It's finally happened. I caught myself holding up a box of cereal and remarking, "It was only $6." After my friend responded, rather dryly, "A real bargain," I had to stop and consider.
I guess I've changed. I feel such a loss of the small things, fresh fruits and vegetables, that I am now willing to pay for $6 for 4 oranges or a box of Honeycombs (they were worth every penny! yummmm!) I find myself spending more on groceries than when we first arrived as my mind has slowly accepted the exorbitant prices and come to terms with what might be considered a bargain. I've stopped imagining the grocery shelves of home, lined with sales and discounts in the $3-$4 range. I guess this means I'm acclimating. My new range is $5-$10. Yes, I spend $8 on a package of 6 hotdogs so the boys will actually eat something for lunch besides bread.
I think what's more important to realize here is that this change is not limited to the price of my groceries. It signals an acceptance of things that I'm sure I've yet to comprehend. It is a subtle shifting of perspective to my relative environment.
I now read The International Educator and become enchanted with the question, where do we want to live next? This new world seems vast and open, yet it contains within it an (odd) community of drifting nomads ('global nomads' and 'third culture kids' were the terms I recently read about when refering to the children of such families.) The thought of leaving Africa still creates that bottomless pit anxiety feeling that lets me know I'm not quite ready to move off the continent. But still, I'm left with possibilities.
I've also begun to consider the qualities I want in a school. It's something that began with the AISA conference, where I was able to meet and talk with educators from around Africa. The quality of schools seems to differ greatly as does their involvement with the local community. And this is one of my passions; it's why I am here to begin with.
I am happy with all of these changes and most often simply wondering why it took me so long to get here, in these familiar surroundings where nothing looks or feels like home, but everything is exactly as it should be.
25.4.09
10.4.09
City streets
At first I thought it was a bird. The air is constantly filled with the sounds of chirping, calling, singing, whistling birds. I've recognized the call of pigeons and parrots. I've heard one bird that seems to sing the scales and it becomes clear where all of our inspiration for music comes from.
But the sound went on, coming closer until it passed my classroom windows. No bird, this. The notes took on rhythm and purpose. A song with so much feeling. True whistling is like playing an instrument, I realized. It was quite beautiful. And that's what gives Africa its life. There is always someone singing or whistling, tapping out a beat, calling a name. It is not the quiet, private, solitary street, the hurried-rushed-walk-to-work-with-your-head-down-eyes-averted street of American cities. It is instead the greet-my-neighbor-stop-to-talk-let-me-look-at-you street of an African city.
I walked to the market today with my neighbor and her baby. Women everywhere called out, "Baby, baby!" and came gliding up with arms outstretched to welcome the little one. It seemed as though they were about to scoop him up and surely would have were he not so snugly nestled in his wrap. Even men remarked on his interesting ride, "Est que il va tombe?"
The streets are always full of people talking and pointing, whispering and shouting. They are laughing and giggling and trying to entice- Come, come buy my things, come talk to me, come just to stand here next to me. Just come.
It is the stereotypical image of Africa but its more. It's the exact opposite of independent, soliatry success. It's human contact and social intricacy, and its what makes everything so complicated and hard to manage. It's what erases boundaries and blurs the lines.
And it is what I remark in the village too. I say I am going there to help them, but sometimes it seems I cannot bring them more than they can give to me. Because these boys, they break out in song with such clear, sweet voices. And it's all the spontaneous noise that erupts with such emotion that wins me over. It's why I can't go back, even if I'll never quite acheive it myself. I soak it up and it makes me well.
But the sound went on, coming closer until it passed my classroom windows. No bird, this. The notes took on rhythm and purpose. A song with so much feeling. True whistling is like playing an instrument, I realized. It was quite beautiful. And that's what gives Africa its life. There is always someone singing or whistling, tapping out a beat, calling a name. It is not the quiet, private, solitary street, the hurried-rushed-walk-to-work-with-your-head-down-eyes-averted street of American cities. It is instead the greet-my-neighbor-stop-to-talk-let-me-look-at-you street of an African city.
I walked to the market today with my neighbor and her baby. Women everywhere called out, "Baby, baby!" and came gliding up with arms outstretched to welcome the little one. It seemed as though they were about to scoop him up and surely would have were he not so snugly nestled in his wrap. Even men remarked on his interesting ride, "Est que il va tombe?"
The streets are always full of people talking and pointing, whispering and shouting. They are laughing and giggling and trying to entice- Come, come buy my things, come talk to me, come just to stand here next to me. Just come.
