Trying to get to Congo on the end of a kite
The kite string broke, and down they all fell.....
When I was at the RDC embassy, a woman came in full of loud laughter which served only to mask the berating nature of her words. She was supposed to leave for Kinshasa that night and was wondering if she should cancel her plane ticket.
I gathered that she had family there, grown children with a Congolese spouse from the sound of it. She herself was clearly Ivorian and she was having a terrible time getting confirmation. But she barged into the office and sat down in the middle of my meeting with such confidence and familiarity that it seemed clear she'd done this before.
I've been having wildly fluctuating ideas about my trip- everything from it's too expensive to a soul searching why am I even doing this to I really need this trip- and throwing in the visa uncertainty isn't helping. I am trying to adjust to no expectations. If I get the visa, great, I will go explore, reflect, and experience. And if I don't, then I'll find a plan B.
But even as I try to will my mind into accepting this flexible, free flowing attitude, a stubborn part of me is resisting. Why? Why the hell is it so hard to get into Congo? (And of course, being me, this is having an immediate adverse effect. It's so hard to get into Congo that I simply must get in. I'm not sure I even really want to go, but if they are going to refuse than I just have to try harder.)
I did some quick searching to try and figure out why some countries are more difficult to get into than others. Congo didn't actually make any of the lists I found about unwelcoming countries or those with the hardest to get visas. And while these sites break the cost/effort ratio down for travelers, they don't really explain why a country would want to essentially refuse visitors.
Campos and Kimeria each write about their perspectives on African travel and visa procurement from the economic standpoint and as a curious traveler. I've also long experienced the difficulty of non-Americans in trying to get a US visa. But knowing it all exists doesn't explain why.
The US will state their fear of immigrants entering (in search of the dream) and then having no means of support. In recent months, this fear has been expanded to include all sorts of other random reasons and just plain coming out with the truth- racism- or ethnicism. The US doesn't really want you unless you're rich, white and male.
I'm not really clear what kind of visitor Congo is looking for. Connected, I guess. On my original visit, I was told by a secretary that I should have someone at my embassy call someone at his embassy. "You know, between embassies," he said, "things can happen."
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
11.4.17
12.6.16
arrival
I spent the day remembering my first trip to Africa, the way I feel in love with travel. The many languages in the airport, secretly satisfied when I hit the point in my journey when English was no longer the first in the long line of translated announcements.
I remembered the way the African climate enveloped me. The sounds of the night making magic in the air. I spent the day reliving the newness of it all and hoping my girl is having her own journey of wonder.
The day I've been waiting for, finally here. She's coming. Tonight. To Africa.
I remembered the way the African climate enveloped me. The sounds of the night making magic in the air. I spent the day reliving the newness of it all and hoping my girl is having her own journey of wonder.
The day I've been waiting for, finally here. She's coming. Tonight. To Africa.
13.6.13
Denied
Sometimes I hold onto a post because I'm waiting to get the right photograph, occasionally a tricky thing here in Kinshasa. My street sweeper post is one example. It's an idea that's been rolling around in my mind for awhile but it really needs a few good images to go with it.
This post I've been holding onto just because it makes me so angry my words get all muddled and stop making sense after awhile. They just become one long rant, which isn't very interesting to read- or to write. Time doesn't really make it easier however and so, after an incident with my favorite little brother, I've decided to try again.
It begins with
Of course, the determination of which countries are more desirable, versus less, is calculated by cash- how much money do the people living there make? Is it enough to compel them to return. As if economics were the only way to determine satisfaction with life.
It may sound preposterous to some, but it is possible to live in a third world country and be completely enamored with your life. To have no desire to start completely over, leave everything behind and set up shop in a country which you don't even speak the language. I suppose this may be the stereotypical immigrant dream....but that's where stereotypical comes in. I would venture to say plenty of people value the work they can accomplish and the family they have created, the small steps toward their dreams over beginning anew with nothing. It is not an adventure for the faint of heart.
Not to mention the whole 'big fish small pond' syndrome. Many Congolese have reached a status here in the capital that they are not ready to give up. Being successful is not such a small thing, but when compared to heading off to the US for an ordinary life of merely scraping by......there's really no comparing. They are practically stars here- validated for the time and effort and talent they give. I'm sure I am rambling here....but I really haven't witnessed anywhere else the kind of patriotism I see in Congolese artists. They want to stay.
They give their time freely, invest their own money for costumes and uniforms for their students, and volunteer to teach the youth of their neighborhood in order to instill a sense of pride and personal value. They do it because they are committed to their art and to their country. And they don't aspire to live in France or the US, though they may like to broaden their horizons by experiencing the world.
Try explaining all of that to the consular.
I imagine conversations begin casually, as did mine. With a feeling of gratitude and generosity. A feeling of wanting to reciprocate the goodwill that has been offered to you by inviting someone to your home country. But if you happen to be American, you need to pick your friends carefully. Because not everyone can visit the US.
I plan to be traveling to the US in late July and thought it would be a much better trip if I had a friend to accompany me. We followed all the rules and regulations outlined by the embassy. We collected all the paperwork (including two work contracts, examples of events organized for the benefit of children and students living here in Kinshasa and proof of family ties.) Visa applicants must conduct their interview alone and so I am told it went fairly quickly. All the papers were presented and the interviewing officer said, "Thank you, sorry you haven't proven beyond doubt that you will return" and handed a pre-printed form letter outlining the denial. Except it didn't really provide any specific information, just that he wasn't convinced.
The US Embassy clearly states that the burden of convincing the consular you will return rests solely with the applicant. But it seems very apparent the only thing they are looking for is a lot of cash in the bank. Which kind of seems contradictory to me because if you have a lot of money, you are more likely to be able to set up shop in a new country. I understand the concern isn't so much staying in the US, but rather it's about not becoming dependent on the state to support you.
The whole process is simply frustrating, however, when you think you've gathered all the required documents (did I mention the 2 work contracts for the coming school year? Actual jobs that pay well above what the average Congolese is earning...) only to be told it's not enough.
Of course, I am too well acquainted with the other side of immigration. The desperate immigrant who only wants to find a way out of his trappings and into what he believes will be an easy, carefree life paved with gold. My little brother falls into this category I believe.
Just yesterday he showed me a link to this site which advertises a public health conference in Canada. It has all the signs of a very fake site, a scam to lure in hungry people who will part with their money in hopes of a dream. The site suggests that by paying $395 you can apply for the conference, and shortly after receiving the money, the regional director (located in Benin) will send you everything you need to gain a visa, plane ticket, lodging and entrance to Canada. I know my sweet brother isn't remotely interested in public health, AIDS prevention or other causes humanitaire (he's got only soccer on the brain) but he is clinging to the hope that flying off to another country will be, not only possible, but the answer to his drifting life.
Another source of endless frustration for me, trying to guide and counsel him into making decisions that will lead somewhere. I guess this is not so different from what many parents go through as their teenagers turn into young adults and begin to make their way in the world. Except in this case, choices are severely limited. And it's not really about following your heart's desire, but about finding something you can do that will bring in some money and may be pleasurable too.
Ousmane hasn't really arrived at that point yet. He is young, single and dreaming of professional soccer. But it does remind me of my own youth, working in a restaurant and feeling frustrated at my inability to arrive at the life of my dreams. I had asked one of the dishwasher/general cleaners (who eventually worked his way up to line cook and occasional daytime head chef) if he was happy with his job. I have never forgotten his quizzical look. Happy? As if such an emotion could be all tangled up in the pursuit of supporting his family- which he did. Our restaurant legend had it that he and his older brother had walked from El Salvador and somehow ended up in our northern New York bistro. He might have been all of 15 at the time I knew him and he was certainly proud of every moment he worked. Yes, he finally said, he was happy to have a job even if it was in a country he didn't know, a language he didn't speak and hours that never seemed to end. It allowed him the chance to send money home and be a provider for his mother. That's the part that made him happy, nothing to do really with washing the dishes or cleaning up tables.
And so I feel I have seen all sides of the immigrant dream. Those who aspire to flee their home country and work tirelessly to provide for their family back home, those who find themselves by happenstance in a new place, decide to stay and make a meager go of it and those who never really arrive at finding the dream ( who then find themselves "stuck" unable to admit defeat to their friends and family back home and unable to move forward in their new lives.) BBC has an entire series devoted to the subject.
