Shape shifters and stone benders

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A dollar a day revisited

More than the sun appearing after a torrential rain, sweeter than the cooing of doves after a wind swept night, the relief of the monthly salary surpasses all of this. For a day or two we are intoxicated with our richness. First, we stock our small cupboards with all the provisions they will hold. Then we turn our sights to the one or two items we have been dreaming of all month long- a pair of new cleats to replace the much worn and now full of holes and embarrassment (I tell Mohamed his quickness comes from within and not from the brand of soccer shoe, I tell him first people will remark his technique and later emulate his material style but I know I am speaking to a 12 year old- name brands mean so much at 12. I do remember.) We search for a little baby seat with rollers to keep our princess happy ( and to alleviate the constant villigance we pose when she insists on puling herself up against the wall, the chairs, our legs.) I shut my eyes to the price, don't even calculate conversion to US dollars- something that would surely freeze me immobile with shock at the cost- anything to bring her safety, happiness, and peace of mind for us.

After this spree, we face again our poverty. I remember that the month is long and the salary small. It won't be but a mere week or two before I find myself shopping at the magasin on the corner rather than the grocery store. I will buy in terms of today. I will live for now. What do we want for breakfast? For dinner?

Poverty makes one rethink all else. It is, as is writ, filled with those constant decision making crises which tire one out and leave you useless for more important decision making. We stay close to home, trade off priorities and wager between the three of us who gets to spend what, where and for what purpose.

What is it really like to live on a dollar (or slightly more) a day? I realize my previous post did little to illuminate this.  In a passing conversation a friend said to me, "But surely you go shoppping more than once?" And then I knew. She really doesn't know what it's like over here. (I have flashbacks of my favorite Woody and Buzz clip- a bad video but it plays ay 4:13 the quote- which should be so much more prominent and one I think all too often.)  "You don't know what it's like over here." Woody is exasperated because no one believes him and no one really understands. Oh yeah. I think this quote a million times a day for a million different reasons. For myself and for others. (More on the others yet to come. Indulging in my self pity for a moment- hehe.)

But here it is for us striving to survive on a dollar - or slightly more or less- a day. Ironically, it involves shopping a lot. You visit the corner boutique at least every day, sometimes multiple times a day. Your thoughts are for the moment- the meal, just now, and never for the future.

Here is a sample of things you can buy for 100 franc (about 25cents in US money.) Individual servings are the saving grace of African marketeering. You can buy phone units in terms of 100- or maybe 500- sugar, oil, rice, all the basics portioned out for individual servings.

Eggs are 100 franc each, a single serving of milk also 100- though available in 50 or 150 packets and you can share if you're trying to sweeten your morning tea. Be wary however, cheaper price does mean lesser quality- more "gras mat. , ie fat or veg oil and less 'real milk' powder. I like the condensed milk for milkier tea- 400 franc a can.  The baguette is 150 and we can share the three of us for breakfast. Sugar cubes (I am kind of fascinated by sugar cubes  and now know I am a 'two lumps' tea drinker) can be found for 100 francs but you can also get sugar grains ('sucre rouge' which is actually brown or raw for multiples of 100 or 200 or 500.) The rice pictured is actually 550 france and will last two days or so ( we eat 3 cups of rice per meal with a little left over for the next day's lunch depending on how good the sauce is- it's all about the sauce.)

In a pinch I like my rice with a little red palm oil and a dash of maggi cube- shrimp flavor.  One day  I will capture the oversize Maagi woman billboard who graces the entrance to Abidjan from the aiport. The maagi bullion is such a staple of African life that it has even become an adjective- as witnessed by a friend's account of describing a coworker- 'she's like a maggi cube- into everything, a little bit of this and that, a maagi makes it all better."  I don't think it was a complement in this case. But I do love a maagi sometimes.