It is the stereotypical image of Africa but its more. It's the exact opposite of independent, soliatry success. It's human contact and social intricacy, and its what makes everything so complicated and hard to manage. It's what erases boundaries and blurs the lines.
And it is what I remark in the village too. I say I am going there to help them, but sometimes it seems I cannot bring them more than they can give to me. Because these boys, they break out in song with such clear, sweet voices. And it's all the spontaneous noise that erupts with such emotion that wins me over. It's why I can't go back, even if I'll never quite acheive it myself. I soak it up and it makes me well.
2.4.09
woman
Last night I talked to someone online for two hours. I laughed until I cried. I found the conversation witty and intelligent. And for just a moment I wondered what it would be like to really know someone that way. To know someone like me- who could read my words and understand, or debate, or hunger for more.
Just a moment before reality comes crashing back in, reigning glass and chunks of rubble down on me as I remember where I've been. Second chances only come once. I feel too young to contemplate my future lonliness and far too old to have it any other way.
Africa seems full of women like me, but I am, after all, not quite like them. They're left with each other to pass the days and mark the time, to chatter and socialize. But with my Western mind it still seems harsh and solitary. Most of the time, I am full of responsibilities and tasks that create a busy pace of falseness. I wear my labels with determination. Who will I be today?
Daily living here requires such energy and attention, weeks and months can pass before I look up to see me. There is time for lounging by the pool and escaping into books. There is time for planning lessons and preparing meals. Always there are knees to wash and elbows to mend. It is familiar and everyday. I am the mother, the teacher, the reader, the cook.
There is time also for the dreamer, the artist, the dancer. These so comforting in their ability to soothe, so risky with their potential to illuminate. I have developed a way to rise with their crest and brace for the fall. Because I cannot fight nor bury this need. And I have a found a way to live together with all of these things, these labels and tasks that define me without ever really explaining.
But there is another label, buried like a long forgotten treasure tossed carelessly into the depths of a closet, and retrieved from its dusty corner only because it was discovered during a search for something more modern, more relevant and important. Even in its retrieval, it is not rescued but merely glanced at with puzzlement. This thing still hanging around? What is this thing anyway? Whatever was it used for? Yeah, I don't think we need this anymore. And back it goes scraping across the gray and gritty floor in slight protest. But it sure was pretty once.
Just a moment before reality comes crashing back in, reigning glass and chunks of rubble down on me as I remember where I've been. Second chances only come once. I feel too young to contemplate my future lonliness and far too old to have it any other way.
Africa seems full of women like me, but I am, after all, not quite like them. They're left with each other to pass the days and mark the time, to chatter and socialize. But with my Western mind it still seems harsh and solitary. Most of the time, I am full of responsibilities and tasks that create a busy pace of falseness. I wear my labels with determination. Who will I be today?
Daily living here requires such energy and attention, weeks and months can pass before I look up to see me. There is time for lounging by the pool and escaping into books. There is time for planning lessons and preparing meals. Always there are knees to wash and elbows to mend. It is familiar and everyday. I am the mother, the teacher, the reader, the cook.
There is time also for the dreamer, the artist, the dancer. These so comforting in their ability to soothe, so risky with their potential to illuminate. I have developed a way to rise with their crest and brace for the fall. Because I cannot fight nor bury this need. And I have a found a way to live together with all of these things, these labels and tasks that define me without ever really explaining.
But there is another label, buried like a long forgotten treasure tossed carelessly into the depths of a closet, and retrieved from its dusty corner only because it was discovered during a search for something more modern, more relevant and important. Even in its retrieval, it is not rescued but merely glanced at with puzzlement. This thing still hanging around? What is this thing anyway? Whatever was it used for? Yeah, I don't think we need this anymore. And back it goes scraping across the gray and gritty floor in slight protest. But it sure was pretty once.
