what i could have written about but didn't

completely unsatisfied with my most recent entry but unsure of how to change it...i decided just to invite you to sample the random, swirling thoughts that fill my head each day from which i try to construct coherent, interesting and descriptive sentences.   i could have written about

• a dancing pig
• the 23 year old who left it all to learn swahili and start a school
• how completely unimportant and meaningless my own personal life felt after reading that article
• oatmeal raisin cookies, homemade ice cream and teaching couple from sudan
• the 10 year old girl filled with emotion who thought her cousin was involved in congo's abusive tin mining practices
• chocolate banana cookies, homemade frozen yogurt and a neighbor
• malian women refusing their own right to speak for themselves and be educated
• the 4 year old who had an entire building of children repeating his sing song words (yes, that would be my four year old.....he's got a gift--- of some nature)
• the conservative right, as found everywhere here in drc and the vast approaches i've developed to respond and interact with them on a daily basis
• emotional uncertainty and psychological imbalance...as experienced here in drc on a daily basis (oh wait, i think my last post was about that...)
• the huge wedding? or other event held just around the corner, creating thrilling traffic scenes as drivers hauled their oversize camions into alternate lanes despite oncoming traffic (no worries, accident averted...i had at least 2 inches between my mirror and theirs)
• insects and the complete annoyance and final tolerance of finding them absolutely everywhere, surely i've eaten more than a few....am i still a vegetarian?
• the process of creative (or written!) art and how the end result often does not match our emotional journey nor our aesthetic preferences.........

Basically, I could continue but won't.
Instead, working to focus and present information (more photos pleeeze) on aspects of life as
an enfant du pays......sans le famille, sans les amies, sans l'amour, mais avec le main de dieu
raising two boys in africa, loving dance, and searching for adventure as found in everyday heroes

the stories we tell

It all started with a song. A song and an energetic yet sensual video. Sometimes these things just have to catch you at the right moment. This one did. The basic premise of this love song, set to a rhythm and blues beat backed by a vocal quartet, was 'tell me what you want.' Presumably, the sexy young singer was ready to accomodate.

But its all about timing and this particular evening, I saw much more in the lyrics. I was reminded how we all search for someone to listen to us and show interest. It is how we fall in love, by creating a story around someone and elevating them above the others. Something unique and special has made this person stand above the rest. It is easy to be seduced by the stories people tell us of ourselves and even to begin to see some truth in there. I have been struck with fascination at our human need to be validated by others. And I have been struck by our human tendancy to follow the stories. We surround ourselves with people who mirror back an image that is similar to the one we hold. Occasionally, it is possible to break free from that, to change the image of oneself and find some liberation in a new story.

This is where the song left me, questioning whether or not I am ready to believe in a different kind of reality. It is a precarious state.

With the school year back into full swing, I am feeling full of the complex and often conflicting emotions that come with teaching, and even more, teaching in an international school. I still struggle with the balance of communities...the inner, ex-pat community and the outer Congolese community. Here, there is very little mixing. I have attributed this to my often timid nature and slow pace, (it takes me forever to adjust to change and venture forward...) but I am beginning to suspect it is so much more than me. And it leaves me longing for the west, where I feel the vibrant music and strong culture could reach out to encase me.

But what do I really know of the culture here? Or even there...? I have made the on-line acquaintance of a Congolese student studying in the United States. He is intelligent, passionate, and full of hope for his country. He is an eloquent speaker and has inspired me (among so many others) to take up the cause of Congo, teaching, educating and speaking out. I am excited about what I am able to teach my students and the discussions that result. Last year, I spent a lot of time understanding the history of this country- a history that moved me to tears and inspired horror at both the abuses and my own ignorance of the facts. It is fitting then that this year I spend some time acquainting myself with the present- understanding current events, their relationship to the past and speaking out, if nothing else, with some hope for the future.

But it is easy for me to lose my focus. I am quick to fall from grace and abandon the hope inspired by this student whose passions run so deep. At times, I feel so far removed from anything useful. There is a disconnect between the enthusiasm and value I feel when teaching about Congo and any actual relationships I have been able to form. It is a strong and distant separation that has been difficult to cross. I wonder what I am doing here after all.

