"You, you and you." I transformed them all into doctors with a wave of my hand. "Go out and find an office." I indicated the desks and tables arranged around the classroom. My English students were studying words for the body and sickness. Half of them were to be the doctors who would set up shop and wait for their patients to arrive. The pairs were then instructed to practice lessons from the past by introducing themselves and giving some background information before explaining their symptoms.
As I circulated the room overhearing conversations and stopping to answer questions and make small corrections, I saw creativity and humor- colored in Congolese culture of course. One woman assured me her doctor was a witch. He had prescribed 5 different medicines along with some suspicious herbs to drink in a tea. All she had asked for was something to stop her diarrhea. I was impressed with the level of questioning about symptoms from her "doctor," though agreed the final recommendations seemed like overkill. She could always get a second opinion- an opportune moment to introduce this phrase. As they began to discuss the price, I moved on to another couple.
This doctor had suggested the patient see an ear, nose and throat specialist (oh, the English words I could never imagine bringing into the conversation. It's always so much more rich when they get to role play naturally.) However, the patient had only been experiencing nasal congestion for one day. I recommended a second opinion again, before paying such an enormous sum to an ENT. I'm not sure if the patients had insurance.
We moved to the round table to end our session with a final whole group discussion. I also wanted to take this time to introduce some idioms and phrases. We had decided we would look at one each session- particularly to improve the more advanced students English. I had found a few phrases relating to health. The particular page I had printed was full of color idioms ("in the pink" "feeling blue" "green with envy" etc.) I'd only intended to look at the few phrases dealing with health, but with their usual enthusiasm and insistence we ended up discussing all of the phrases.
This brought us to "black and white" as in certain issues are said to be black and white. Or more precisely, I counseled, most often this phrase is used to suggest an issue is not just black and white. I searched for an appropriate example.
"Stealing. Wrong or right?" I queried. Everyone seemed to readily agree that stealing was unacceptable. "But what if you are only 6 years old and live on the street with no one to help you. You're hungry and have no possibility to eat. Would it be ok to steal....?" I'd meant to add 'some bread or some small fruit' just to distinguish between mugging someone, but I was interrupted.
"Shegue," one of the women said. And with that word she seemed to close the subject. She wasn't seeing a child, her child, alone, cold, hungry, scared. That one word descended like a mask covering any sweet innocence with malicious intention. I simply don't believe it is there, even when they are giving me the finger and rocking my car until I think it might turn over. I don't yet have fear of them. Because I sense it is frustration and desperation that drive them. The shegue. What are they to do? How long can they endure the suffering of trying to survive every moment of every day?
"But if you had a family, hungry children at home and no way to feed them..." I tried to continue. Some others began to enter the debate and things got sticky. This is an excellent group for riling up. Our exchange is based on the fact that they are members of La Jeunesse pour Une Nouvelle Societe but they certainly seem to have a variety of views about how that society might function.
"So you see," I concluded trying to end the session, always a challenging task at best, " it's not black and white. It's a complicated issue...." They continued to discuss and murmur as they made their way into the night.
25.12.12
4.12.12
Dancing & Diving
At first glance, my two topics don't seem to have much in common. The events and even the main characters of each story are as different as I am from the citizens of my host country. But after some reflection, I've come to see the similarities between the two situations.
The first involves a concert at my favorite place, L'Halle de Gombe. They guys were psyched about seeing one of their favorite Guineen reggae stars. Elie Kamano was singing along with a Congolese singer- well, they shared the stage and at this point I can't really recall them singing a song together, but they did trade off the spotlight to each other. The music was quite lively from Elie and he had a clear message. Revolution. Apparently Elie is also know as "the general" and he made some jokes about out ranking his father, a bona-fide member of the Guineen military. But the jokes came later, in more private circumstances. On stage, he sang beautifully about the need for African consciousness and action. He said things many Congolese would be scared to say in public. In fact, while the audience clapped and screamed appreciation, very few were moved to dance.
Ousmane couldn't contain himself and made his way to the stage area within minutes. He was clearly caught up in reminiscence for his home country and over the top about hearing his language bursting from the speakers. He lost himself in wild dance movements and enthusiastic air guitar (complete with empty plastic soda bottle reminding me of the time we went to see Staff Bindi Billi.) Souleymane joined him within minutes also lost in his own reverie. Both of them were clearly in tune with the singer's message and punctuated each verse with a raised, pumping fist. Viva la revolution.
