trees at night

because i can't be a tourist

i don't build those memories

that people collect

and store away like photographs

picture perfect snapshots
of moments that never
really
existed

music that plays
to create a false atmosphere
i look behind the curtain

because i can't be tourist
i wander around searching for something
real
seeing only beauty in the blemishes
that mark a daily life

its a photo full of shadows
that illuminates my trip
and makes me miss that spot

just outside a little house in guinea
on a red dirt road
where kids kick up the dust
in a fierce game of football

roadside stalls lit up by candlelight
where the conversation is sweet
and dull

about everything and nothing 

because i can't be a tourist

i argue with myself

about how i'll spend my days

lost in thought

a gypsy missing home

and wondering where i left it

the impossibility of kinshasa

I surprise myself
With the things I've accomplished
by myself

I want to need you
Have my soul
Cry out for you

I want to look out for each other
Satisfy my longing
Reach out to each other

But behind these walls
It is only I
behind these walls

Order of Events- -a car crash in congo

Following a crash in the US, police usually gather and try to determine exactly what happened. They may interview several witnesses, receive a variety of stories and spend some time analyzing tire tracks, paint smudges and other informational clues. In the critical seconds just after an accident, witnesses may turn into heroes or helpers as they dial 911 and provide any assistance they know how. While the police are gathering evidence and redirecting traffic, paramedics are on the scene to evaluate the injured. Firefighters or tow trucks may even arrive to clear the wreckage.

It was the evening of the Eid and we were waiting with Ousmane for the bus to the airport. 10:30 on a Friday night. Traffic was light and in Kinshasa this usually means fast. With no apparent speed limits and no way to enforce them, drivers take to driving as fast as the open roads allow- on a clear, late night such as this one, that could easily mean speeds into the 70’s or 80’s. We were standing outside the Air Maroc agency when the scraping of metal and squealing of tires caught our attention. I looked over and saw a large white SUV that appeared to be speeding away. A small red taxi spun across the road and a larger blue taxi van skidded into a turn and appeared to dump half of its occupants out the open sliding door. If the police had interviewed me then, I would have said the white SUV had something to do with the crash. Later, I wasn’t so sure. Nothing really seemed too clear. The red taxi was in a very odd position and between the three of us, we couldn’t agree on which direction it had originally been traveling.

There is nothing quite like the deep and solid thud of an impact to make your heart rise up and your pulse take notice. My stomach immediately began to churn when wailing followed. Clearly there were some injuries. Several large and angry crowds assembled, one around the people on the ground where the blue van had hit and the other around the driver of the red taxi. Police arrived on the scene, by foot, within five or so minutes. All I could think about was how out of order everything seemed to be. I knew an ambulance was not on its way. The police made their own crowd around the driver and there was a lot of hustling, bustling, and jerking going on. The driver was grabbed by his two elbows and pulled back and forth. He was dragged off in the direction of the police station a few blocks away, the red car left at an angle blocking the road.

While this was going on, an onlooker- or perhaps fellow passenger- escorted a woman across the street. She appeared to have blood on her shirt. She barely made it to the curb before collapsing to the ground. A crowd formed around her as well. While I felt a sickening resignation about the futility of the Congolese emergency system, Ousmane was busy telling us that in Guinea he could dial 777 and receive an emergency response or 1212 for an ambulance. I kept wondering how the scene would play out---do the injured ever get help? What would they do with the body of someone who died?

Back across the street, the police had assembled again, this time around a few guys by the blue van. One was clearly a kid who put up an excellent fight, received a slap in the face and remained undeterred. He was dragged down the street by three or four policeman—a completely different direction than the police station and previous driver. I could see his silhouette kicking up dirt and bouncing around as he fought the whole way. It was still not clear to me if there were more injured, if people had gotten hit by or thrown from the van or how the accident had occurred exactly. A large battalion tanker passed us armed with flashing lights and men with guns. These large trucks remind me of the boxy type of fire trucks but they are much larger, more square and drove right by the accident without the slightest concern. The injured woman continue to lie on the roadside unaided.