In my isolation, I frequently find myself contemplating this imbalance of community. What doesn't change is that I am most content when surrounded by large groups of people- who often happen to be speaking a language I cannot comprehend. It is the African house that tempts me, with its jumble of occupants coming and going, finding a way to live bound together in their desperation. Its a desperation that is visible and yet, irrelevant somehow. It soothes me to be so surrounded. Always I am left feeling content just to remain, with an odd sense that I could simply begin, right here, where I am and make up a new life.

At Stand Proud today, I was able to restore my focus. It only takes a week or so for me to come unraveled and I was in a terrible state this morning, wondering why I even go there and what was the point? Weren't there bigger things I could be doing? Or nothing at all? Nothing at all was tempting me, as desperation and uselessness sought to find a nesting ground.

I had made up some salt dough so we could try our hand at sculptures, thinking of possibly painting them the following week. No one was disappointed by the lack of legos, instead showing intense curiosity about the product I brought.

"Not foufou," I told them. "Faux pas mange." It only took one sniff to convince them not to eat the dough. With some Lingala translation help from those more versed in French, I got my point across about what they were supposed to do. Eagerly, they took up the task of creating boats, little soliders and an occasional animal.

A man was present this day that I had not seen or spoken with before. He was one of the therapists that come to work with the kids. He remarked how beneficial it was for them to be working with the dough and with their hands in general- drawing, coloring, kneading. Focus restored. Thats all it took to remind of why I go there. Small help, but help nonetheless.

I think it is in being there and feeling so at ease that I can begin to imagine my story changing. Even as I reflect on the concrete, positive effects of working physically with the material, I hold a strong belief in the development of imagination and expression. It is important for those children to be able to imagine a different life. Although I feel the steps we're taking are minute in that regard, we are taking steps. It's the hard part to remember. And I as well.

I am taking ever small steps in changing my own personal story. While I may be tempted to see this perspective from another and enticed to respond to the call to 'tell me what you want,' I know it is not sustainable. They are simply words of a story that will soon enough be tarnished, changed and forever altered. Once again I begin the solitary task of painting my own images and quieting the desire to feel relief in the words of another.

observations of a bean

This is nearly my 100th post, and I'm still not sure if I've captured Kin the way I see it. Surely it is a monumental task. Adding to it is the fact that there isn't a consistent image or experience. Life here seems viewed through a fluid, molten mask that offers an ever changing perspective based upon so many arbitrary details.



What I noticed most about my return was the darkness. As we drove along the candlelit streets, I felt enveloped in darkness. It was not just without but also seemed to seep within to my very core. I could feel it changing me. When I returned home, my house appeared too dimly lit. I turned on as many lamps as possible with no relief. I found it difficult to adjust. Even the daylight did nothing to alleviate the sense of closing in and closing down. The sky brightened only to a mellow gray, never revealing the warmth of its sun or the blue promise of hope. Returning felt a bit dismal.



But with some reflection, I now view this as a necessary transition to a slower pace. One I was less aware of on my first arrival. This was not a new trip, filled with awe inspiring images and unique experiences. This was a return. There was a rhythm waiting to find me and welcome me home. I needed to slow down to hear the songs around me. I needed quiet lights that would not blind me from the magic and the messages resonating from the earth, the air, the very space and time and moment that I occupied.



Here life requires a different way of interacting with the world, a softer, gentler pace. It is a way of being that cringes under the harsh, flourescent brightness of artificial light. It was a drastic contrast to the me that had existed only a day before.



Even now after four weeks, I am still adjusting. Before I left Africa, I was full of fervor- painting, drawing, writing. Music pushed me to an emotional edge that I happily tumbled over. Upon my return, I have yet to dissolve into that timeless void of creativity taken hold. In an effort to stay the isolation and lonliness that frequently plagued me last year, I've filled my days with work and obligations and occasional social visits that leave me longing for solitary reflection and contemplation.



I'm still working on the balance. A neighbor asked me to drive her to the vet this morning and I had time for reflection while I waited in the car. Everything I saw came as pages in a sketchbook and my fingers ached for a pencil, a piece of charcoal, anything to scratch with.