Kazadi couldn't resist joining his brothers up front for some all out dance expression, but he made sure to keep his back to the cameras. After the first few songs he moved his show off to the side and even to the back by the bleachers. "Too much filming," he told me as he continued to sway and sing and shout out encouragement. He also expressed disappointment in the lyrics by the woman singer. Apparently her message was shrouded in vague questions and disguised as a love song. "What kind of message is that?" His eyes filled with dismay. Later discussion revealed even more facts. No Congolese could actually get away with singing those words in public, and in fact, Elie has had a bit of a hard time singing those words in his own country. It seemed pure poetry to me to have him here singing on behalf of the Congolese and only fitting that other Africans would travel to Conakry to express what they could not on their own land. I was reminded of this story where
I came to see it as desperation. Which is the connection to my next story of the diving boys. It may have been on our way to the concert or another trip altogether (there have been several occurrences) when we first encountered the diving boys. They have replaced my little guys that used to sit along the median that divides the boulevard. I still recognize two of them, and they do know me. They are the two that hold their arms out trying to keep the others at a "polite" distance from the car as they ask for money.
"Mama American," they always begin while trying to hold off the pack. It's not an easy task but they do seem to have some control. Just as they seem to realize I am more likely to give over a few francs when I feel like it is my own decision and not by cohersion. Of course, there are often too many to hand out to individually and I am usually left imploring them to share. If they could find a way to live on the streets together, it would result in so much more. But that's a deep philosophy for kids who are just living minute by minute. They've developed a better tactic.
Diving in front of the car. The strategy is to crouch low in front of the wheel or even right in the middle of the car so the driver is unsure if it is safe to move forward. Cars behind don't really care for this strategy and begin honking, shouting and driving around. It definitely puts a damper on the giving spirit. But it is a sign of the level of their desperation. And so it is I came to conclude that the silent, sitting Congolese out for an evening on the town to listen to some reggae were not actually so far removed from the street kids of Kinshasa willing to do anything to gain a little bit of nothing.
The first involves a concert at my favorite place, L'Halle de Gombe. They guys were psyched about seeing one of their favorite Guineen reggae stars. Elie Kamano was singing along with a Congolese singer- well, they shared the stage and at this point I can't really recall them singing a song together, but they did trade off the spotlight to each other. The music was quite lively from Elie and he had a clear message. Revolution. Apparently Elie is also know as "the general" and he made some jokes about out ranking his father, a bona-fide member of the Guineen military. But the jokes came later, in more private circumstances. On stage, he sang beautifully about the need for African consciousness and action. He said things many Congolese would be scared to say in public. In fact, while the audience clapped and screamed appreciation, very few were moved to dance.
Ousmane couldn't contain himself and made his way to the stage area within minutes. He was clearly caught up in reminiscence for his home country and over the top about hearing his language bursting from the speakers. He lost himself in wild dance movements and enthusiastic air guitar (complete with empty plastic soda bottle reminding me of the time we went to see Staff Bindi Billi.) Souleymane joined him within minutes also lost in his own reverie. Both of them were clearly in tune with the singer's message and punctuated each verse with a raised, pumping fist. Viva la revolution.
Kazadi couldn't resist joining his brothers up front for some all out dance expression, but he made sure to keep his back to the cameras. After the first few songs he moved his show off to the side and even to the back by the bleachers. "Too much filming," he told me as he continued to sway and sing and shout out encouragement. He also expressed disappointment in the lyrics by the woman singer. Apparently her message was shrouded in vague questions and disguised as a love song. "What kind of message is that?" His eyes filled with dismay. Later discussion revealed even more facts. No Congolese could actually get away with singing those words in public, and in fact, Elie has had a bit of a hard time singing those words in his own country. It seemed pure poetry to me to have him here singing on behalf of the Congolese and only fitting that other Africans would travel to Conakry to express what they could not on their own land. I was reminded of this story where
"Young people in the eastern city of Goma took to the streets after popular folk musician Fabrice Mumpfiritsa was kidnapped after he refused to sing songs supporting Kabila. He was found three days later, legs and eyes bound and so badly beaten he had to be hospitalized."Ousmane and Kazadi spent a lot of backstage time with the group and eventually Elie and his crew were invited to our house for dinner the next night. I admired Elie for his persistence and dedication in spreading his message to other African countries (apparently DRC was one of 17 African countries on his tour) but remained caught in the idea of the power behind art. And the struggles of the Congolese to such an extent that they refused to dance.
