this post takes the form of a question it becomes an invitation not only for feedback, but a request to share your real self. Who are you? And what do you think of me? I am mid-decision about whether this is a viable way to get real feedback from your friends and acquaintances. I remain stuck in the middle because I wonder which truth the writer or the requester is referring to. The truth of this moment or the truth in place that existed before? Or perhaps it is the truth of tomorrow? I resist the urge to take part in these exchanges of truth because I doubt the existence of a real truth but see ever changing versions of a momentary reality.
 

The truth about this house? At one time it was palatial, grand, full of elite. At one time it was home to gatherings and parties of the most important, influential and prominent people in power. Move forward slightly in time and we can witness the truth of its destruction and pillage. Military and police swooped in, grabbing whatever was seen as valuable and plenty that was not. From furniture to fixtures the house was reduced to a mere shell of the opulence and beauty that had been its reality only months and weeks and days before. In the present? The house is filled with a sparse collection of renters, each in their own rooms with their own cook stoves and their own systems for washing, cleaning and preparing for the day. It is slowly being repaired, dreamed about, built up perhaps not quite to its former glory but to something respectable.

The inner foyer (yes, we'd already entered the main front door)

I imagine another truth standing beside the story of this house. And that is that its not alone. There are many of these houses, once a symbol of a burgeoning wealth destroyed by the frustrations of the common people and now cautiously being returned with hope and optimism for the future. I imagine many of these houses, standing empty, neglected and barren, their owners having fled to comfortable European safety.

Neglected swimming pool- a science experiment of its own

The truth I don't have to imagine? The homeless of Kinshasa, wandering streets in darkness and rain, searching for shelter.

View of the city from the backyard