None of it is helpful to Ousmane, who most often laughs when I try to explain the realities. He doesn't believe me at all and wants only to experience for himself the wider world. None of it is helpful to my friend, who truly does want to stay in his country but only hoped to travel a bit, experience the best Miami has to offer in salsa dancing, and return all the more enriched and in love with his culture (which seems heavily infused with Latin rhythms, movements and fashions. Not sure how that all managed to get over here via Belgium, but there definitely seems to be a sister element linking Kinshasa with Latin America.)
For now, we're all staying put- having been denied in one form or another our right to freedom of travel.
This post I've been holding onto just because it makes me so angry my words get all muddled and stop making sense after awhile. They just become one long rant, which isn't very interesting to read- or to write. Time doesn't really make it easier however and so, after an incident with my favorite little brother, I've decided to try again.
It begins with
Article 13.
- (1) Everyone has the right to freedom of movement and residence within the borders of each state.
- (2) Everyone has the right to leave any country, including his own, and to return to his country.
Aside from issues of national security, the article focuses on the ability to leave an area or country and does nothing to ensure there will actually be a place to go. Because countries are completely free to limit who can enter. There are a range of requirements upon entering a country, based, it seems, on how 'desirable' it is to live there. The more desirable, the harder to get in. Impossible, in fact, if you happen to be born in one of the 'less desirable countries' and are hoping to exercise your right to movement and travel around a bit.3. The above-mentioned rights shall not be subject to any restrictions except those which are provided by law, are necessary to protect national security, public order (ordre public), public health or morals or the rights and freedoms of others, and are consistent with the other rights recognized in the present Covenant.
Of course, the determination of which countries are more desirable, versus less, is calculated by cash- how much money do the people living there make? Is it enough to compel them to return. As if economics were the only way to determine satisfaction with life.
It may sound preposterous to some, but it is possible to live in a third world country and be completely enamored with your life. To have no desire to start completely over, leave everything behind and set up shop in a country which you don't even speak the language. I suppose this may be the stereotypical immigrant dream....but that's where stereotypical comes in. I would venture to say plenty of people value the work they can accomplish and the family they have created, the small steps toward their dreams over beginning anew with nothing. It is not an adventure for the faint of heart.
Not to mention the whole 'big fish small pond' syndrome. Many Congolese have reached a status here in the capital that they are not ready to give up. Being successful is not such a small thing, but when compared to heading off to the US for an ordinary life of merely scraping by......there's really no comparing. They are practically stars here- validated for the time and effort and talent they give. I'm sure I am rambling here....but I really haven't witnessed anywhere else the kind of patriotism I see in Congolese artists. They want to stay.
They give their time freely, invest their own money for costumes and uniforms for their students, and volunteer to teach the youth of their neighborhood in order to instill a sense of pride and personal value. They do it because they are committed to their art and to their country. And they don't aspire to live in France or the US, though they may like to broaden their horizons by experiencing the world.
Try explaining all of that to the consular.
I imagine conversations begin casually, as did mine. With a feeling of gratitude and generosity. A feeling of wanting to reciprocate the goodwill that has been offered to you by inviting someone to your home country. But if you happen to be American, you need to pick your friends carefully. Because not everyone can visit the US.
I plan to be traveling to the US in late July and thought it would be a much better trip if I had a friend to accompany me. We followed all the rules and regulations outlined by the embassy. We collected all the paperwork (including two work contracts, examples of events organized for the benefit of children and students living here in Kinshasa and proof of family ties.) Visa applicants must conduct their interview alone and so I am told it went fairly quickly. All the papers were presented and the interviewing officer said, "Thank you, sorry you haven't proven beyond doubt that you will return" and handed a pre-printed form letter outlining the denial. Except it didn't really provide any specific information, just that he wasn't convinced.
The US Embassy clearly states that the burden of convincing the consular you will return rests solely with the applicant. But it seems very apparent the only thing they are looking for is a lot of cash in the bank. Which kind of seems contradictory to me because if you have a lot of money, you are more likely to be able to set up shop in a new country. I understand the concern isn't so much staying in the US, but rather it's about not becoming dependent on the state to support you.
The whole process is simply frustrating, however, when you think you've gathered all the required documents (did I mention the 2 work contracts for the coming school year? Actual jobs that pay well above what the average Congolese is earning...) only to be told it's not enough.
Of course, I am too well acquainted with the other side of immigration. The desperate immigrant who only wants to find a way out of his trappings and into what he believes will be an easy, carefree life paved with gold. My little brother falls into this category I believe.
Just yesterday he showed me a link to this site which advertises a public health conference in Canada. It has all the signs of a very fake site, a scam to lure in hungry people who will part with their money in hopes of a dream. The site suggests that by paying $395 you can apply for the conference, and shortly after receiving the money, the regional director (located in Benin) will send you everything you need to gain a visa, plane ticket, lodging and entrance to Canada. I know my sweet brother isn't remotely interested in public health, AIDS prevention or other causes humanitaire (he's got only soccer on the brain) but he is clinging to the hope that flying off to another country will be, not only possible, but the answer to his drifting life.
Another source of endless frustration for me, trying to guide and counsel him into making decisions that will lead somewhere. I guess this is not so different from what many parents go through as their teenagers turn into young adults and begin to make their way in the world. Except in this case, choices are severely limited. And it's not really about following your heart's desire, but about finding something you can do that will bring in some money and may be pleasurable too.
Ousmane hasn't really arrived at that point yet. He is young, single and dreaming of professional soccer. But it does remind me of my own youth, working in a restaurant and feeling frustrated at my inability to arrive at the life of my dreams. I had asked one of the dishwasher/general cleaners (who eventually worked his way up to line cook and occasional daytime head chef) if he was happy with his job. I have never forgotten his quizzical look. Happy? As if such an emotion could be all tangled up in the pursuit of supporting his family- which he did. Our restaurant legend had it that he and his older brother had walked from El Salvador and somehow ended up in our northern New York bistro. He might have been all of 15 at the time I knew him and he was certainly proud of every moment he worked. Yes, he finally said, he was happy to have a job even if it was in a country he didn't know, a language he didn't speak and hours that never seemed to end. It allowed him the chance to send money home and be a provider for his mother. That's the part that made him happy, nothing to do really with washing the dishes or cleaning up tables.
And so I feel I have seen all sides of the immigrant dream. Those who aspire to flee their home country and work tirelessly to provide for their family back home, those who find themselves by happenstance in a new place, decide to stay and make a meager go of it and those who never really arrive at finding the dream ( who then find themselves "stuck" unable to admit defeat to their friends and family back home and unable to move forward in their new lives.) BBC has an entire series devoted to the subject.
None of it is helpful to Ousmane, who most often laughs when I try to explain the realities. He doesn't believe me at all and wants only to experience for himself the wider world. None of it is helpful to my friend, who truly does want to stay in his country but only hoped to travel a bit, experience the best Miami has to offer in salsa dancing, and return all the more enriched and in love with his culture (which seems heavily infused with Latin rhythms, movements and fashions. Not sure how that all managed to get over here via Belgium, but there definitely seems to be a sister element linking Kinshasa with Latin America.)
For now, we're all staying put- having been denied in one form or another our right to freedom of travel.
18.7.12
The story of a box....
"I'm on the edge here. Don't do this to me." I was talking directly to the change machine who was refusing to eat my slightly crumpled dollar bill. It was turning out to be one of those ridiculous moments that make up the proverbial straw that brought the camel down. I'd arrived at the airport happy to be on my homeward journey only to discover my bags were going to cost $400 more than I had anticipated. Somehow I missed this nifty baggage chart and assumed all extra bags were merely $25. Being a frequent international flyer had left me paying more attention to weight than to number.