I came to see it as desperation. Which is the connection to my next story of the diving boys. It may have been on our way to the concert or another trip altogether (there have been several occurrences) when we first encountered the diving boys. They have replaced my little guys that used to sit along the median that divides the boulevard. I still recognize two of them, and they do know me. They are the two that hold their arms out trying to keep the others at a "polite" distance from the car as they ask for money.
"Mama American," they always begin while trying to hold off the pack. It's not an easy task but they do seem to have some control. Just as they seem to realize I am more likely to give over a few francs when I feel like it is my own decision and not by cohersion. Of course, there are often too many to hand out to individually and I am usually left imploring them to share. If they could find a way to live on the streets together, it would result in so much more. But that's a deep philosophy for kids who are just living minute by minute. They've developed a better tactic.
Diving in front of the car. The strategy is to crouch low in front of the wheel or even right in the middle of the car so the driver is unsure if it is safe to move forward. Cars behind don't really care for this strategy and begin honking, shouting and driving around. It definitely puts a damper on the giving spirit. But it is a sign of the level of their desperation. And so it is I came to conclude that the silent, sitting Congolese out for an evening on the town to listen to some reggae were not actually so far removed from the street kids of Kinshasa willing to do anything to gain a little bit of nothing.
 |
| Elie at our house |
20.11.12
One truck and a bridge
I have no information about this situation. In the US, I would turn to the newspapers the next morning to find out the details. Here in Kin, there are newspapers but I don't read them much anymore. And I am unconvinced the answers to how this truck managed to be in that position would be found there. Better to strike up a conversation with passersby while taking the photo. Kin is known to be a city of rumors, but it is almost a necessity in a place where the most reliable news about what's going on inside the country comes from sources outside the country.
The biggest question, aside of course from what happened to the driver of this unfortunate vehicle (could he really still be stuck inside- a thought posed by a friend who reasoned nothing is unthinkable and with the cab smashed to such a degree, how could he possible have been extricated anyway?) the next biggest question is....how will this monstrous sculpture be removed....or perhaps will it be removed? I am remembering the hulking remains of crashed planes that line the airport runway.......supposing there is nowhere for them to go and no machine capable of removing or compacting the metal carcass. And so it remains, poised on the edge of the bridge like a giant child's gruesome toy haphazardly thrown off the edge of the road in an eerie game of Matchbox cars.
The biggest question, aside of course from what happened to the driver of this unfortunate vehicle (could he really still be stuck inside- a thought posed by a friend who reasoned nothing is unthinkable and with the cab smashed to such a degree, how could he possible have been extricated anyway?) the next biggest question is....how will this monstrous sculpture be removed....or perhaps will it be removed? I am remembering the hulking remains of crashed planes that line the airport runway.......supposing there is nowhere for them to go and no machine capable of removing or compacting the metal carcass. And so it remains, poised on the edge of the bridge like a giant child's gruesome toy haphazardly thrown off the edge of the road in an eerie game of Matchbox cars.
A small reminder
Goma is in the news again and it seems like nothing can be done to stop it. It is a recurring problem that captures little attention. The immediate repercussions in Kinshasa are small. Students in Kisangani have organized to demonstrate against the ongoing battle that has displaced thousands. This photo was posted on the LeCongolais FaceBook page with the following caption:
Students in Kinshasa from the teacher's college reportedly wanted to demonstrate but were prevented by police from gathering downtown. There may not be enough firepower in the east to control fighting, but in Kinshasa residents are caught in a stronghold. Anytime the possibility of organized and collaborating youth arises, the military come out in force.
As for those of us living comfortably on the grounds of TASOK, life continues much as usual. I sent Mohamed off to his dentist appointment with Souleymane. I finished up my schoolwork to the sounds of pouring rain and wondered if they would be able to find a taxi. Nabih played outside until he was soaking wet and we finally headed for home.
The rain continued and I had visions of Mohamed walking with an aching mouth and dampened shoes. I decided to check out a car and see if I could swoop out to offer them a ride home. As I approached the administration building where the cars are kept, I saw two blue Jeeps and the silver Everest out front. Luck, I thought. Oh then what a surprise when I went to grab a key and instead found this sign:
All the keys were missing and I was dumbfounded for a minute. The idea that I am living under the patronage of someone else is never far from me. My home is not my own, all my life changes must be reported, in a sense and approved (for contract purposes) and a loss of my job would mean a complete and total change of place. Sometimes it is easy to forget this interference in my independence and freedom. I have learned to adapt to reactions to life in the city and make my own careful way (just under the radar I hope.) I can never be far from the juxtaposition of being a foreigner (always a foreigner) protected, secured, privileged and therefore not exactly free. Thoughts on freedom I'll reserve for another post. The refugees fleeing their homes in Goma are not exactly free either, nor are their neighbors waiting for the rebellion to move in and overtake their town. Just a small reminder that freedom is relative. Freedom is as much an attitude and mental state as a physical situation.