So that's a breakfast. We cut out all snacks and sometimes even lunch and look to dinner. There is a pasta week, a poato week and a rice week. Although, to be sure, the boys are all about their rice. Africa is about rice (and sometimes foufou, which they have expressed longing for but I haven't yet searched out. It is here. In Macory I am told. A little community of Congolese with the best eggplant and foufou and all the spices they  might miss- uhm, as expressed by the ever knowledgable taxi drivers.)  Myself, I like attieke which is kind of like couscous but the boys don't like it (yet.)

Living on a dollar a day means  thinking only of the present. Sometimes when I compare things in terms of my transport I am dumbfounded. My taxi to work is 100 franc, less than the cost of a soda. The same as a bissap- the preferred local juice. Mohamed likes garba- a fried fish available in 200 franc, 250 or 300 franc protions. A tasty fish eaten with the hands, comes with a nice sampling of spicy peppers and attieke for 50 franc more.

There is little room for vegetables or fruit in our dollar a day regime. Sometimes I spring for bananas- which can run as much as 100 franc for just one- or, on those days just after payday I buy a sackful of apples for 1500 france. Carrots are a godsend, available in the sack for 550 -850 franc. The little girl eats a lot of those.

In the end, my whole concept of money has changed. Sometimes I am so wearied by trying to determine the best use and bargain deals that I buy n'importe quoi and other times I am full of calculations about how to get the best deal and stretch our money the furthest.

I have long since stopped making conversions. To calculate things in US dollars would render me useless- frozen with shock at the cost of life here. As it is, I wonder how my nounou- who makes a fraction of what I do- still manages to have money at the end of the month when  I have long run out. To be certain, she never eats things like cheese, which is a real weakness of ours- and maybe milk also.

Despite being 6 months pregnant, sometimes when I ask her if she has eaten she will tell me, "Yes, I had bread this morning." I make her bring home some of our moringa leaves and prommise she will drink some tea, but I know it's not enough. In short, living on a dollar a day means you just don't have enough. Ever.

Dismissed

"Good evening ma fille." There is an old woman on my block who has taken to calling me daughter. She greets me as I pass her house each day and always asks about the baby. Tonight, as with many afternoons, those ever ready tears are pushed that much closer to the surface with her words.

I want to roll up in the promise of home and surround myself with the image of comfort that they bring. But I haven't either awaiting me and so I walk on, trying to drown my thoughts with the sound of music pumping into my ears. It's only been the last few weeks that I could even listen to music without being transported back to the streets of Kin. Finally able to indulge, I now use it to quiet the steady rhythm of my mind during my morning and afternoon commutes. It's mostly successful. Dancing in the streets is the strongest urge I am fighting now and I figure if I give in to that I will just be considered cheerfully weird instead of woefully despondent.

It's hard to show up at my school each day and witness the lives of the privileged. My worn out shoes and tired clothes make me feel somehow less. I wonder what separates us and how we drew our lots in life. The situations in my life are circular, making me feel more and more convinced that there are past lives and in mine I must have caused a lot of suffering to many people. It's hard to be reasonable about this.

My most recent, but ever ongoing, frustration has to do with my job. Or more specifically, my salary, which always  runs out by the middle of the month. If someone has gotten sick that month, or some other event  occurs, it could be even sooner than the middle of the month. Like maybe the 12th. We've taken to calling the last two weeks of the month "weeks of suffrance." Once we've made it past the first week, the boys smile and say "we survived," and then buckle down to get though the next week.

My moments of elation and extreme relief at getting paid are fading faster and faster. It is frustrating, discouraging and at times, infuriating that I am not being paid what I am worth. I have to remember to say it that way lest I begin to believe there is something wrong with me personally. In the French system, apparently it is perfectly acceptable to discriminate against others based on their country of origin. It is not quite akin to the idea that women make less than men, but the result is the same. I am getting paid less directly due to conditions I cannot control. I am American.

It is another of those circular logic puzzles I have so frequently found myself enmeshed in since arriving in Abidjan. Because my degree is not from a French authority, it is not really counted. However, I have been hired to teach in the bilingual program- one which requires an English speaker, preferably a native English speaker. The bilingual classes cost more than the classique. They fill up quickly and, presumably, are a big draw for parents in choosing schools.