I thought briefly about the contents of my luggage- an entire year's worth of clothing and supplies for me and the boys- and deemed it all necessary. I laughed at the US Airways clerk and made some comment about only in America (I'd noticed these two things, the laugh and the "God loves America but no one else does" line popping forth more frequently. Sure signs that my departure was well overdue.) I handed her my debit card, quickly calculating how much might be left to get us through to the next payday. Declined. Oh boy. We had some conversation and ultimately I took my confusion off in search of an ATM. No luck there landed me on the phone with my bank, watching the minutes quickly turn to an hour at the risk of missing my flight. The discussion with the visa dept. led me to several other extensions and finally to a whole new bureau. It bordered on surreal, what was happening to me. Except of course, I truly was stuck in an airport 300 miles from my children and 6,000 miles from home with no way to access my own money that sat comfortably in a bank in upstate NY. Merde. Wild images of being homeless in Philadelphia ran across my mind as I tried to formulate a solution. Nothing came to me. I'd missed my flight and made my way back to reschedule. Step one appeared clear at least.
By the time I returned to the check-in desk, the clerk had moved my bags onto a push cart and called the police. God does love America. "You were gone so long," she explained, as if that explained anything. I gave her my smile and laugh. "I'll need a new flight," I told her and she booked me onto the next plane with ease, terrorist fears and abandoned bag issues now abated I suppose. I was then faced with the task of managing my luggage, which I hadn't quite figured out how to compile on the push cart. I was always left with one extra bag. The ingenious design of the push cart requires one to hold the handle down (or up, I could never quite be clear on which) in order to release the breaks. Impossible to do while holding another bag. In addition to that, it seemed the disease afflicting the Miami payphones had stretched out to Philly and the ones in closest reach just didn't work.
So it was I found myself talking to the change machine hoping for enough coins to call a friend to save me from disaster (again.) And my remaining dollar bill was just too crumpled to be accepted. I was completely on the edge of breaking down, despite my best attempts at deep breathing and calm self-talk. One angel was eyeing me from a nearby bench and soon offered up a crisp new bill, which the machine hungrily devoured. Coins in hand I began the unwieldy task of maneuvering my bags across the long hall to the other side of the airport where the payphones were working (hopefully.) Tears were no longer threatening to fall, they were sneaking down my face like defiant teenagers refusing to believe I had everything under control. People stared at me, watching me struggle, but no one offered to intervene. I had become an airport spectacle, a momentary diversion from their own travel dilemmas.
Until the angel appeared again. He pushed the cart to the phones and inquired several times about why I was crying. His tone indicated that every moment is a virtual gift and hence tears should ever be shed. I managed to pull out a smile, fix it into place and reassure him that I would be fine. In doing so, I managed to convince myself as well.
I spent several hours people watching and wondering about the stories filling other lives. Overhearing snatches of conversations reassured me that I was not the only one to be caught in the throes of mistakes from the past.
Fortunately, I had only one more stateside airport to get through before I would feel securely on my way. Landing in Miami was a welcome step closer to my final destination. I grabbed another luggage cart with renewed determination to make all of my things fit. While I was unable to achieve this on my own, a kindly Jamaican airport employee sized up the situation and quickly reversed the pieces to my puzzle. He sent me off towards the elevator with a stacked cart and some doubt about actually fitting inside. "No,no, you'll make it, " he assured me.
I did manage to lug my things up and out to the curbside where I flagged down a shuttle to a nearby hotel. Baggage problem put to bed for the night, I had a happy reunion with my boys.
The biggest problem was not my suitcases but a large bike box I had created to transport the latest exercise equipment needed to accommodate those long, sunny Kinshasa days. It wasn't heavy, just awkward and impossible to carry with anything else.
We made our final arrival at the airport five hours early, ready to check our bags (and box) one last time and settle down for an airport picnic. The shuttle driver dropped us off on the curb and I could see the AirFrance check-in counter from where I stood. Hope restored. We just had to get there, less than 100 feet away. The boys each took a few bags and I waited with the last two sacks and the box. As Nabih came back and grabbed one of the bags, it was the first time I realized my problem was uniquely American.
An African woman would have easily gathered that box up, placed it firmly on her head- leaving both hands free to grab an additional suitcase (or two!) and gracefully made her way over to the check- in line. Feeling woefully inadequate, I could only stare across at the distance wondering how I would ever make it. I resorted to sliding the box with my hands and pushing the bag with my feet in an unsuccessful attempt at covering ground. I was caught up in remembering the conversation I had had several nights before when packing up the bike.
We'd been debating the usefulness of a handle. I wanted to tie some string around the box to allow for a grabbing point. This idea was ultimately vetoed with the thought that there was always someone around to help when you're traveling. Wondering at this faulty logic, I continued my slow maneuvering towards where the boys had placed the rest of our things.
Two men began discussing between themselves whether or not I needed help. One seemed convinced I was fine and the other suspected a hand might be in order. While they carried on their strange debate a young Hispanic dad walked over, picked up my bag and dropped it by the boys without a word, leaving me free to now grab up the box and join my children. We had about half an hour to wait before the counter opened. This part did not pose a problem in the least. We know how to do airport waits.
I spent a few minutes feeling competent and accomplished. With the help of friends and traveling strangers, we'd made it. But our story was not quite over. Because one handle on the suitcase wouldn't retract and the box had been inspected by the Miami TSA on the way down from Philly. They'd neglected to return it to its beautifully wrapped state and the check in agent had some concerns about accepting it in its current half-wrapped condition........
Oh yeah, God does love America.
I thought briefly about the contents of my luggage- an entire year's worth of clothing and supplies for me and the boys- and deemed it all necessary. I laughed at the US Airways clerk and made some comment about only in America (I'd noticed these two things, the laugh and the "God loves America but no one else does" line popping forth more frequently. Sure signs that my departure was well overdue.) I handed her my debit card, quickly calculating how much might be left to get us through to the next payday. Declined. Oh boy. We had some conversation and ultimately I took my confusion off in search of an ATM. No luck there landed me on the phone with my bank, watching the minutes quickly turn to an hour at the risk of missing my flight. The discussion with the visa dept. led me to several other extensions and finally to a whole new bureau. It bordered on surreal, what was happening to me. Except of course, I truly was stuck in an airport 300 miles from my children and 6,000 miles from home with no way to access my own money that sat comfortably in a bank in upstate NY. Merde. Wild images of being homeless in Philadelphia ran across my mind as I tried to formulate a solution. Nothing came to me. I'd missed my flight and made my way back to reschedule. Step one appeared clear at least.
By the time I returned to the check-in desk, the clerk had moved my bags onto a push cart and called the police. God does love America. "You were gone so long," she explained, as if that explained anything. I gave her my smile and laugh. "I'll need a new flight," I told her and she booked me onto the next plane with ease, terrorist fears and abandoned bag issues now abated I suppose. I was then faced with the task of managing my luggage, which I hadn't quite figured out how to compile on the push cart. I was always left with one extra bag. The ingenious design of the push cart requires one to hold the handle down (or up, I could never quite be clear on which) in order to release the breaks. Impossible to do while holding another bag. In addition to that, it seemed the disease afflicting the Miami payphones had stretched out to Philly and the ones in closest reach just didn't work.
So it was I found myself talking to the change machine hoping for enough coins to call a friend to save me from disaster (again.) And my remaining dollar bill was just too crumpled to be accepted. I was completely on the edge of breaking down, despite my best attempts at deep breathing and calm self-talk. One angel was eyeing me from a nearby bench and soon offered up a crisp new bill, which the machine hungrily devoured. Coins in hand I began the unwieldy task of maneuvering my bags across the long hall to the other side of the airport where the payphones were working (hopefully.) Tears were no longer threatening to fall, they were sneaking down my face like defiant teenagers refusing to believe I had everything under control. People stared at me, watching me struggle, but no one offered to intervene. I had become an airport spectacle, a momentary diversion from their own travel dilemmas.
Until the angel appeared again. He pushed the cart to the phones and inquired several times about why I was crying. His tone indicated that every moment is a virtual gift and hence tears should ever be shed. I managed to pull out a smile, fix it into place and reassure him that I would be fine. In doing so, I managed to convince myself as well.
I spent several hours people watching and wondering about the stories filling other lives. Overhearing snatches of conversations reassured me that I was not the only one to be caught in the throes of mistakes from the past.
Fortunately, I had only one more stateside airport to get through before I would feel securely on my way. Landing in Miami was a welcome step closer to my final destination. I grabbed another luggage cart with renewed determination to make all of my things fit. While I was unable to achieve this on my own, a kindly Jamaican airport employee sized up the situation and quickly reversed the pieces to my puzzle. He sent me off towards the elevator with a stacked cart and some doubt about actually fitting inside. "No,no, you'll make it, " he assured me.