I felt dizzy with my helplessness and an eerie sense of distance. I watched horrifying scenes continue to play out on the now partially blocked boulevard. Taxis stopped and stalled in the middle of the road, passengers got in and out and ran across the street as SUV’s whizzed by. Life as usual, I suppose, but the dangerous stupidity of it all was so much more illuminated.

Finally, the woman was carried into a taxi with cries of “Hospital, hospital.” No one got in with her, though Kazadi had run over to the crowd twice, trying to entice action. There was no siren, no EMT team working to stop the bleeding and check her vitals, just one lone woman in a taxi that turned back across the devilish boulevard and down a dusty dirt road.

By this time, the police were now dealing with the inconvenient placement of the taxi. They had begun pushing it over to the side of the road and even lifted it together in order to straighten it out a bit. The front fender was completely smashed in and partly impeding the tire movement.

Ousmane’s bus began loading baggage and soon after he showed his documents and boarded. We waved goodbye, got in our car and began the short drive home. Mohamed was especially talkative, he gets that way when he’s trying to think something through. He was clearly as disturbed as I, though neither of us actually saw anything. It was what we didn’t see that was so troubling. Even as I write this, I feel a useless pressure just below the surface. The order of events couldn’t have been more OUT of order.

Shopping and Prayer

I have discovered a favorite new fabric store. Well, perhaps favorite is a strong word, but it is definitely a useful new fabric store. I have two now and I always visit them together. Lambada is what I consider a conservative store. It is the tried and true, steadfast friend you can call in the middle of the night if you need something and be certain to be helped. This store has many styles of fabric in a variety of patterns. It is orderly and neat with samples piled up in folded squares layed out across table after table. Prices for 2, 4, or 6 yards are clearly marked on small chalkboard signs. They have one of my favorite sections where the cloth is bundled in pairs. Deux temps. There you can find a bright and vibrant pattern paired with a solid color or you may find the same pattern but with the colors reversed. When checking out, you will first give your cloth (ironically- or perhaps arabically) to the man at the table sitting closest to the exit. From there you will work your way (backwards) to the lady on his right. She will issue you three copies of each receipt for each piece of fabric you have selected. You move on to the cashiers who are (first) next in the row. They will cheerfully take your money, provide change and stamp all three copies of your receipts, keeping one. Finally you  move back to the (end) beginning and show your receipts in order to collect your fabric, which is bagged and handed off. Music plays, providing a pleasant atmosphere and there is rarely a (long) wait.

Bizou Bizou, however, is your wild cousin from out of state who shows up and whisks you off on a spontaneous beachside vacation. I met Bizou Bizou by way of an older but fabulously dressed woman in one of the food stores. I had been noticing a particular style of fabric on many Congolese that I had previously only associated with West Africa. I had not seen this type of waxed and dyed fabric anywhere. She was standing in the checkout line just ahead of me looking beautifully regal in that Guinean way. I surprised her a bit trying to get her attention but when I began the subject of the fabric, she smiled and introduced me to Bizou Bizou.

The shop is actually several storefronts long, with large doorways open to each section. There is a curtain fabric area where you can also find soft cottons with exquistie 'African motif' patterns ( cozy blankets is how I envision these fabrics being used. When I recently bought only 1 meter for a baby blanket, I was met with an odd stare. Only 1 meter? As if...) They are dreamy and beautiful and soooo expensive.

The second entrance to the store is the equivalent of a late night dance club. The music is booming from two enormous speakers posted at the entrance. Just inside, there is a pile of fabric on the floor slightly resembling those late Ocotber NY leaf piles we used to jump into as children. Women are everywhere grabbing and pawing through the cloth. (Apparently, this is the "sale rack.") A 'DJ' stands perched on a box draped in long, flowing samples and holding a microphone. Somehow, he manages to be louder than the music. His partner stands just by the entrance, decked out in an equally comedic fashion, fabric pieces hanging toga  style. To complete the scene, scraps of fabric are being cut and tossed through the air overhead. Its electric.