And yet, I am not paid enough to live on. It is a topic no one likes to discuss. You might not even like to be reading about it. I don't even want to be writing about it, but it continues to be a thorn in my side. The principal has tried to offer some help in the matter, (the French system being wonderfully autocratic- the administrators seem to have tied hands when it comes to making individual decisions. No French diploma=no living wage. End.) Trying to be creative, he has suggested looking for loopholes in years of experience (colleagues have told me this only counts if they are years of service in other French schools) and finally by achieving an increase in the discount for tuition fees. (Not the same as cash, most definitely.)

I was discussing the new 60% reduction in tuition for local hires with some other teachers. I (foolishly, in a moment of complete abandon) shared that even with the new discount, one trimester of tuition at our school equaled what I was paying for an entire year at L'Ardoise, the Ivorian school my boys are attending.

"Mais, L'Ardoise ne pas bonne," the coordinator of our program said and with that she dismissed my whole case. I no longer existed for her. She went on to complain about how much she had to pay for tuition for her two girls and how it threatened her ability to plan her summer at EuroDisney, the way she had promised.  I may just be feeling sour grapes, but in reality, I am not looking to finance a DisneyWorld vacation. I just want to eat 3 meals a day, every day of the month.  Being able to send my kids to a 'good' school would be a bonus but for now I am content that they are in school.

According to this article French teachers are prone to strikes. Any time us English speaking teachers get together, I wish I could propose one. Most of them have husbands with salaries, however, and view their jobs as a sort of recreation or supplemental income, I guess. And there is the large part of all of us that is just happy to have a job. Even if we can't actually live off them.

But no one really likes to talk about actual poverty. It's easier to pretend it doesn't exist. Or, if it does, it is somehow the fault of the person experiencing it. While searching for remarks from two of the greatest champions against  poverty, I came across this ridiculous wiki-how that shows an obvious ignorance of real poverty. Lottery tickets and financial advisers don't even figure into the realm of real world poverty. Parents are busy making decisions about whether their children should go to school or have food to eat. An impossible choice at the end of the day.

At the end of my day? I'm still puzzling over my colleague's quick judgement. I have been working on a post about the curriculum in the Ivorian schools -a fascinating and surprising discovery that leads to a much more complex evaluation than merely 'pas bonne.'  Hopefully it will soon be published, with photos. Meanwhile, I'm off to eat my gruel (just kidding, we still have the ever present rice with some sort of sauce.)

The Low Point aka Living on a Dollar a Day

Being an adventurer is not for the faint of heart. It requires you to have courage and strength and forever see the positive in whatever life throws at you. The fact is, that’s not really me. While I certainly aspire to all of those things, and maybe sometimes romantically imagine myself that way, I haven’t quite truly developed those qualities yet, not deep inside where they have roots.

I realized this as we were riding around town completing a few errands. I’d been feeling discouraged about the school situation for the boys (definitely not one of the perks of the contract it turns out,) a few other standards of living I haven’t quite figured out how to make happen yet and our financial situation in general. We passed two old women sitting, sleeping really, by the roadside. They had their blankets spread out and their beggar bowls nearby. I reflected for a moment that my life was in a tad better shape than theirs. I hadn’t it made it to the roadside yet.

We stopped at a clinic to pay off a small debt. I seem to have developed a penchant for dancing with death and after only 3 months here have faced my second malaria attack. I had a 40° fever on and off for a week. When Doliprane no longer seemed to be having any effect, I finally made my way out to the clinic. For reasons long and short, good and bad, real and ridiculous, I found myself without the money to pay for any treatment, not even the fever reducing perfusion I was seeking (I’d already started quinine for the malaria.) The doctor offered to let me pay half and scolded me for being in such a situation in the first place. She was absolutely right. Being without insurance or cash for medical care in Africa can quickly turn deadly. I was extremely grateful and somewhat stunned by her offer.  So, as soon as I found the means, I was off to repay the debt. On our taxi ride home, we passed a naked man sitting in the middle of the road. Another moment of reflection. “At least I haven’t reached that point,” I said to myself, trying somehow to see the positive. I realized it didn’t say much about my current state if I was comparing myself to old beggar women and naked men in the road.