It was a moment to become reacquainted with the Africa that enchants me and the part of myself that is free enough to be enchanted. I watched a young girl learning to balance an empty bucket. As it began to tilt to the side, she stooped, careened, caught it and turned the whole thing into a dance step. She was clearly enjoying herself. When she returned with the bucket full of water, she did not lose her playfulness and managed a bright and cheerful grin at passersby who caught her in the act of dance and practice.



I watched the early morning routines, washing and brushing, taking place outside as they do in Africa. It is the dark interiors and lack of running water that bring families out to prepare for their day. Nothing is hidden. It is the openness and unabashed frankness of the routines that speaks to the timid, shy part of myself. The part that prefers to hide away in brooding silence. There is no space for that here and I let it wash over me, a welcome nourishing rain of acceptance and being.



I saw a young boy sauntering down the road, combing his hair and feeling good. I watched a father and his sons run up and down the hill, getting in their morning excercise. Two little girls were playing a game that consisted of climbing up the rocky side of their porch without holding on and trying not to fall backward. They jumped and grinned and pantomimed with energy and passion, congratulating each other on their accomplishment. When they ran over to some discarded potato chip bags, I could not tell if they were cleaning or using the refuse for play. One of the girls abandoned the task to carry a jerry can of water to the porch. Her body drooped and sagged with the weight of it, but she shuffled along until she could deposit the load. She returned to her friend, silvery bags now forgotton, and the two girls ran off holding and pulling each other, giggling with conspiracy, chip bags left in their dusty wake.



To accompany this festival, across the street an older boy stood propped against a lamppost. I couldn't have waited for more than 15 minutes but he sang (to me?) the entire time. He had a sweet, deep voice that was the perfect backdrop for the small bits of daily life that played so poignantly before me. Beside him two younger boys dissected flaps of cardboard, inspecting their strength and potential. With a final slap, one of the boys gathered his cardboard and glided up the hill, singing in a voice completely at odds but some how complimentary to the original serenader.



I don't know what it is about these simple scenes that tug at me and seduce me so. I wanted to remain, caught up in their comings and goings. Caught up in my obserations. Completely lost in the state of simply being.

Almonds

Returning to Africa was nothing like I expected it to be. I stayed in New York for four weeks and it wasn’t until the ride to the airport that I began to wonder if I could just melt back into that world. As I watched families on vacation towing eight foot campers stacked with bicycles and other symbols of leisure, I seriously began to consider the possibility of blending in to this lifestyle…becoming oblivious again and enjoying selfish comforts with my family.

I sat in the parking lot of a rest area, contemplating this. I was trying to convince myself that it didn’t have to be way I was making it out to be. The sun glinted off the cars, creating a dazzling rainbow of metallic colors. I gazed at a couple picnicking under a tree and searched for a different perspective of the American life overflowing with material wealth and abundant luxuries. Almost. I could almost envision a life basking in the Florida sun (I know I am not ready for another New York winter…) watching my children run and play and grow carefree. Before I could be completely seduced by this idea however, I realized it would only be a matter of time before my mind would wander across the ocean in search of something more.

More what? That is the question that remains….but I felt resolute and determined in my return. I had a clear image of how it would transpire. So I was surprised when I landed at Charles de Gaulle (if you’ve been there, you wouldn’t be…) and felt annoyance creeping up. Certainly, I had been traveling all night with two children in the smallest of spaces. It’s not a situation apt to produce cheeriness in the best of us. But things started to get to me.

Things like the mass of people that formed when boarding was announced. No orderly line of consideration and patience here. No children and elderly boarding first. Just a massive lump of people all rushing and cramming forward oblivious of each other. I felt slightly better once aboard the plane. Although there was a definite situation there (someone was being restrained and crying out in fear and terror,) people were concerned and involved. Suddenly, a community.

Flights to Africa are not quite like flights to any other destination (although, admittedly, I haven’t been to a wide variety of places.) You can always tell when you’re on the last leg of the journey. Passengers remain in their seats long enough for the plane to get into the air. After that, it’s more like a cocktail party. People mill about the cabin, visiting each other and getting drinks. A crowd assembles in the back near the snack cart. It felt familiar, comforting even.