It is the second 'DJ' (I can't help but to think of them this way...they dance and sing and call out price reductions with talent and energy) who is the one that will bag your purchases upon exit. He has an abrupt style, grabbing  the fabric from your hands and placing it roughly in a bag along with the customary tearing of the receipt.  Although I know this is coming, it always seems to affect me in the jolting way of a carnival ride with its jerky starts and stops.

Browsing Bizou Bizou, one can find a larger variety of fabric styles, sequins, sparkles, waxed, batik, saris, and silks. Prices are not always marked and bargaining is possible. You must first locate someone to measure and cut your fabric (sold by the meter.) Once cut, the fabric may be tossed and held by the guy at the door or  brought up to the counter. The cutter will call out the number of yards and the price per yard. Somehow, it gets written on a scrap of paper.

This day, I was shopping with Ousmane in preparation for his return to Guinea and also celebration of the Eid. In addition, a new baby had entered the world, and I was hoping to find some fabric that would enfold her with African spirit. Bizou Bizou, always packed, was especially busy today. I noticed 5 or 6 women also clearly shopping for the Eid. I found it difficult to choose items for the Soumah women and wanted to rely on Ousmane for that. It became quickly clear that that was probably a mistake. He could not recall what color they liked or generally wore. I tried to remember the few days we had spent together and also photos I'd seen. I was drawn to some deep reds with shimmering flowers. As I contemplated my purchase, Ousmane noticed someone out the back door using a plastic tea kettel filled with water to wash his hands, head and feet in the manner of Muslims before prayer. "You can wait for me? I am going out to pray." I nodded as I watched him join the man outside. While my cloth was being measaured and cut, I continued to watch Ousmane move through the ablution. He washed his hands, his head and balanced precariously on one foot while trying to rinse and wash the other. I saw a hand move in and take the small plastic tea kettle from him and rinse his feet.

This is the image I carried with me up to the overcrowed and highly confusing checkout. No three receipts here. One line, one hope of maintaining your place in  line (it doesn't exactly move in the linear fashion, its more of a squiggly line in which you hope to be pulled to the cashier by sheer momentum) and finally payment to a cashier who has magically managed to receive all of your fabric and slips of paper outlining the price. I noticed very little of this as I was spiritually still back with Ousmane, just outside the door of a fabric shop, in a foreign country while a stranger washed his feet.

Worldwide Caution

I've received my latest update from the United States Department of State Bureau of Consular Affairs. It is a lengthy caution about the risks of traveling as an American citizen. Apparently, many peoples of the world would like to do me in based upon my nationality. I receive many of these emails and texts messages from the American embassy here in Congo as well. They generally restate the fact that travel in and around Congo is dangerous. Some detail particular areas of heavy police presence or recent increase in robberies or other crimes against Westerners in a particular area. I find them akin to the evening news - only relating the very worst parts of life and rarely referring to the many positive aspects that occur more frequently.

For example, police in Kinshasa are the punch line to many a joke (shame-facedly I admit to laughing myself into tears during a recent teacher orientation exercise in which groups role-played traffic in Kin:  police bribes, the infamous "third lane" complete with sirened, presidential motorcade and a dead pedestrian lying admist traffic that barely drove around him were all spotlights of the skits,) but one rarely hears about the danger they put themselves in every day trying to direct the horrendous, complex, fast, disrespectful-of-police-presence traffic. No one commends the excellent job they do diverting 6 lanes of traffic into 1 at the notorious crossroads of the Boulevard and Justice. And I am not sure how often anyone (besides me, who has become quite conscious of fashionware in Kin---always on the look out for sappeaurs and other fancy dressers) notices the incredibly HOT uniforms they wear (LONG sleeved dark blue shirts, long pants, combat type BOOTS...oh! and if they happen to be wearing their 'riot gear' that day---add in knee pads, elbow pads, helmet......) I have gotten good directions from the police in Kinshasa, exchanged friendly banter that had me smiling as I drove away, received assistance to enter into traffic and cross an otherwise impenetrable road....It's not all bad.