I have recognized that poverty is the real spirit breaker. It’s easy to be positive and see the sunshine everywhere when you can afford the comforts that everyone else has. Once things get tight, discouragement and negativity start to kick in. So many aid organizations talk about Africans living on less than a dollar a day and you wonder how they can possibly do it.  It’s meal by meal and lots of walking. It involves bartering with neighbors, making small exchanges and taking on debt. The juggling game that those living in poverty anywhere quickly learn how to play. The ultimate in Wimpy…. “I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.”

This recent bout of discouragement found me longing for comforts from another world. Things I hadn’t really thought of or missed in years. A diner. A breakfast diner to be exact. I’ve been dreaming of scrambled eggs and pancakes with orange juice and a cup of diner coffee- the endless cup.  I want to buy a loaf of bread that comes in a bag and has 50 slices at least (and then I realize it’s not fresh bread and I’m probably better off with these tiny loaves that need to be replaced almost daily.) I want to buy fruit out of season and most of all I want New York cheddar cheese- sharp. Extra sharp.

I want the comfort of knowing there is an emergency room, open and obligated to take me in any time of the day or night. And I want free schools. I’m not sure if this means I am ready to make a return trip. As much as this latest illness has worn me out, made me feel like quitting and going home, I still couldn’t figure out where that would be. And obviously, we’re not in any position to move anytime soon.

So, on with the adventure. The boys have been handling things amazingly. There are always lessons to be learned. Mohamed has finally developed some money management skills and begun to look at and compare prices. With Christian away, he’s taken over some of the household responsibilities and he chooses to take on a lot of the baby care duties as well. We’re developing our ability to have patience and be happy with less. And Nabih, our favorite food connoisseur, has taken to praising even the simplest of meals and continues to eat with gusto no matter often we have rice or rice or more rice. I guess we’re still hanging in. I’ve been thinking of October as month when things should start to improve and I keep reminding myself we’re in it for only a year. Then we can start that grand search again where the world’s the limit…. or maybe we’ll have already found ourselves well down another path by that time. For now, just trying to get to October. 

The Last Story

Stories get harder and harder to recognize within the daily humdrum of life. Sometimes they happen by and I miss them, all the while pondering what to write about. Like the time just a few weeks ago when I was with a  colleague in the Kinshasa botanical gardens. We'd gone there to discuss a book we'd both read and also because we'd both never actually gone walking around the gardens. I'd wanted to check out a mural I had seen a glimpse of on-line- scoping out a potential art field trip for the students- and she on a recommendation from a fellow teacher.

We'd been walking down the paths along the wall when we found ourselves looking up at a bridge adjoining the main market downtown. It's a bit deceiving in the gardens as you can't really tell that the hectic, crowded marketplace borders the walls of the downtown oasis. There was a gang of street kids perched atop the bridge and we hesitated before continuing. It was like, in that moment, we were both envisioning them swooping down from the bridge to land in front of us Batman style and pilfer whatever paltry cash we might have had lining our pockets.

"Is it some kind of service road?" my colleague asked as images of the Bronx zoo filled my mind. However, this small path seemed lacking service littered as it was with plastic water bottles and other debris. There was a young boy who appeared to be washing his clothes at the end of the lane. I made the decision to continue walking on (not sure how I got to be the one to make the decision, but it seems I sometimes get the credit for knowing more about Kinshasa than I actually do, being less of a stranger than I actually am) so we continued.  Show no fear is what I figured. And while they continued to call out "Madame" no one actually swooped down or landed in front of us. It was a moment when a story could have happened. And it was a day that brings to mind all sorts of contemplations, from the degrees of being a stranger to the complexities of "double pricing"- one price for Congolese and one price for 'etrangers' to the police behavior when we parked the car- but it was a story that escaped me, common place as it's all become. Navigating the many levels of Kinshasa, determining which street kids are possibly on my side, which can recognize me as someone who really sees them and which are just plain hungry, how to talk to police and defuse the anger and righteousness hot sun and white skin seem to bring out- all just daily excursions through the social rankings of Kinshasa.