But when we arrived at Ndjili, the aggravation retuned. I found myself bothered by bad breath and incensed by the inconsiderate ‘line.’ Even worse, this time we were meant to board small buses that would ferry us across the tarmac to the customs agents. I was actually nostalgic for the rigid military line we marched in during our previous arrival. The air was cool and I missed the warm heat I had anticipated would envelop me. As I shivered in the night, I imagined one of the boys making it on the bus and waving at me through the window with his face pressed against the glass as we were separated.

The customs line was long and slow but actually queued. We made it through with nary a glance, even a welcome hello. I was glad to see the school’s protocol waiting for me because after 24 hours of travel, I was definitely not ready for the battle of bag retrieval and customs bargaining. He took care of everything while we waited outside.

It wasn’t until later that I began to notice other signs. Sometime mid-day, completely jet-lagged and disoriented, I stumbled up to the main office to snag a car and stock up on some groceries. The fact that I could navigate the unmarked boulevard downtown without crossing into oncoming traffic despite my state of half-sleep was a sure sign that Kinshasa had grown on me. I even managed haggling for vegetables at the market. I began work in my classroom the very next day with a calm and relaxed, perhaps even distant, approach.

Sometime around the sixth day, while accompanying a friend on another grocery trip, it finally hit me. We were in one of our favorite shops buying $13 bags of almonds, which we were going to share until finding out how ‘reasonable’ they were. That freed us up to split a $25 bag of walnuts. She passed the freezer and murmured….”Look, $10 ice cream.”
“Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?” I asked her as I gave the bag of walnuts a violent shake. She nodded her head and laughed as I realized we were seriously afflicted with second year syndrome.

Tired of doing without, we promised to buy all the crazy expensive luxury items we had foregone…cheese and nuts and heavy cream to make my own desserts with. I could even imagine myself splurging on the occasional $16 pint of strawberries. Well, almost. We kept small francs ready to give to hungry children as we rode with our windows down. It felt so liberating to free myself from the shackles and constraints of money. I know it will catch up with me…in fact it already has a bit. The strawberries are definitely out, but I might splurge on the almonds again. They take granola to a whole new level. I’ve practically forgotten about the eight foot campers and the parking lot full of flawlessly painted vehicles. I don’t need to be whisked off on a vacation that costs more than most Congolese earn in an entire year. I have almonds. And for some reason, that is satisfying to me. I am happy to be returned.

Death of a spider

I've lost another friend this week. She was a distant friend, to be sure. Having made her home in the uppermost corner of my bathroom ceiling, we never came into close contact. I did gaze in her direction several times a day, checking to be sure she was still in presence (and also, I admit, that she wasn't about to fall on me, being right over the doorway as she was.) She did come down once or twice, for food I imagine.On one occasion I had the chance to see her at eye level. She had stopped in the outer edge of the molding, just by the light switch. I thought she was leaving us, but I found her later that evening in her familiar spot.

I am not a great fan of spiders and certainly never had the desire to pet her or touch her. On the contrary, I often imagined the terror and hysteria I would feel if she fell on me. Actually, I did wonder if the fondness I felt for her would alleviate some of that. I think I was trying to make it a true fondness- to cement our relationship.

All the while I was wondering about the meaning of so many spiders in my life. Not just passing through or scurrying along the woodwork but really present. I did not give her a name. (She was not nearly as fascinating as Rock Star, having no web, although I did witness her munching a rather large cancrelat) But I gave a lot of thought to what message I could derive from their presence.

I searched through the symbolism of spiders in myths and lore. Several relevant topics came to light (things always seem relevant when we are looking.) Spiders are often meant to depict creativity and wisdom, as well of course, as trickery and aggression. All of these things have a potential meaning to my life and I could pick any one of them to see a messge in. And for awhile I did enjoy a subtle meaning from each of them.