"PHOTO DU JOUR : Le siège du PPRD brûlé ce matin par les étudiants pour dénoncer la "complicité" de Kabila dans l'agression du Rwanda à travers leurs poulains du M23. (Students have burned the PPRD building to denounce the complicity of President Kabila in the attacks on Goma by the M23 who are supported by Rwanda)"
Students in Kinshasa from the teacher's college reportedly wanted to demonstrate but were prevented by police from gathering downtown. There may not be enough firepower in the east to control fighting, but in Kinshasa residents are caught in a stronghold. Anytime the possibility of organized and collaborating youth arises, the military come out in force.
As for those of us living comfortably on the grounds of TASOK, life continues much as usual. I sent Mohamed off to his dentist appointment with Souleymane. I finished up my schoolwork to the sounds of pouring rain and wondered if they would be able to find a taxi. Nabih played outside until he was soaking wet and we finally headed for home.
The rain continued and I had visions of Mohamed walking with an aching mouth and dampened shoes. I decided to check out a car and see if I could swoop out to offer them a ride home. As I approached the administration building where the cars are kept, I saw two blue Jeeps and the silver Everest out front. Luck, I thought. Oh then what a surprise when I went to grab a key and instead found this sign:
All the keys were missing and I was dumbfounded for a minute. The idea that I am living under the patronage of someone else is never far from me. My home is not my own, all my life changes must be reported, in a sense and approved (for contract purposes) and a loss of my job would mean a complete and total change of place. Sometimes it is easy to forget this interference in my independence and freedom. I have learned to adapt to reactions to life in the city and make my own careful way (just under the radar I hope.) I can never be far from the juxtaposition of being a foreigner (always a foreigner) protected, secured, privileged and therefore not exactly free. Thoughts on freedom I'll reserve for another post. The refugees fleeing their homes in Goma are not exactly free either, nor are their neighbors waiting for the rebellion to move in and overtake their town. Just a small reminder that freedom is relative. Freedom is as much an attitude and mental state as a physical situation.
Secrets of Beauty
Pedicures, manicures, massages. All of these things belong to the world of pampering and indulgence that I know nothing about. However, wanting to seek out something special for the wedding celebration led me to investigate the art of henna. Henna has a solid history in use during weddings and other festive events. I was a bit surprised to learn about healing properties however, and especially love this quote:
Because I had my henna applied at a friend's house, I was left to awkwardly walk home with my hands held up, pointed out at elbows with palms spread wide to keep from accidentally touching anything.
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Once arriving, I was faced with my immense hunger and unusable hands. I appealed to my eldest son to feed me yogurt as I imagined the plush and pampered women of India relaxing on huge soft cushions surrounded by aunties and sisters and cousins. I began to understand the value of living in a house full of women. I do believe Mohamed's gentle yogurt feeding was a thousand times more sweet however. With each deliciously smooth spoonful I remembered feeding him in his infancy, orange sweet potatoes, green spinach and even creamy yogurt.
But forever practical (and the only female in a house full of men) I decided to forego eating more until I could feed myself. I went to lay down and "rest" feeling incredibly incapable and useless (but beautiful.....the exact combination of feelings I spent an entire lifetime trying to avoid.)
After several hours, the paste began to dry and crumble off. Every time I touched something, a shower of muddy brown flakes rained down onto the floor. I was completely appalled and traveled with dustpan and brush to sweep up the mess. I felt like a snake shedding her skin. Left behind was, admittedly, a beautiful pattern of floral lines and the all important darkened fingertips signifying a bride. I was happy with the effect and tried my best to keep as much of the coverings in place so the color would be dark and strong in the morning, when I was told it would be ok to wash. I slept with my arms held off the bed and imagined how much harder everything would be if I had been able to get my feet done the way I'd initially imagined. (Because I was at a friend's house and needed to walk home, getting my feet done proved impossible....my shoes and the walk through the damp grass would have ruined everything.)