31.3.09
Rx by Number
I've been walking around in a cotton candy daze
head stuffed fuller than an old couch
popping its cushions
yellow foam exploding
from the half closed zippers
children bouncing up and down
shrieking as the couch springs
creak and moan with age
my age, feeling so much more
than the girl I used to be
weighed down with pain and
misery from this sickness
that's got a hold of me
I stumble stare through the door
Rx Pharmacie-
Just name your maladie
A carnival of boxes
Posted to the shelves
Close your eyes and take a pick
or dial up something more familiar
And if you find it isn't friendly
Just come and try again
The freedom is intoxicating
Of this liberated nation
That allows us all
To try our hand
Painting Rx
by number
head stuffed fuller than an old couch
popping its cushions
yellow foam exploding
from the half closed zippers
children bouncing up and down
shrieking as the couch springs
creak and moan with age
my age, feeling so much more
than the girl I used to be
weighed down with pain and
misery from this sickness
that's got a hold of me
I stumble stare through the door
Rx Pharmacie-
Just name your maladie
A carnival of boxes
Posted to the shelves
Close your eyes and take a pick
or dial up something more familiar
And if you find it isn't friendly
Just come and try again
The freedom is intoxicating
Of this liberated nation
That allows us all
To try our hand
Painting Rx
by number
17.3.09
Orphan views
We finally made it today to the orphanage. It was a group trip which was not as weird as I’d thought it might be. The orphanage turned out to be typical in many ways that I expected but I also came away with some welcome and surprising revelations.The area itself was quite beautiful. The grounds are spacious and well maintained. It was relatively clean and organized. It is quite large and has many buildings. There were infants quarters, a house for the girls and separate for the boys. There was a church area, clinic, dining hall, basket ball hoops and an area for volunteers who plan to stay for awhile. I did not take many photos because I felt I could never capture what I was seeing. I think it needs to be more than random photos, quick shots designed to elicit certain emotions. Maybe next time. Maybe after I've had a chance to spend some time.
When we arrived, most of the kids were at church. The babies were not and so we began with them. Typically heartbreaking, if such a phrase exists. The ones who could walk ran up with arms aloft, aching to be held. The ones that could not move just sat and cried. I picked up one small baby girl crying in the porch area. She was surrounded by flies and had an odor that I can still smell 9 hours and a hot shower later. I eventually managed to calm her and could not imagine how I would put her down again. Giving her to another adult was not an option as they were clearly busy with dressing some others and sorting through clothes. The hallway was scattered with babies sitting quiet and alone.
The handout of stuffed toys and lollipops began, and the children were happy. I managed to put my little princess down, rubbing her back and letting her play with my bracelets as I watched, with a mother’s horror, toddlers roaming with pops in their mouths. Some wondered how to open them while others were unconcerned about the wrapper and just began eating. I left her with a beaded memento and made my way outside. Children were all over, grabbing for sweets and plush toys. I could not really make sense of this scene, again feeling great waves of uselessness washing over me, threatening to knock me down.
The cry of my little friend brought me some purpose and I went back inside to see what had happened. It is difficult to know with a baby. I found Gloria lying on the floor clutching a stuffed seahorse someone had given her in exchange for the bracelet. I sat her up and patted her back. It seemed something was wrong with her foot- polio?- but it wasn’t really clear. Her eyes became focused on another child’s lollipop. She watched expectantly as an older girl opened the wrapper and then gave it to the toddler. This brought a fresh round of tears. I was really impressed by the young girl who, after a moment of consideration, reached into her pocket and took out her own lollipop. Gloria licked her lips. I’ve never seen a baby do this and all I could think of was how hungry she must be. She was pacified by the pop and I left her sitting there in the hallway.
The rest of the tour was equally heart wrenching. So many children and so few resources. It can be easy in this situation to make judgments and assumptions. Though I heard some, I tried to steer clear myself. I cannot really comprehend the daily management of four hundred children needing to be washed, cleaned, fed, supervised, entertained, held, attended to and kissed goodnight. Some things get sacrificed.
I was left to wonder what kind of life these children could aspire to. What is waiting for them? But it was comforting to know they all attend local schools. There is even some collaboration being worked on to connect the local English language institute with the older students. The language institute teaches them English and prepares them for tests that will enable them to apply to foreign colleges and universities. They also help with researching scholarships and visas. It is a broad gesture.
But I imagine the babies growing up in this life, detached and neglected in all but the most basic of needs and I wonder what is possible for them. This, just one orphanage. The feelings of inadequacy wash over me like huge tidal waves rolling in the open ocean. It’s too big of a picture with no solid ground in sight. Endless.
There were several other visitors to the orphanage that day and it is a successful place in the balance of things. I’m told we will do more with them as a school next year. And I can see the benefit of going just to read stories and hold some kids on my lap. It feels like a grain of sand.
I can’t understand why am I so content in Africa? In the midst of all this desperation and frustration, I’ve never felt so peaceful and complete. I can’t imagine being in any other place. There’s nowhere else to go. I did realize on the way home (that famous Kinshasa traffic so conducive to self-reflection) that perhaps my identification comes from being an orphan myself. For all intents and purposes, that is what I’ve been. Just now, I understand.
The children have actually formed a queue here to receive a treat. Many try to jump the line or get doubles but it was quite organized and calm compared to the earlier stampede for plush toys. One boy is holding a baby. I saw lots of tenderness between children here as well. They are caring for each other.