It was only later, while reading a children's story to the boys, that I found a completely satisfying connection. It came when I wasn't even looking, the way all the best revelations come. We were reading the story of Mohamed and his escape from Mecca. While traveling with Abu Bakr towards Medina, pursued by enemies filled with bloodlust and hate, Mohamed took shelter in a cave. Allah caused a spider's web to cover the entrance to their cave and this natural camouflage (along with a nesting bird in a nearby tree) was enough to convince the warriors that the cave was empty.

Staring at me from the page was a simple spider's web. It all seemed to connect, in one perfect moment. The story, from A is for Allah (by Yusuf Islam,) was contained on a page about the hijrah or the journey from one place to another. In the case of Islam, it was the journey of Mohamed seeking a place to worship Allah freely. It was a journey of sacrifice and new beginnings. For the people of Medina, who not only welcomed Mohamed and his followers, but agreed to give half of their belongings the emigrants who had come with so little, it was a moment of acceptance and transformation.

With this new thought behind my little friend in the ceiling corner, I had a lot to ponder. So I was a bit disappointed to return home yesterday and find her missing. I had expected it would be coming, spiders don't live very long. But I missed her immediately. And then a thought occurred.

I checked with Mama Vero to be sure. "My friend is gone, hey?" I asked. She hesitated. I knew.

"Did you like her?" Mama Vero could never really understand my tolerance of all the spiders around our house. The story slowly came out that it was an untimely death. A killing. A murder. I was truly crushed. Somehow, even ridiculously so, I felt like I had betrayed my spider friend, left her unprotected. Perhaps there is a message in here as well.

Mama Vero laughed at my dismay, but I am left feeling profoundly sad over the death of a spider.

the lion's den

As with all good journeys, there must be a return. As we draw ever closer to our return, I find I am completely unprepared. I have become used to thinking in a myraid of languages and using whichever word pops into mind at the time. I enjoy the peaceful calm that comes from knowing exactly how I do not belong. And I have come to approach every situation with an equal mix of curiosity, understanding and mystery. It suits me.

That is not to say I will not enjoy the physical pleasures of life in the states. Consistent electricity and reliable running water are sure to be comforts. But, in the oddest of ways, I will feel disconnected and out of touch. I will be back to feeling like I cannot do anything there. I cannot do enough (irrationally so, as I realize many people are doing great things there, originating projects that reach across oceans, over mountains and beyond borders...)

I realize I have never truly understood this aspect of myself, however. How is it that I am so deeply affected by the woman and her children living outside (for three months!) Why have the young Somali men, boys really, who each lost one hand and one foot, invaded my thoughts nearly every waking moment since reading their story? (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8118306.stm )
I don't understand how these things get inside of me so much that I can feel their fear and hear them calling out. I see them sleeping as I sleep, their lives forever changed.

Yet, even more than the mystery of myself is the mystery of others? Why doesn't everyone lose sleep over these things? What kind of place the world could be if we were all spending our nights tormented by the injustices. But I know how it happens. It happens because it must.

I recognize this as akin to the loss of my children. When it hits me, it is a completely overwhelming and all consuming grief. It is nothing I could sustain however, having long since developed a way to endure, to bury this torment so I might attend to daily tasks of living. But you can never adequately grieve a distance such as this and it is here I remain. It will be a small thing that throws me off, a motion in Mohamed reminiscent of Mason, a slip of my tongue or a flippant email reminding me how trivial my role in their lives is.

We cannot sustain the horrors of this world and continue to build our daily lives, celebrating the personal gains and growth of the ones we love. But every so often, a case will stand out, touch us in a way that is more severe and push us into action. So I am left these days merely questioning myself. What is my own action against the suffering I see? Living here I am constantly on the edge of some overwhelming emotion, being moved to tears, whether they be of beauty, humility or sympathy. A trip back is not going to change this.

And that is not even the real hesitancy behind my return. I know that as much as I've changed and grown, it was all expected and welcome. I've never viewed my journey here as anything other than a homecoming. Africa did not let me down.

This return is more like the obligatory visit to a family that holds you in hostility and contempt. Somehow, the mountains that once comforted me seem foreboding in their ability to judge. I have found a freedom here, a liberation I am not ready to concede.