I did manage to lug my things up and out to the curbside where I flagged down a shuttle to a nearby hotel. Baggage problem put to bed for the night, I had a happy reunion with my boys.
The biggest problem was not my suitcases but a large bike box I had created to transport the latest exercise equipment needed to accommodate those long, sunny Kinshasa days. It wasn't heavy, just awkward and impossible to carry with anything else.
We made our final arrival at the airport five hours early, ready to check our bags (and box) one last time and settle down for an airport picnic. The shuttle driver dropped us off on the curb and I could see the AirFrance check-in counter from where I stood. Hope restored. We just had to get there, less than 100 feet away. The boys each took a few bags and I waited with the last two sacks and the box. As Nabih came back and grabbed one of the bags, it was the first time I realized my problem was uniquely American.
An African woman would have easily gathered that box up, placed it firmly on her head- leaving both hands free to grab an additional suitcase (or two!) and gracefully made her way over to the check- in line. Feeling woefully inadequate, I could only stare across at the distance wondering how I would ever make it. I resorted to sliding the box with my hands and pushing the bag with my feet in an unsuccessful attempt at covering ground. I was caught up in remembering the conversation I had had several nights before when packing up the bike.
We'd been debating the usefulness of a handle. I wanted to tie some string around the box to allow for a grabbing point. This idea was ultimately vetoed with the thought that there was always someone around to help when you're traveling. Wondering at this faulty logic, I continued my slow maneuvering towards where the boys had placed the rest of our things.
Two men began discussing between themselves whether or not I needed help. One seemed convinced I was fine and the other suspected a hand might be in order. While they carried on their strange debate a young Hispanic dad walked over, picked up my bag and dropped it by the boys without a word, leaving me free to now grab up the box and join my children. We had about half an hour to wait before the counter opened. This part did not pose a problem in the least. We know how to do airport waits.
I spent a few minutes feeling competent and accomplished. With the help of friends and traveling strangers, we'd made it. But our story was not quite over. Because one handle on the suitcase wouldn't retract and the box had been inspected by the Miami TSA on the way down from Philly. They'd neglected to return it to its beautifully wrapped state and the check in agent had some concerns about accepting it in its current half-wrapped condition........
Oh yeah, God does love America.
16.7.10
Victim of environment
I've come to recognize these trips to the US as one long assault on my emotional memory. I spend the time in a series of adjustments. First I am reacquainting myself with the life I lived here, the material comforts and ease of navigating about the daily business of life. I remember how to make consumer choices in stores and ignore the extraneous fluff- something my children are not as good at -becoming quickly and easily overwhelmed. I marvel at the ease of crossing streets as a pedestrian (I actually have the right of way- no need to dive into the roadside brush to escape an oncoming taxi!!) I note the developments for the disabled and elderly (buses that lower a ramp to accommodate motor driven wheelchairs and passengers that stand to make room so they can be locked safely into place) and long for that level of dignity to be brought to the African men, women and children that make their way down crowded city streets on their hands or rolling across dirt pathways because they are turned down by overflowing public transportation--no room for their clunky wheelchairs cobbed together from various bike and automobile parts.
I try to fit the pieces of my American self together as I watch commercials urging me to buy, upgrade, furnish, and acquire goods I no longer need or want. I remember wanting these things for my house, my family, myself, but I notice these parts have been shed, replaced slowly by a desire to have things for humans.
As the days turn into weeks, I begin to wonder if I can manage the two parts of myself...the two lives I am living. Naturally, the reflection moves from global to personal. Memories from my life confront me at every crossroad, tugging at emotions I'd thought had long been dealt with. I start to wonder which life is 'real,' akin to Jake embracing his Avatar self as more genuine than the body he left behind. What began as a journey of delight and wonder turns quickly into self-questioning and reminiscence as I greet old friends and reconnect with family.
But the roller coaster is far from finished. The weeks turn into a month and I begin to long for my own space, my familiar pace of life. I must prepare for the journey back and yet another metamorphosis. I must become a bit practical and think of the items we will need to make it through another year in Congo cut off from the quality supplies we can find so easily and cheaply here. It becomes more difficult to remember the things I "need" surrounded as I am by such bounty.
I begin to fear I am nothing more than a victim of my environment. Each space welcomes me with its unique version of who I am and who I could be. Each place seduces me with dreams of an existence that could satisfy my every need---needs that change and morph depending upon the exterior, needs that are defined by the environment surrounding me, needs that melt away as the scenery changes. Adaptation: a human condition that leads to as much confusion as potential solutions.
I try to fit the pieces of my American self together as I watch commercials urging me to buy, upgrade, furnish, and acquire goods I no longer need or want. I remember wanting these things for my house, my family, myself, but I notice these parts have been shed, replaced slowly by a desire to have things for humans.
As the days turn into weeks, I begin to wonder if I can manage the two parts of myself...the two lives I am living. Naturally, the reflection moves from global to personal. Memories from my life confront me at every crossroad, tugging at emotions I'd thought had long been dealt with. I start to wonder which life is 'real,' akin to Jake embracing his Avatar self as more genuine than the body he left behind. What began as a journey of delight and wonder turns quickly into self-questioning and reminiscence as I greet old friends and reconnect with family.
But the roller coaster is far from finished. The weeks turn into a month and I begin to long for my own space, my familiar pace of life. I must prepare for the journey back and yet another metamorphosis. I must become a bit practical and think of the items we will need to make it through another year in Congo cut off from the quality supplies we can find so easily and cheaply here. It becomes more difficult to remember the things I "need" surrounded as I am by such bounty.
I begin to fear I am nothing more than a victim of my environment. Each space welcomes me with its unique version of who I am and who I could be. Each place seduces me with dreams of an existence that could satisfy my every need---needs that change and morph depending upon the exterior, needs that are defined by the environment surrounding me, needs that melt away as the scenery changes. Adaptation: a human condition that leads to as much confusion as potential solutions.
20.5.10
walking into the sun
I stumble out into the warmth of the African sun. I’ve been surrounded by a fog, thick and deep and all consuming. I am still not sure if I can trust the day, with its bright, potentially misleading, sunshine (a line from my daughter that I love.)
It is a civil war raging within and I am shell shocked from its ravages, suddenly faced with images of a future and possibilities I couldn’t imagine days before. And image is everything. To create and realize something, you must be able to envision it. Within the cloud, all I can see is my past reflecting back to me- the mistakes and regrets, the pangs of growth and time that leave me yearning for a chance to walk a different path. As in any war, I am caught up in the tasks of survival. There is no energy to dream with, to plan and prepare with. There is no energy to hope with. It is only the disaster of my life surrounding me.
From this new perspective in the bright and beautiful day, I can see the direction of things. I appreciate the time I’ve had to watch my children grow and see their minds open in ways that would never have been possible. There is the sense of loss that follows me everywhere, inescapable but no longer all consuming.
As school draws to yet another close, people start the countdown to modern life- a day when they can rejoin the world in solid knowledge of having running water and stable electricity. They look forward to traveling the streets with safety and ease. Everyone is talking about how they cannot wait for the comforts of home. I get caught up in this, ready for a break from the things that stress me here- shoes that fall apart after only one day, the high cost of food and extra burden of being white in Africa. But I know I am not flying off to home- though I have found myself wishing at times to be there. Home has become an abstract notion, something I miss even while realizing it doesn’t really exist. It is a phantom limb, still causing pain even in its absence. I am as much home here as anywhere. And I know after just a week or so in the states, I will be ready to find comfort in my own house, among my things, resting when I want, cooking when I want and cleaning only if I want. In a few short days, I am certain to find myself missing the cadence and rhythm of life here, sweet songs as people go about their daily chores, the whisking of stick brooms back and forth over cement porches and the music of the market place. There is still nothing as soothing to me as walking down an African street with vendors calling out their wares – “l’eau pure” which sounds like “lo’pi” - wood clacking or the clinking of tin announcing sandwiches for sale. Each sound has a meaning, serves as a signal or way to get attention and draw customers. It awakens every sense and brings me completely to the moment. This most important moment. The one I am in right now.