But the cautions from the Department of State serve a purpose. One is to cover themselves. I believe they are willing to rescue me from minor dangers and to help evacuate my person, should I need evacuating. And if they can't fulfill these duties (in the event of death or capture) at least they can say I was properly warned. Secondly, these message serve as a reminder to be aware of personal safety at all times.

Personal safety has been on my mind a lot. Just before leaving Kin on my visit to the US I had been feeling especially vulnerable and aware of how trips out didn't seem so spontaneous and free but calculated and worrisome. More specifically, trips in the car....I have generally felt safe on foot.

I've since determined I am in the middle.  People often ask about the safety features when they hear I am living in Congo...or for those wishing to visit or new recruits to school. They wonder---Can you tavel about freely? How far out of the city can you go? What are the security risks?

It is difficult to answer questions like these because safety is a very personal issue. Everyone has a varying degree of risk that they feel comfortable with. It seems fair to say this risk is in constant fluxuation in countries like Congo depending upon recent events, personal experience and access or exposure to the various levels of rumor and gossip around town.

I've assigned myself to the risk group "middle" based on a global evaluation of basic human safety. We're all living with some kind of risk. Crime and hateful humans abound in every pocket of the world. Rural communities will always be "shocked at the heinous crime rocking this town" but they shouldn't be. They've just been living under a veil of complacency and delusion.

In the US, I gave virtually no thought to my personal safety. Some cats banging on the door in the night were the closest I came to feeling threatened. In Congo, I am aware of safety. It is something I consider nearly daily.  The actual feeling of being threatened or in danger has really only occurred once or twice and the danger level was minimal....discomfort at most. Recent stories about Sanam Gul (also Bibi Sanam) a 47 year old widow who was accused of adultery (becoming pregnant) and then shot http://edition.cnn.com/2010/WORLD/asiapcf/08/09/afghanistan.woman.killed/index.html?hpt=T2#fbid=XddCd_mtOSq&wom=false
or the woman from Guerekindo, in Central African Republic, who watched her husband and five children get tied up and taken away http://www.hrw.org/en/news/2010/08/11/cardr-congo-lra-conducts-massive-abduction-campaign have made me realize in many parts of the world, people are living in incomprehensible  states of fear and danger. My small apprehensions seem like grains of sand shaken from a toddler's shoes after a day at the playground. Annoying, bothersome but no great trouble to sweep up. Certainly not life changing.

Of course, the trickiest part of all of this is that shattering moments sneak up on us when we are least expecting them. They remind us that we can be powerless in the hands of others and ultimately in the hands of fate (or destiny, kharma, God's plan, whichever frame we are using to view the our world events.) So many stories from former child soldiers begin with idealic tales of life in the African countryside. They were walking home from school on a normal quiet day or playing with friends at the river when the unthinkable happened. The millions of women raped in the Congo begin their tale with ordinary days working in the garden, boiling water for meal preparation or washing clothes by the stream.

Occasionally, people know they are living in terror. Jonathan Kozol's book Savage Inequalities http://faculty.fordham.edu/kpking/classes/uege5102-pres-and-newmedia/Jonathan-Kozol-Savage-Inequalities-by-D-Beauford.pdf  and others targeting inner city life in the US include stories about children diving onto their living room floors (which are cleared out because all of the furniture has been moved in front of the windows) to avoid stray bullets. Sometimes, this is not enough. Their bodies are found slumped beneath beds or fallen on basketball courts, victims of misplaced hate and violence. These same children live in apartments with unchecked plumbing and unpredicatble electricity or heat. Pockets of disturbing distress exist in all countries, in villages and cities, in homes, on street corners and in temporary (refugee) camps around the world. 