The way back seems littered with dark, stormy memories. This trip resembles so many other trips back. I do not rush into the welcome arms of a lover, but tread ever cautiously, watching all sides, wary and unprotected. Powerless. Moving into the lion's den.

Commercial district

Ever in search of clean water, I was on my way to buy more PUR packets for distribution to Vero. I thought that, since she has a tap of running water in her yard and I’ve seen some neighbors come to get water as well as the soda and pop she sells, if I could get her hooked on using the packets, it might benefit the whole neighborhood. (I’ve since come down from my lofty cloud but you know, it never hurts to dream.)

Albert has told me to come to the PSI office anytime and pick up a box. This office sits on a relatively nice, paved street. It is wide enough for two lanes of traffic and a row or so of pedestrians to manage without getting in each other’s way. However, those in the office inform me they are out of boxes and send me to the commerce district to ‘any pharmacy’ that will have some.

Rue de commerce is organized that way. All the pharmacies are in one cluster, then the hardware stores, and the fabric shops, etc. Everything grouped together by product. It turns out that none of the pharmacies had whole boxes available either, but what a series of adventures to discover this.

The streets themselves, adventure one. They quickly turned from fairly smooth and paved to swelling mounds of packed earth more reminiscent of a dirt bike race track than a ‘rue de commerce.’ Aside from the frequent ups and downs, there are people and pushcarts to avoid. Many of the carts are loaded with goods higher than my car. Up to four men might be struggling with one in order to get it to navigate the hills and valleys and avoid the outright ditches.

Second adventure- leaving the car. The streets are swarming with people, mostly men, sitting, watching, waiting. They have been eyeing me from a distance and I know they will be ready to pounce as soon as I step out of the car. I really don’t want to go into the ‘pharmacy’ I’ve happened to stop in front of. It is small and dirty and crowded. Outside a line of older men loiter with nothing to do except gaze in my direction. Inside, behind the counter the clerks are wearing face masks. In a corner a woman sits on the floor counting out pills into a small plastic baggie. On her lap is a basket full of unrecognizable remedies. The entire scene makes me feel like fleeing.
As expected, a young someone has attached himself to my elbow, completely intruding on my business. No pharmacy privacy act in effect here, that is for certain. He listens to my request so he will be ready to provide any small amount of assistance which I could easily perform for myself. Such as finding my way across the street to another pharmacy when this one does not have what I want.

Actually, although I consider it for a moment, I am happy enough to have him accompany me. I can hear the shouts of ‘Mondele! Mondele!” rise above the general din of the busy streets. It is a cry that always generates an initial, somewhat comical urge to run and hide. Everyone should have to feel this way at least once in their lives. Trapped inside your own skin, wanting to get out.

Someone tries to join us and I am satisfied to already be “taken,” having developed a slight preference for my guide. He leads me into another ‘pharmacy,’ this one more open and bright. I am nearly standing outside as I place my request. I appreciate the openness, having felt completely closed in within the dark, blue painted cement of the previous shop. My guide ‘translates’ my order, though we are all speaking French. I understand it to be part of his job, doing things for me that I can do for myself. I collect my purchase and he walks me back to my car, all the while questioning if I’ve been able to buy the quantity I was looking for and assuring me he would be happy to run off in search of more. No, I thank him and tell him I am finished for this day. I give him the obligatory tip- too much but still just about one dollar- and settle back into the car for adventure number three.

How do I get out of here? The commerce area is a veritable maze of shops and people, push carts and animals. Somewhere in here is the Grande Marche and I know several of the roads will lead to that dead end. A small group of men have begun to bang on the window, demanding money and so I choose to drive straight off rather than execute a timely turn. I always believe the people on the street to be much faster than my car could ever go. It is better to just get out rather than wait for them to gain force in numbers.

My desired path is cut off by a huge lake of water. Another man overtakes the window, jogging along, tapping and talking. I make all decisions by instinct (l’aide de Dieu) and crack the window slightly to hear him. He is friendly, encouraging and helpful. He gets me turned around, provides directions de sortie, and wishes me bon journee, with a fairly beautiful smile.