I dream of days when I will not need to make the sojourn across the ocean and wonder then how I will manage without stocking up on supplies. It’s the cycle we seem to undertake. Fly off to Europe or the US and buy as much as you need to make it through another year. When I contemplate this, I think only of the people living here that can never make the trip to another land to fill up on reasonably priced, quality goods. Of course, the children have the most needs. America has taken on mythical proportions for them. They begin sentences with, “In America can we buy…?” It is the exact reason why I felt the need to leave. But I know they will wear out 4 shoes each and probably grow a size or two before we find ourselves heading back to modern life again. It will be nice to eat fresh vegetables and buy bagels from a store. I look forward to sitting in a park outside with no one looking twice at me or even noticing the color of my skin.
At this time last year, I felt I was heading into the lion’s den. It turned out amazingly ok but I took little risk. This year will find us traveling a bit more and experiencing things we may not be completely prepared for. This year we are walking into the sun, dazzling with a brilliant warmth likely to be hiding a bit of deception. I will try once again to hold my breath and react with patience when the glitz and glamour of America threatens to overtake the common sense of my children. I know they will not be ready for explanation. I am only hoping we return to Africa, travel weary but intact.
It is a civil war raging within and I am shell shocked from its ravages, suddenly faced with images of a future and possibilities I couldn’t imagine days before. And image is everything. To create and realize something, you must be able to envision it. Within the cloud, all I can see is my past reflecting back to me- the mistakes and regrets, the pangs of growth and time that leave me yearning for a chance to walk a different path. As in any war, I am caught up in the tasks of survival. There is no energy to dream with, to plan and prepare with. There is no energy to hope with. It is only the disaster of my life surrounding me.
From this new perspective in the bright and beautiful day, I can see the direction of things. I appreciate the time I’ve had to watch my children grow and see their minds open in ways that would never have been possible. There is the sense of loss that follows me everywhere, inescapable but no longer all consuming.
As school draws to yet another close, people start the countdown to modern life- a day when they can rejoin the world in solid knowledge of having running water and stable electricity. They look forward to traveling the streets with safety and ease. Everyone is talking about how they cannot wait for the comforts of home. I get caught up in this, ready for a break from the things that stress me here- shoes that fall apart after only one day, the high cost of food and extra burden of being white in Africa. But I know I am not flying off to home- though I have found myself wishing at times to be there. Home has become an abstract notion, something I miss even while realizing it doesn’t really exist. It is a phantom limb, still causing pain even in its absence. I am as much home here as anywhere. And I know after just a week or so in the states, I will be ready to find comfort in my own house, among my things, resting when I want, cooking when I want and cleaning only if I want. In a few short days, I am certain to find myself missing the cadence and rhythm of life here, sweet songs as people go about their daily chores, the whisking of stick brooms back and forth over cement porches and the music of the market place. There is still nothing as soothing to me as walking down an African street with vendors calling out their wares – “l’eau pure” which sounds like “lo’pi” - wood clacking or the clinking of tin announcing sandwiches for sale. Each sound has a meaning, serves as a signal or way to get attention and draw customers. It awakens every sense and brings me completely to the moment. This most important moment. The one I am in right now.
I dream of days when I will not need to make the sojourn across the ocean and wonder then how I will manage without stocking up on supplies. It’s the cycle we seem to undertake. Fly off to Europe or the US and buy as much as you need to make it through another year. When I contemplate this, I think only of the people living here that can never make the trip to another land to fill up on reasonably priced, quality goods. Of course, the children have the most needs. America has taken on mythical proportions for them. They begin sentences with, “In America can we buy…?” It is the exact reason why I felt the need to leave. But I know they will wear out 4 shoes each and probably grow a size or two before we find ourselves heading back to modern life again. It will be nice to eat fresh vegetables and buy bagels from a store. I look forward to sitting in a park outside with no one looking twice at me or even noticing the color of my skin.
At this time last year, I felt I was heading into the lion’s den. It turned out amazingly ok but I took little risk. This year will find us traveling a bit more and experiencing things we may not be completely prepared for. This year we are walking into the sun, dazzling with a brilliant warmth likely to be hiding a bit of deception. I will try once again to hold my breath and react with patience when the glitz and glamour of America threatens to overtake the common sense of my children. I know they will not be ready for explanation. I am only hoping we return to Africa, travel weary but intact.
10.3.10
Field work
The school year is about to begin its annual rollar coaster build up and slamming descent to the final day. I am home enjoying "spring break" and trying to prepare for what I know will be a messy blur until the jolting moment when I realize its actually all over. School is out. Long before this set upon us, however, I began an experiential learning project with my fifth graders that has us out and about in Kinshasa.
This wouldn't seem like such an amazing feat, except, well, we live in Kinshasa. Field tripping with 23 ten year olds comes with its share of natural hazards..no matter what continent you are on, but here in DRC there several other factors to consider.
The school has a beautiful bus that seats 26 comfortably so transportation was not a problem. Getting back the required permission slips, however, turned out to be more complicated than I had imagined. Many parents were reluctant to have their child out in Kinshasa traffic. "It can be dangerous," one parent remarked.
And so it was that I found myself gazing out at the city sights as we embarked on our first trip downtown to a car rental business housed in a reputable hotel. I realized the thoughts that filtered through my mind were not really akin to thoughts I'd had on previous field trips. I imagined the bus surrounded by an angry mob (not a far stretch of the imagination, really. Just a few days before I'd seen a growing group of street boys crowding a large green SUV.) I contemplated the correct way to handle such a situation and wondered if there shouldn't be some kind of special (tactical?) training for teachers. A few different approaches ran through my mind as I looked over the driver- figuring he should be the first line of defense but knowing it never really works out that way. Later, one of the teachers shared with me that at his previous school, they'd sent one of the security guards to accompany field trips. Yes, not a bad idea.
In addition to the perplexing thoughts, I am receiving a wealth of information about my students.We have been learning some unique aspects of living and doing business in DRC. For example, we found out that when you rent a car in Congo, it generally comes with a driver. How convenient-and affordable! On our trip to see the National Ballet, I had to post an adult next to some electrical wires that had snaked their way out of the ground. I asked our classroom assistant to direct students away from and around the hazard to keep any wayward kids from electrocuting themselves. And at the U.S embassy medical unit, I learned that many of my Africa-weathered students were already familiar with the ailments, bacterias, worms and bites that we viewed in the lab. (They kept saying, "Yeah, I had that," or "My sister had that!")
This wouldn't seem like such an amazing feat, except, well, we live in Kinshasa. Field tripping with 23 ten year olds comes with its share of natural hazards..no matter what continent you are on, but here in DRC there several other factors to consider.
We began the project in response to the school's mandate of career studies and an elementary career fair. As with every school "fair" some kind of culminating project would be needed to show off to the other classes and inspire their professional curiosity and growth. I decided to capture it all by taking the students out on several, much-begged for field trips and have them act as reporters and photographers who would then create a newspaper account of our adventures as well as a re-enactment newsclip shot "on location." I contacted parents and businesses and found many to be eager and enthusiastic about welcoming us into their place of employment.
The school has a beautiful bus that seats 26 comfortably so transportation was not a problem. Getting back the required permission slips, however, turned out to be more complicated than I had imagined. Many parents were reluctant to have their child out in Kinshasa traffic. "It can be dangerous," one parent remarked.
And so it was that I found myself gazing out at the city sights as we embarked on our first trip downtown to a car rental business housed in a reputable hotel. I realized the thoughts that filtered through my mind were not really akin to thoughts I'd had on previous field trips. I imagined the bus surrounded by an angry mob (not a far stretch of the imagination, really. Just a few days before I'd seen a growing group of street boys crowding a large green SUV.) I contemplated the correct way to handle such a situation and wondered if there shouldn't be some kind of special (tactical?) training for teachers. A few different approaches ran through my mind as I looked over the driver- figuring he should be the first line of defense but knowing it never really works out that way. Later, one of the teachers shared with me that at his previous school, they'd sent one of the security guards to accompany field trips. Yes, not a bad idea.