But what I have noticed is how it has affected the other stories. The ones I read. In my 4th grade literacy class, we just experienced a lesson on schema (by Debbie Miller to give credit) that I really loved. I wrote down one side of a paper "Zongo Falls," a local attraction most kids have been too. They were overflowing with ideas about what it's like to go there. Sensory images filled the page. Camping, bugs, forests, rainbows, waterfalls, flowers. At the top of the other column, I wrote Kalamazoo. Predictably, the class went pretty silent. They started asking questions and wondering if there were cages and animals there. At the end of the exercise, I wrote SCHEMA down the side of the paper with all their observations about Zongo. "These are the ideas we bring to reading, based on our experiences and knowledge of the world," I told them. Many authors recognize the reader brings as much to the novel as the author tries to put out. Our personal experiences and images formed by those experiences shape the way we read a novel. It had been the exact discussion my colleague and I had been having about the book we'd read, The Bone People. Interestingly enough, she'd had the experience of reading it some 15 years earlier and could compare her reactions. I was intrigued by how they differed.

Just as I have been intrigued, reading two other novels, The Dark Road and Behind the Beautiful Forevers, at how my schema has changed. Both of these books relate tales of people living unimaginable horrors and dealing with them in the best way they know how. All the while reading them, I simultaneously wonder if the people don't recognize the poisons they are surrounding themselves with and understand their inability to do anything to avoid it. But worst of all, my schema has grown to imagine real people that I see everyday living in these similar conditions. It's not necessarily the brilliancy of the author that makes these books so real to me as the conditions here in Kinshasa that I can see are nearly equal to the tragedies lived out by the characters in the books- real life characters. My schema has expanded and my ideas of the world now include people who wait for the next rain storm to erode the small hilltop on which their house resides, or the mothers and children and young men who fill water bottles at a burst pipe overflowing from cracks in the city street or, even worse, puddles that have become small lakes on dirt paved side roads.

Abdul, the garbage scavenger in Behind the Beautiful Forevers becomes akin to the kids you see walking among the rubble picking through waste and the homeless guy who wears black duct tape and ports a bag overflowing with bottles around the city streets. Abdul is the woman who sleeps on the little cement overhang just next to the UN building with her bags and bags of garbage keeping her warm. His little friend Sunil is that young kid downtown by Michaels store that I passed sleeping on the sidewalk, worn down by hunger and fatigue. He is all those gangs of street kids with fire in their eyes and empty bellies who smoke cigarettes outside the grocery stores and the night clubs, hoping for a little bit of nothing to fall their way.

When I finish reading these books, I can't even retreat to my suburban abode and pretend like it doesn't exist because they are all there on the outskirts, every time I go out my door. The Beautiful Dark Bone People trying to find their way down the Forever Road, a little bit at a time. Scavenging, brutalizing, hurling threats, guarding little moments of happiness, scraping with their neighbors, laughing in the sunlight, drinking rat poison and making the best of very little prospects. One day at a time, one moment upon one moment until the last story is told.

a portrait of the bottom billion

I've been a bit stuck, these last few months. It's become a trap of writing nothing or exploring the same kinds of events over and over. I am grateful that I haven't become complacent. I'm left with finding simple ways to inject some humanity into my daily life---asking someone's name, sharing a windfall of avocados from my storm blown tree, offering a smile, a listening ear, complimenting a beautiful fabric. It's not that I don't want to do more...but effecting change in such a country is difficult, challenging at best.

I've been reading The Bottom Billion by Paul Collier and while filled with fascinating insight, he's yet to tackle what I consider the hardest question of all. I am only about half-way through this statistical analysis of why some of the poorest countries are not able to overcome their poverty and move into a truly developing model.  I've yet to encounter his suggestions (promised in the later half of the book) and nothing he's written seems overly surprising. He does even concede, with regard to aid, that a major overhaul would be necessary albeit difficult due to the fact that "aid" is a business made up of people with careers who want accolades and advancements. That in itself is contradictory to their established goal of creating improvement and self sustaining change.  Were countries to become truly self-sustaining, a lot of people would be looking for new employment. Perhaps their jobs could be reconfigured to address some of the new issues that might arise were most of the world to be functioning on a truly level playing field.