15.3.09
Intangible rewards
It was the soccer game that got me thinking. It began with the declaration of a legal holiday. Congo won the African Championship for the first time since 1974. (Most) schools were closed and people everywhere were given the day off. And then the rumors began. After school activites were cancelled in anticipation of the team's return. Better to be safe at home than stuck in traffic with an overzealous crowd stoning cars. But it didn't happen as planned. School was released early the next day, in anticipation of the team's return (again) and a large celebration of victory. There was no official mention of the people storming the airport or being mauled by police dogs. No official mention of any deaths. Only the witnesses can be sure of what actually occurred. But of course, there aren't any witnesses, officially.
Closing roads is a common occurance in cities and towns everywhere during momentous occassions. I think it is more about the planning and communication to the masses that makes it different. The inefficiency can be overwhelming at times. The reliance on rumor and conjecture astounding. One of many moments where the difficulties involved in solving problems here becomes so clear and infuriating.
It is easy to feel useless. But I have been feeling hopeful in the face of some projects my class is working on. We've been writing plays about the environment- adapted fairy tales of the funny sort- and are planning a fundraising dinner. I've worked through most of my personal issues about the kind of giving we can do and am happy with our final solution- clean water.
I really get stuck on the issue of sustainability and am trying to accept that we are just one fifth grade class. It is unlikely we will change the world. It is with this contradictory mindset that I set out for the PO and some art in the village with the boys.
I admit to wishing I was more into the development side of things as I listened to my friend discussing programs, objectives and plans on the way out there. That ever increasing desire to be involved, to do something.
Closing roads is a common occurance in cities and towns everywhere during momentous occassions. I think it is more about the planning and communication to the masses that makes it different. The inefficiency can be overwhelming at times. The reliance on rumor and conjecture astounding. One of many moments where the difficulties involved in solving problems here becomes so clear and infuriating.
It is easy to feel useless. But I have been feeling hopeful in the face of some projects my class is working on. We've been writing plays about the environment- adapted fairy tales of the funny sort- and are planning a fundraising dinner. I've worked through most of my personal issues about the kind of giving we can do and am happy with our final solution- clean water.
I really get stuck on the issue of sustainability and am trying to accept that we are just one fifth grade class. It is unlikely we will change the world. It is with this contradictory mindset that I set out for the PO and some art in the village with the boys.
I admit to wishing I was more into the development side of things as I listened to my friend discussing programs, objectives and plans on the way out there. That ever increasing desire to be involved, to do something.
The boys were eager participants and came equipped with rulers, notepads and pencils. Some had already been drawing and were proud to show what they had done. We did a few excercises together and, with the help of a translator, I tried to explain the purpose of our group. I think it will require some compromise, as all good partnerships do. They are expecting a drawing teacher and I want to move them into drawing expression and self reflection.
We warmed up by drawing our names, with style, adding things we like. They were very precise, using rulers and taking their time. We managed to share and discuss a bit before moving on to create a collage of shapes. Getting them to think metaphorically or liberally will be a challenge I think. I want to show them it is not just the precise and perfect that makes good art. So I see I might use a bit of art instruction after all- lessons in technique and a bit of history. It will make us both happy.
As I stood there, watching these boys so focused on their drawing, I felt surreal. For one moment, I could not believe it was me there, doing this thing I have dreamed of for so long. It was a moment of success, a possibility realized. It's a beautiful village.
The program is quite intense. Educators rotate shifts staying with the kids for several nights. They are given a school program in the morning that includes French and reading. They are working on their alphabet, and I can see that while the boys joke about what they do not know, they are eager to learn.
It was only as we began the trek home that I was able to reflect on my position. Traffic on a Saturday evening in Kinshasa allows for plenty of reflection. I began to realize that as an educator of children of means, sons and daughters of policy makers and aid workers, I have the opportunity to illuminate the social and environmental plagues of Africa, inspire interest, and steer our study towards the exploration of solutions. Maybe this is how change is accomplished. Certainly it is through education. And by bridging the needy with the need nots maybe they will learn to make the connection on their own and continue the drive for improvement.
It is one of those far reaching goals that will come so far in the future it's intangible. Unguarenteed. But real change must be systemic. It must be a change in thinking. And it could take an entire generation to do that. On the optomistic side.
For now, I'll try to find comfort in these intangible rewards and calm my overreaching desire to be involved in immediate solutions. Sustainable things require time and patience. And a lot of faith. There's some kind of rumor out there that I have all these qualities, but I'm not sure I believe it.
5.3.09
1 Message Received
It was about 4:30 when I received one text message on my phone. I don't get a lot of phone calls or messges so it was a fairly exciting event. (That statement alone may give a more definitive perspective of Congo than anything else I could write in this blog.)