In addition to the perplexing thoughts, I am receiving a wealth of information about my students.We have been learning some unique aspects of living and doing business in DRC. For example, we found out that when you rent a car in Congo, it generally comes with a driver. How convenient-and affordable! On our trip to see the National Ballet, I had to post an adult next to some electrical wires that had snaked their way out of the ground. I asked our classroom assistant to direct students away from and around the hazard to keep any wayward kids from electrocuting themselves. And at the U.S embassy medical unit, I learned that many of my Africa-weathered students were already familiar with the ailments, bacterias, worms and bites that we viewed in the lab. (They kept saying, "Yeah, I had that," or "My sister had that!")
The Monkole Hospital was amazing. It was clean and well kept and appeared to employ many new and modern standards of sterility (no bug to be seen! If you have ever been in a hospital in Africa, you will know that this is difficult to achieve. Bugs are everywhere.) The newest building, the operational unit, even provides meals for patients with strict rules about NOT accepting food from home. (Traditionally in African hospitals, the patient's family is required to bring and provide food for the patient.) We were invited into patient's rooms (with their permission) and saw two brand new babies and one little girl with her grandma - all ready to go home. It seemed quite odd to me to have a group of 7 girls ooh-ing and ahhh-ing over a brand new baby in a hospital room, but the parents were proud and the doctors seemed eager to have us learn all we could.
We have a few other places lined up and I think its been successful in many respects. The students have developed a broader view of the country they live in and the school has begun to make some much needed contact with the community. As for me? I am still hoping for a crash course in field work. Should I try to bargain with the mobsters? Talk them down to a paltry sum (and will I be reimbursed for that?) Threaten them with governmental rebuke (I have quite a few children of ministers in my class) or perhaps, I could borrow a soldier. On the way back from the hospital, we passed one student's house and he had called ahead to arrange someone to meet him by the main road. "Yup," he said as we passed a large, armed man in fatigues and a red beret. "That's my soldier."
12.2.10
Trouble with travel.....part 2
With repetition comes experience and knowledge. I felt I knew what to expect for the ride back to Conakry, which, while not exactly comforting, at least put me in a slightly better position than when I was riding up to Kankan. I planned to leave at night, hoping most of our journey would be spent with the boys sleeping. Then we could arrive sometime mid-morning and be of less disturbance to whoever would be picking us up. It was New Year's Eve and I should have known that plans have a way of coming alive in Africa, like the wild dogs roaming the streets running every which way but the way you want. Somehow, I always forget this part. It is the deeply ingrained Western part of me that runs by clocks no matter how far removed from time and schedules I place myself. I wonder how long it takes to truly shed this last piece of constriction.
We were waiting in the Kankan gare central. Supposedly, the car would fill up in an hour or so. It was around 4:00 pm. This place looked more like a bus station, with covered waiting area (both inside and outside sections!) There were women selling fruit and cookies. Men walked around selling tea (strong African tea that is aerated between two cups with a flourish. The vendor carries about 3 or 4 thermoses of tea and a small bucket containing minature cups which are placed in water and reused.) We waited. The sun began to set, casting a red glow on everything. We kept hearing rumors that there were only 2 seats left to be filled (this rumor went on for hours, even as people approached, bought a ticket, and took up the wait with us.) Our things were shuffled from taxi top to taxi top as drivers discussed which car was filling up and who would make the journey.
I considered buying another seat as, in the interest of saving money once again, I'd only gotten two seats and one of the boys was riding on a lap. I considered it strongly as the time wore on. Six o'clock came and went. The boys snacked on watermelon and I bought some packages of cookies for the ride. The waiting was becoming painful. It turns out the driver was searching for a full taxi. When we finally loaded up, there were 2 people in the front passenger seat, 4 in the middle seat, 4 of us in the back seat AND one person behind us in the hatch back space. Of course, he had to lay down scrunched up or sit up halfway leaning on the seat back of our already crowded third row.
I can see us from a bird's eye view, all packed in there threatening to explode like a shaken up soda bottle. The boys were able to sleep a lot and were actually well behaved for both trips considering the tight quarters. I knew right away that this trip was going to be distinctly different from the last. If the ride to Kankan was with the conservative right, the ride back to Conakry was a rock and roll tour. There were two women traveling with us who did not have papers and the young driver took a direct approach at every checkpoint. Cash in hand. I, and my passport, were no longer the issue.
While this apporach made the road a bit faster to travel on, we seemed to stop a lot more frequently on this trip than the one going out. We had two people who needed to make prayer stops but also it seemed we stopped for eating and rest breaks. (Rest breaks? We just started!) At one of our first stops, which seemed to be near a gas station, perhaps a tiny gare central for whatever town this was.... I got out of the car to stretch and eat an orange. A bull cow walked by searching for scraps and nibbling my peels. Motos zoomed through town as I watched the nightlife carry out its rituals. Surely this would seem a sleepy town by sunlight, I thought.
We continued on and I dozed a bit as the countryside turned back into tall grass and mud huts. Eventually we came to a frosty stop and I thought I heard the driver get out. The entire car appeared to be sleeping and I wondered exactly what we were doing here. We waited in the still night. Finally I asked one of the men in front what was going on.
"The driver needs to rest," he said. "He couldn't go on." Rest? I still felt like we had just began, like we had finally begun making some ground. Of course, I wasn't driving. But I thought surely he must have known he was going to be driving all night. Foolishly, I thought he would have prepared for that. I made a bit of a grumble in the back prefering to get out of the car if we were waiting. My knees were screaming and my neck was throbbing. I thought the driver had left the car and I couldn't really believe he'd left us
"....in here like sardines.." I heard it come from the front and genuine laughter escaped from me. I wasn't the only one to be feeling this way. Turns out, the driver was actually in the car, slumped behind the steering wheel. One of the passengers up front tried vainly to awaken him. He could not be stirred. Some of the other passengers argued on his behalf. Once again, my eagle eyes kicked in and I saw us from above, a lonely taxi overflowing with people and bags parked on the side of a deserted road. We elected to get out.
We were waiting in the Kankan gare central. Supposedly, the car would fill up in an hour or so. It was around 4:00 pm. This place looked more like a bus station, with covered waiting area (both inside and outside sections!) There were women selling fruit and cookies. Men walked around selling tea (strong African tea that is aerated between two cups with a flourish. The vendor carries about 3 or 4 thermoses of tea and a small bucket containing minature cups which are placed in water and reused.) We waited. The sun began to set, casting a red glow on everything. We kept hearing rumors that there were only 2 seats left to be filled (this rumor went on for hours, even as people approached, bought a ticket, and took up the wait with us.) Our things were shuffled from taxi top to taxi top as drivers discussed which car was filling up and who would make the journey.
I considered buying another seat as, in the interest of saving money once again, I'd only gotten two seats and one of the boys was riding on a lap. I considered it strongly as the time wore on. Six o'clock came and went. The boys snacked on watermelon and I bought some packages of cookies for the ride. The waiting was becoming painful. It turns out the driver was searching for a full taxi. When we finally loaded up, there were 2 people in the front passenger seat, 4 in the middle seat, 4 of us in the back seat AND one person behind us in the hatch back space. Of course, he had to lay down scrunched up or sit up halfway leaning on the seat back of our already crowded third row.
I can see us from a bird's eye view, all packed in there threatening to explode like a shaken up soda bottle. The boys were able to sleep a lot and were actually well behaved for both trips considering the tight quarters. I knew right away that this trip was going to be distinctly different from the last. If the ride to Kankan was with the conservative right, the ride back to Conakry was a rock and roll tour. There were two women traveling with us who did not have papers and the young driver took a direct approach at every checkpoint. Cash in hand. I, and my passport, were no longer the issue.
While this apporach made the road a bit faster to travel on, we seemed to stop a lot more frequently on this trip than the one going out. We had two people who needed to make prayer stops but also it seemed we stopped for eating and rest breaks. (Rest breaks? We just started!) At one of our first stops, which seemed to be near a gas station, perhaps a tiny gare central for whatever town this was.... I got out of the car to stretch and eat an orange. A bull cow walked by searching for scraps and nibbling my peels. Motos zoomed through town as I watched the nightlife carry out its rituals. Surely this would seem a sleepy town by sunlight, I thought.
We continued on and I dozed a bit as the countryside turned back into tall grass and mud huts. Eventually we came to a frosty stop and I thought I heard the driver get out. The entire car appeared to be sleeping and I wondered exactly what we were doing here. We waited in the still night. Finally I asked one of the men in front what was going on.