Collier does discuss some roles that international governments could play. He briefly alludes to the fact that some countries, particularly those in "landlocked, resource scarce" Africa, should perhaps never have been "allowed" to become countries in the first place. Being in economics, he does not delve into the bizarre history of how those countries were formed or why, but he brushes past this point rather quickly, noting that "what's done is done. It can't really be un-done" though it seems some in Africa might differ. As African countries are dividing themselves and overthrowing dictators, one might almost feel hopeful that change is in the air. What I am really waiting for Collier to get around to discussing is the idea that Western and developed countries have a huge stake in keeping African countries in their current position. It's not really in their best interest to have full functional, well running countries in control of the very resources they are making their living from. He doesn't seem to be acknowledging the fact that many coups and rebellions as well as dictators and military generals have been wholly supported, backed and put in place by the west. But there is still the second half of the book in which he might redeem himself.

I chose this book because, living here in Congo and being in love with Africa as I am, I continue to feel dismayed and hopeless by the cycles of poverty and lack of development I see. It never gets old. Which is why I am writing again of the things I see that turn my head and remain as images, starker than any film, playing over and over again long after I've returned to my house with running water and electricity. As I struggle to free an ice cube from its prison in the tray, my fingers fumbling, my mouth watering at the coolness it promises, this is what I see:

I see her laughing in the sunshine
Talking with a friend as they washed their clothes
Bright beautiful pagnes
Laid out to dry on the grass

I’ve gotten used to many things, here in Congo
The automatic weapon slung over the shoulder
Of a policeman
Though I can’t imagine what need he would ever have
As he directs a car backing out from its parking space
I wonder vaguely if it’s loaded
If he is ever tempted
But it’s become commonplace
My thoughts around it hazy, lazy drifting thoughts
It’s just the way things are, here in Congo

I chuckle at the prices I see in the supermarkets
$150 Lego sets, board games in the $75 range
Status symbols for those who can pay
Ten times the worth of something
Made to break
In a week
They'll be back
Conspiratorially I involve a clerk
In my disbelief
Really? Is that ketchup $13? Do people really buy it?
I shake my head, I can’t imagine
But then realize,
Despite his laugh and comical reassurances
(Yes, they do, they buy it. Is it too much?)
Everything in this store is too much
He probably doesn’t buy anything
I am too ashamed to purchase
The $3 version
Of tomatoes in a bottle

I hold my breath when I see the boys
Clinging to the windows
Hanging outside the moving vans
And when I ride on the smooth hard seats
All I can see
Is how easy it would be
To go flying out the unlatched door
If we took a curve too sharp or hit a bump
Or another car
But I know transportation is hard
To come by, here in Congo

There are so many more sights
I’ve come to see
But don’t really see
You could never get through the nights
If you really paid attention
To everything
All the children on the streets
And where they go at night
Or when it’s raining
It’s not easy to tell how many have homes
They are just escaping
And how many have only their brothers
On the road to shelter them
I play a guessing game
Older than my son?
Younger than my son?
I try to imagine how he would fare
But it doesn’t help with sleeping
Here in Congo

Today I saw her from the window
Laughing with a friend
As they washed their clothes
In a puddle by the road
Such a public puddle
On a city street
I couldn’t imagine how they set out that morning
With two buckets and some laundry
Headed for this particular spot
Where the rain had collected

As we rounded again a second time
The clothes laid out to dry on the grass
A naked baby girl stood in the road
Waiting for her turn
To be scrubbed clean
“Maybe they don’t have running water at home”
Came one casual comment
It seemed to me more like
It was the home they were missing
I can see that chubby little girl
With her bright and laughing momma
Standing in the road
By the puddle
And it’s something I can’t quite get used to
Here in Congo