These are the palces I am thinking of as I tell my boys, yes, it's ok to go out and ride your bike around campus. Even as we hail a taxi into town or walk down the hill to the vegetable market, I am aware, I am cautious and I am outraged. Worldwide caution perhaps, but living conditions for many remains unacceptable and inhuman. Where are my messages from the Department of State calling for worldwide action?

the tragedy of imagination

The euphoria from my most recent teacher training is beginning to wear off.....but there is an image that has stayed with me. It sneaks up in unexpected places---drives in the car, over the stove while I am cooking dinner, or flickering across the screen as I browse late night TV. It seems to occupy a place in the very back of my thoughts churning and tumbling in an effort to take form.

A sign of any good training is that participants are asked to create something tangible, work together to discuss ideas and use MARKERS! All of these were present at the IB training I attended in NJ. I was able to further establish my educational philosophies and develop techniques that will allow me to acheive a classroom that is consistent with what I believe education should be. And, of course, there is the invaluable experience of meeting with a variety of teachers and trading stories, methods, secrets and other fun stuff.

It was in this context that I found myself on a carpeted floor, marker in hand, writing down what I believed to be most important in developing "international mindedness" in students. Most of us came up with 3 or 4 phrases that involved similar ideas. It always seems to come down to a matter of semantics in these exercises. When I looked up to see what others had written, I saw part of a song lyric that stopped me cold. Actually stunned me into silence for a moment.

The words came from a John Lennon song...Imagine. The participant had chosen the phrase "imagine there's no religion....." I think there was probably more but I couldn't get past the last two words. No religion? Keeping in mind, I am moderate, at best, in my religious practices, I could only  think, if this small phrase had the power to block me so utterly and completely, imagine what it could do to someone more devout. Close the doors of communication with a final and resounding bang!

I understand the sentiment behind it all and certainly, clashes in religion have caused more wars and deaths than any other 'reason,' but sitting there, in the cool comfort of an air conditioned conference room, it seemed the wrong direction to be wishing in. International mindedness did not strike me as a concpet that should include erasing lines of distinction, or even worse, wishing we were all the same. I believe there was a simpler intention behind the sentiment (Can't we all just get along? type of thing) but we are so far beyond this kind of niavete---or we should be.

There is a line in the Qu'ran that points out how we were made and separated into nations. We weren't all lumped together with one language, one color, one solution to living a meaningful life. It seems unlikely that the solution to our problems, as a world, as a human kind, lies in trying to merge our varied beliefs and cultures into one or pretending them out of existence. We've had more than enough proof that fighting over these differences does not lead to stable lives, stable solutions or successful problem-solving. And so it seems all the more relevant that the IB mission includes one important statement--an acceptance that others, with their differences, might be right.

It's a powerful statement. One that, according to the presenters, is occasionally a turnoff to prospective schools who might otherwise be interested in the curriculum and methodology. It was the ultimate selling point to me. Yes, I want my children learning that there are many solutions to the same problem. I want them learning that multiple perspectives can lead to enlightment not just arguement. Yes, I want them to be interested, curious and able to understand and accept the beliefs of others without feeling a need to 'fix' or change them. I want them living in a world where there is peace not because we've erased boundaries but because we are no longer afraid to cross them.

So much of what we attempt to do in this world is motivated by an internal sense that there is one right and one wrong. It is a sense that two opposing sides cannot live peaceably or simultaneously. It is this last and most complicated sentiment that I have grappled with most, here in my latest sojourn to the US. I have felt it. Two opposing states of being existing within me at the very same moment. Learning to accept their existence, without question, dissection, or disolution has been one of the more challenging aspects of this emotion. But I've seen it can be done---and probably should be done a lot more often.

I did not take the time to engage in a conversation about the alarming message written on one corner of our group paper. From my perspective, we tread lightly around it. We had not developed the safety or group cohesion needed to engage at that level. It didn't make our final definition. But I worry about the path that educator will take---the students who will be affected by him. I have some confidence that with experience will come revision. A year in another country, another world, facing cultural surprises at every turn is certain to force a re-evaluation of the most well intentioned beliefs. Or so I really hope.Whenever I see that message, those 4 words scrawled so quickly and innocently in blue marker, I feel the same chill, the catch of my breath and the incredulous shake of my head. A world with no religion? Who would want to imagine the tragedy of such a thing?

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.