"The driver needs to rest," he said. "He couldn't go on." Rest? I still felt like we had just began, like we had finally begun making some ground. Of course, I wasn't driving. But I thought surely he must have known he was going to be driving all night. Foolishly, I thought he would have prepared for that. I made a bit of a grumble in the back prefering to get out of the car if we were waiting. My knees were screaming and my neck was throbbing. I thought the driver had left the car and I couldn't really believe he'd left us
"....in here like sardines.." I heard it come from the front and genuine laughter escaped from me. I wasn't the only one to be feeling this way. Turns out, the driver was actually in the car, slumped behind the steering wheel. One of the passengers up front tried vainly to awaken him. He could not be stirred. Some of the other passengers argued on his behalf. Once again, my eagle eyes kicked in and I saw us from above, a lonely taxi overflowing with people and bags parked on the side of a deserted road. We elected to get out.
The moon was bright and cast a blue white glow on everything. Just across the small street were a series of covered stalls with benches. We walked over and had a seat in the chilly night air. We sat there shivering and watched our taxi sleeping. It was 3 a.m. After thirty minutes, the driver still hadn't awakened. We began to discus show long a good chauffeur needed to nap. One of the men, the professor, as I came to know him (he taught at the University of Kankan) was even more indignant because he said he had friends at a small town just up the road. Had we continued a bit, he could have found lodging for everyone to rest comfortably. (Although I found this negated the entire purpose of traveling at night. If I wanted to rest comfortably, I would waited in Kankan until the next day.)
We decided to take action and strode back to the car with intention. The driver would awaken. The professor roused the slepeing chauffeur for a good ten minutes. He refused to get up. It turned out the boy in the trunk was also a driver and the passengers convinced chauffeur #1 to hand the car over to chauffeur #2. Pretty soon we were rumbling along at breakneck speed, hitting every pothole in sight. Chauffeur #1 now resided in the back back back and with every jump of the car he yelled out what sounded like critique and advice. I thought, since he surely wasn't getting any sleep back there, he would have been better off just taking the wheel.
We hadn't gone very far (or so it seemed. This trip was turning into a fragment series of small starts and stops) when we really hit something that threw the car into a swerve. A tire had exploded. We coasted, yet again, to the side of a deserted road. Dawn was just breaking. There was a comic attempt to put the spare tire on but it turned out that the spare tire was not really fitted for this car. There was a second spare in the space below the hatchback but that tire was also flat. The road stretched out behind us.
And a similar sight greeted us from the front. Chauffeur #2 hailed a ride (amazingly with another passing taxi!) A few people built a fire along the roadside and the rest of us settled in to sleep in the taxi until the sun truly rose. When the light filtered over the grass and the birds called us awake, we climbed from our slumbering places.
The road was empty save for a few women walking by occasionally. One of the passengers asked a question and was directed to some small shrubs nearby. Everyone started pulling stems and chewing and spitting.....toothbrush au natural. The oldest woman, a passenger without papers, managed to flag a ride and ran off in a lopsided way, clutching her bags and waving. The professor returned from an early morning walk triumphant. He had brought a young boy with a thermos of kankiliba tea and fried cakes.He'd arranged everything, free tea, buy your own sugar and cakes--good cakes made with good flour, he'd watched the whole process himself.
Personalities were starting to emerge. The chauffeur climbed from behind the wheel where he'd been resting. His only concern seemed to be a smoke. I couldn't really be sure since this group spoke mostly in Malinke, but it appeared he was getting the brush off. He was not acting like a good captain but rather seemed to be deserting the ship, passengers and all. Some discussion broke out.
Soon enough, however, things settled down. There wasn't much to do but wait. We took turns taking walks up the road, sitting in the shade of the taxi and waving down passing cars. The same questions were always asked as we tried to determine how far driver #2 actually had to travel to get the tire fixed. It was New Year's Day.
Sometime in the mid morning, a band of children walked by carrying scythes. They made a slow, solemn apporach and for Stephen King fans, there's no need to draw out the comparison. It was actually difficult for me to determine an emotion emanating from the boys with their serious faces---curiosity perhaps, in a muted way. They headed off into the tall grass to begin their day's cutting and collecting. Soon after they disappeared, a strange figure shrouded in his own bundle of flowing grass steadily made his way down the road. I thought of snapping a photo. From a distance, he appeared to be a spirit from the bush. I never did see a face buried as it was beneath the load. The figure passed by 2 more times and left me wondering if it was the same person and how he managed to always be walking in the same direction without ever returning down the way he had come. Perhaps it truly was a spirit from the bush.
There was really little else to contemplate onn the dry, dusty road. The sun rose above and we began to discuss whether or not driver #2 would ever return. I had no faith in him. A huge truck passed by, stopped to chat and passed water bags out the window to us. I tried to convince the others that we it was time for plan B. Surely we could take some kind of action rather than just sit ....indefinitely. At the very least, I wanted to impose a time limit whereby we would take action if he hadn't returned. I could see us sitting here until 6:00 when the sun would turn the sky rose red for a brief moment before leaving us, once again, in the dark with the cows.
Everyone else, however, held fast to the conviction that the driver would return. They had such faith and patience. I tried to get some it to rub off on me, but mostly I just tried to keep the crabby restlessness at bay and took walks up around the bend. Cars stopped every so often and broke the silence. A particularly fancy car passed by and offered a space to me and the boys for some 45000GF. I didn't really have it to spare and I was also wary of hopping into a car with three men in flashy clothes and dark sunglasses. I hesitated
and finally refused. The professor gladly paid for the spot. I was happy to remain among the rest of the passengers watching our slow drama unfold. Another taxi passed by and the driver offered me an entire bag of peanut cornmeal paste. I've forgotten exactly what they called this snack but it was so delicious and reminded me of the Power Bars I used to love. I passed out gooey squares to everyone and wondered who would be next to go.
Driver #2 did eventually return with the tire. He told a tale of riding from town to town, searching for a mechanic. The closest town that could offer services was not an option because the mechanic had gone off to visit his family for a New Year's celebration. The driver had been forced to continue retracing our path back to where we'd originally stopped and I'd shared my orange with the bull cow. It seemed to take only minutes to put the tire on, push the car into a running start (driver #1 had left the lights on all night) and get us on our way once again. It was the only part of the trip when time moved quickly.
The journey to Conakry felt as though it were taking place in another dimension. We made stops too frequently for me. I became tired of climbing in and out of the cramped back quarters (losing passengers somehow did not equal more space for us in the back back AND the driver incredibly appeared to be looking for more passengers.)
We passed through small towns and check points with ease. I kept my passport in my bag the whole time. We snacked endlessly on oranges. We stopped at a gas station, got another tire changed and picked up two more passengers. Driver #2 was once again relegated to the hatch back space. He jumped out at each check point and melted into sidelines. He merged with vendors and buyers and made his way around the check point where he would jog up to us and jump into the back once we had put a bit of distance bewtween us and the militiary. It seemed so simple and obvious I couldn't really believe he was fooling anyone.
At the gas station, the other passengers bought some kind of meatballs and offered to share them with the boys. Nabih indulged but Mohamed declined. A passenger, whose name I never got, went into the store and returned with some cake bread. He had been so friendly toward the boys while we were waiting, playing games and amusing them. He spoke the most French and also translated the Malinke for me so I knew what was going on.
After many hours, long past sunset, we arrived in Conakry. The road into town was crowded and covered with soldiers. It was here that I had my one and only problem with my passport. I had to go in search of it, aqnd argue for its return. The taxi driver and a few of the passengers followed me. Despite the soldiers repeated, gruff orders and threats towards them, they did not leave. Later they told me that the soldiers wanted them to leave so they could extract a high price for the return of my passport. They'd elected to remain as witnesses. I listened to several soldiers arguing about the correct way to handle my passport. Being back in Conakry, they spoke a mixture of Sousou and French. I knew exactly what they saying and waited for the moment to present itself when I could slip a discreet "tip." Its a delicate process and needs to be timed just right, or so I believe. Unexplicably, one soldier (a red beret) ordered the other (a mere green beret) to return my papers, no tax imposed. Once again, we were on our way.