It was a forwarded message. Unlike FWD: emails, forwarded messages are usually important. They come from the US Embassy. Who was advising Amcits to avoid Ave Justice from Mandela Circle to Lukusa. Police are stopping cars and looking for money.
The equivalent of flashing your lights at oncoming traffic I suppose. Watch out around the bend...
I did have my first experience of being pilfered for money. It didn't go terribly, though I wonder how the outcome would have differed were I alone. I hate the whole feeling of being bullied and can be a bit more stubborn about participating. Just when I was thinking how much fun we three American women were having collecting our weekly groceries, a slightly soaked policeman motioned me to the side. I thought he was directing me around some kind of large hole in the road. I was truly confused. It finally hit me that he wanted me to pull over and I just let the confusion take control. Sometimes it helps.
Being pulled over in Africa is not quite like being pulled over in the US. The first question my friend asked me, and even I myself for a foolish minute, was why? Because he wanted to is the obvious answer. Because I am a white woman driving. Because he can. Because it was raining and he was wet and miserable, wishing to be anywhere but on that street directing traffic. Take your pick.
My first instinct was just to keep driving. I really wanted to. After all, there are no electronic gadgets in which he could track my plate or anything like that. And he was on foot. Then again, I was in a car. I needed to consider the traffic situation in downtown Kinshasa. He could easily overtake me before the next intersection.
After that first decision, it was a series of many more, all fighting my natural inclination to be an upstanding citizen and obey. He motioned for me to roll down the window. I ignored him. It was difficult to stop my hand, but all the while my head was commanding my body in contrary ways.
He asked for my license. I didn't have one. A good thing in this case, I think, since I haven't yet switched over to Congolese. A New York license would surely have incensed him.
In the end, he asked for twenty bucks -we gave him a thousand francs (maybe a dollar fifty.) It hardly seemed worth it, to him or us.
But the latest embassy meetings have been suggesting the financial situation is getting dire, as everywhere. The police and military haven't been paid in months (or was it a year?) The gov't is thinking of just giving them a bunch of thousand franc bills to keep them happy. It seems last time they did that, the shopkeepers wouldn't accept any of it because the bills had no value. It seems last time there was some general looting and rioting over the whole affair.
So they're considering doing it again. Apparently it was 1 message not received.
It was a forwarded message. Unlike FWD: emails, forwarded messages are usually important. They come from the US Embassy. Who was advising Amcits to avoid Ave Justice from Mandela Circle to Lukusa. Police are stopping cars and looking for money.
The equivalent of flashing your lights at oncoming traffic I suppose. Watch out around the bend...
I did have my first experience of being pilfered for money. It didn't go terribly, though I wonder how the outcome would have differed were I alone. I hate the whole feeling of being bullied and can be a bit more stubborn about participating. Just when I was thinking how much fun we three American women were having collecting our weekly groceries, a slightly soaked policeman motioned me to the side. I thought he was directing me around some kind of large hole in the road. I was truly confused. It finally hit me that he wanted me to pull over and I just let the confusion take control. Sometimes it helps.
Being pulled over in Africa is not quite like being pulled over in the US. The first question my friend asked me, and even I myself for a foolish minute, was why? Because he wanted to is the obvious answer. Because I am a white woman driving. Because he can. Because it was raining and he was wet and miserable, wishing to be anywhere but on that street directing traffic. Take your pick.
My first instinct was just to keep driving. I really wanted to. After all, there are no electronic gadgets in which he could track my plate or anything like that. And he was on foot. Then again, I was in a car. I needed to consider the traffic situation in downtown Kinshasa. He could easily overtake me before the next intersection.
After that first decision, it was a series of many more, all fighting my natural inclination to be an upstanding citizen and obey. He motioned for me to roll down the window. I ignored him. It was difficult to stop my hand, but all the while my head was commanding my body in contrary ways.
He asked for my license. I didn't have one. A good thing in this case, I think, since I haven't yet switched over to Congolese. A New York license would surely have incensed him.
In the end, he asked for twenty bucks -we gave him a thousand francs (maybe a dollar fifty.) It hardly seemed worth it, to him or us.
But the latest embassy meetings have been suggesting the financial situation is getting dire, as everywhere. The police and military haven't been paid in months (or was it a year?) The gov't is thinking of just giving them a bunch of thousand franc bills to keep them happy. It seems last time they did that, the shopkeepers wouldn't accept any of it because the bills had no value. It seems last time there was some general looting and rioting over the whole affair.
So they're considering doing it again. Apparently it was 1 message not received.
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