It was near midnight when we arrived at our destination, a hazy, dusty crossroads teeming with people vending by candlelight. I got out of the taxi with a suitcase and two sleeping children. The passenger who had been so kind to the boys hailed another taxi for us. The woman we'd picked up at the gas station negotiated the price and I felt like we might actually be nearing the end of this epoch adventure. I was filled with a sense of gratefulness. It seems you're never truly alone in Africa, someone is always willing to help. I'd been keenly aware of this every step of the way. Turns out the trouble with travel isn't really so troublesome after all. Its just a matter of interesting company, an open spirit and the ability to see with eagle eyes.
29.11.09
Refugee in Reverse
"She's living out of a suitcase. She had all of her stuff shipped back home." The conversation came on the heels of a premonition someone on campus felt about the security of life for us ex-pats in the DRC. I was catapaulted into a state of shock for entirely different reasons.
Congo is full of aid workers and 'helping' agencies. I've been reading and learning a lot about the real effect this kind of work has on a country. In addition, MONUC is a huge presence here in the capital as well as in the east. It's complicated trying to weigh the cost/ benefits. But because we are already living in such high tension, I had difficulty imagining an event that would warrant evacuating the foreigners.
Nevertheless, my neighbor and I continued to contemplate. What would our contracts cover? Where would we go? And what would happen to any of the things we left behind? She contemplated how to best provide something for her nanny- who would certainly be in dire straits without a job. And I wondered what all of the Congolese who depended on foreigners for their livelihood would do.
But mostly I thought about myself. I felt caught in the dilemma of nationhood. Where would I be shipped off to? I simply can no longer imagine life in the U.S. and feel no desire to go back. For an instant of panic, I felt that familiar, weightless, floating sense of being without a home- no where to go. There are plenty of people I've encountered recently who have lived in the Congo for a decade or more. I wonder precisely at which moment does a country become home and when does the birthplace become abandoned, or if not abandoned, replaced as the country of identification?
While my neighbor continued to make decisions and lists about which of her things would be most important in an immediate evacutaion, I continued a stubborn resistance. I'm not going. Can I really say I'm not going? But I don't want to go. I have nowhere to go. Why should I go? This one track questioning played over and over in my mind as I compared myself to the Congolese--- who had no decision to make. I've long struggled with this ability to fly out of conflict. A privilege? A curse? A point of confusion if nothing more. Suddenly I felt like a refugee in reverse. I fully realized that someone else may very well be making this decision for me. And I realized it is not a hazard of teaching in many places. But in Africa, at any moment, the government could go south and things could get, well.....tricky. But I really am not ready to give up what I have found.
I am still clinging to the idea when you're home, you're home. And I don't feel able to fly off in the face of danger. I have never felt more content in my life, in my being, in the way I am greeted by each new day.
Congo is full of aid workers and 'helping' agencies. I've been reading and learning a lot about the real effect this kind of work has on a country. In addition, MONUC is a huge presence here in the capital as well as in the east. It's complicated trying to weigh the cost/ benefits. But because we are already living in such high tension, I had difficulty imagining an event that would warrant evacuating the foreigners.
Nevertheless, my neighbor and I continued to contemplate. What would our contracts cover? Where would we go? And what would happen to any of the things we left behind? She contemplated how to best provide something for her nanny- who would certainly be in dire straits without a job. And I wondered what all of the Congolese who depended on foreigners for their livelihood would do.
But mostly I thought about myself. I felt caught in the dilemma of nationhood. Where would I be shipped off to? I simply can no longer imagine life in the U.S. and feel no desire to go back. For an instant of panic, I felt that familiar, weightless, floating sense of being without a home- no where to go. There are plenty of people I've encountered recently who have lived in the Congo for a decade or more. I wonder precisely at which moment does a country become home and when does the birthplace become abandoned, or if not abandoned, replaced as the country of identification?
While my neighbor continued to make decisions and lists about which of her things would be most important in an immediate evacutaion, I continued a stubborn resistance. I'm not going. Can I really say I'm not going? But I don't want to go. I have nowhere to go. Why should I go? This one track questioning played over and over in my mind as I compared myself to the Congolese--- who had no decision to make. I've long struggled with this ability to fly out of conflict. A privilege? A curse? A point of confusion if nothing more. Suddenly I felt like a refugee in reverse. I fully realized that someone else may very well be making this decision for me. And I realized it is not a hazard of teaching in many places. But in Africa, at any moment, the government could go south and things could get, well.....tricky. But I really am not ready to give up what I have found.
I am still clinging to the idea when you're home, you're home. And I don't feel able to fly off in the face of danger. I have never felt more content in my life, in my being, in the way I am greeted by each new day.
26.10.08
Kaloli-Kampala
19 Oct. 2008 10:00 pm
The birds resemble old men as they walk around, hunched over, lifting their scrawny legs high before taking off to nest atop the trees. A cup of tea costs more than my meal of matooke and vegetable sauce. I am in Uganda for the AISA conference and it is another world. I say I am in Uganda, but I know there is a real Kampala here under the manufactured British beauty. This Africa is very neat and clean, the roads are paved and even have markings painted on. This part of Kampala is quite new and fresh. When I see what can happen here, I cry for Congo. There is simply no excuse for the way so many live in Africa. There is simply no excuse for the low expectations that I may have held. (I suppose I could continue to say there is simply no excuse for all of the garbage littering the rest of Kampala- and why such a small area manages to be so clean?)
Our plane took us first to Nairobi and I must admit shock at the zigzagging freedom we were allowed. No yellow lines marked our path into the country. There were no military holding back vicious looking German Shepherds with rifles slung casually across their back or held menacingly in their hands. In my naivety, I thought all African airports looked alike. Not so Jomo Kenyatta. Even Entebbe glimmered with new tile and a Western style appearance, shelves stocked with merchandise. Immense bags of candy filled the stores. A glimpse through the windows showed books, shoes and many other items determined to fill as yet unknown needs.
I am enjoying the hotel, the conference and meeting other professionals. I haven’t much to spend, however, and forego the group trips to the local shopping mall (mall!) The crafts sound interesting and I am almost overtaken by a Congolese want- such a lack of material items makes me feel that I have needs which may not really even be there. It is a desperate desire to stock up on goods that I may not see again for months.
Truly it is quite beautiful here and the billboards encouraging home ownership could almost lure me into thinking Uganda is well developed and prosperous. Surely it could be on its way. The road from the airport was well paved, lined with more motorcycles than pedestrians and bordered by (sidewalks!) small shops filled with goods and lit from within by bulbs (electric light bulbs!) It is amazing how quickly we adapt to our surroundings. I have only been in Kinshasa for 3 months and here I am expressing amazement about small tin shops powered with current. Perhaps I must mention the road from N’Djili, where masses of people huddle around candlelight as they try to sell their goods in the dark night air. There are no sidewalks, more people than cars and more cars than actual items to buy.
The newspaper I read this morning highlighted several differences as well. There were more opinion pages and advertisements, an entire section on commentaries and politics. More humor, albeit British style- the paper was scarcely PG-13. I browsed sections on fashion and music news, even classifieds, all in English; another foreign concept for me- Africa in English. I can’t get the French to stop falling from my lips.
I spent the evening talking with 2 Congolese teachers from school. I had been hoping to understand this perspective. Like Lamine and his friends, they spent some time talking about race and history. There are so many ethnicities and for those in Congo/Uganda/Rwanda a history rife with tension and war. There were clearly two perspectives, neither easily arrived at. One was still filled with fear and anger, emotion enough to water her eyes during the conversation. The other, more worldly, filled with understanding and compassion. It is not the people that should hate each other, it is the political few that created and sustained the wars. A difficult position to arrive at with conviction, to be sure.
As they related their stories, I was reminded of a story I had heard earlier during a workshop entitled Tales to Change the World. This was a story that described exactly the perpetuation of hatred and prejudice before me, of deciding without really knowing. I took the time to repeat it, this simple folktale about making a friend and knowing he’s a friend even if others tell you it can’t be so. And this story spurred another tale or two, from a similar perspective. Stories of true life experience. Stories of war. Tales that worked in the same way to make a small change, a slight shift in perspective and possibility. I should not think to cry for Congo, but shine with light towards the energy of change. Even if it only begins with a story.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)