In the morning, the bed was an ugly mess. Henna flakes were all over the pillow, the blankets and the floor. The real secret to beauty secrets is....there isn't much beautiful about them. I guess this is the "sacrifice" so many women make in the name of beauty. I swept everything up for a final time and happily went off to wash.
In the end, it was worth the waiting and helplessness. Many people remarked on my beautiful hands and I felt like a princess for a day. During a particularly hot drive to the store, a policeman pulled me over with the thought of "requesting" some "cash for a coke" but upon seeing my hands, the conversation changed dramatically and ended with an exchange of pleasantries rather than francs.
I continued searching for avocados and pineapples and began to lose patience. As a few words of mild anger passed my lips, I glanced at my hands gripping the steering wheel. "That's not very beautiful behavior," I thought and immediately searched to calm myself and match the graciousness of my palms. This seemed rather profound to me at the time and brings me back to my original quote about henna being applied to keep people in touch with their spirituality, their humanity towards others and the earth.
"Ancient Egyptians and many indigenous and aboriginal people around the world believed that the naturally derived red substances of ochre, blood and henna had qualities that improved human awareness of the earth’s energies. It was therefore applied to help people keep in touch with their spirituality."After having both hands liberally decorated, I can see the reason behind this statement. The woman who came to apply my henna was truly magical. She grasped my hand and began drawing with a pipette filled with henna. She gently squeezed out the dark brown mixture as she deftly drew designs. I was amazed that she used no reference, no pictures and no stencils. She seemed to draw quickly and effortlessly.
Because I had my henna applied at a friend's house, I was left to awkwardly walk home with my hands held up, pointed out at elbows with palms spread wide to keep from accidentally touching anything.
.jpg)
But forever practical (and the only female in a house full of men) I decided to forego eating more until I could feed myself. I went to lay down and "rest" feeling incredibly incapable and useless (but beautiful.....the exact combination of feelings I spent an entire lifetime trying to avoid.)
After several hours, the paste began to dry and crumble off. Every time I touched something, a shower of muddy brown flakes rained down onto the floor. I was completely appalled and traveled with dustpan and brush to sweep up the mess. I felt like a snake shedding her skin. Left behind was, admittedly, a beautiful pattern of floral lines and the all important darkened fingertips signifying a bride. I was happy with the effect and tried my best to keep as much of the coverings in place so the color would be dark and strong in the morning, when I was told it would be ok to wash. I slept with my arms held off the bed and imagined how much harder everything would be if I had been able to get my feet done the way I'd initially imagined. (Because I was at a friend's house and needed to walk home, getting my feet done proved impossible....my shoes and the walk through the damp grass would have ruined everything.)
In the morning, the bed was an ugly mess. Henna flakes were all over the pillow, the blankets and the floor. The real secret to beauty secrets is....there isn't much beautiful about them. I guess this is the "sacrifice" so many women make in the name of beauty. I swept everything up for a final time and happily went off to wash.
In the end, it was worth the waiting and helplessness. Many people remarked on my beautiful hands and I felt like a princess for a day. During a particularly hot drive to the store, a policeman pulled me over with the thought of "requesting" some "cash for a coke" but upon seeing my hands, the conversation changed dramatically and ended with an exchange of pleasantries rather than francs.
I continued searching for avocados and pineapples and began to lose patience. As a few words of mild anger passed my lips, I glanced at my hands gripping the steering wheel. "That's not very beautiful behavior," I thought and immediately searched to calm myself and match the graciousness of my palms. This seemed rather profound to me at the time and brings me back to my original quote about henna being applied to keep people in touch with their spirituality, their humanity towards others and the earth.
8.11.12
à distance
Many things happen from a distance....people blow kisses goodbye, keep up friendships through email and interview for jobs via Skype Video calling allows far away grandparents to "meet" their newest grandbaby, lets military moms and dads tell goodnight stories to their little ones and permits couples on opposite coasts (or sometimes even separated by oceans) to maintain their relationships- or even the most extreme: experiencing childbirth together.
Marriage is something I hadn't really considered as a long distance endeavor however. Not the "staying- together-though-distance-separates-us" kind of long distance marriage. I mean the kind where a marriage ceremony takes place but you aren't actually present. Yeah. This was news to me.
Apparently it is a common occurrence (or at least more common than I had previously thought, which was not at all.) Efforts to look more into this have lead mostly to military accounts or, in plain language, marriage by proxy. Neither link mentions African countries but I have been assured by Souleymane that this process is known to occur often in Senegal. There are a variety of reasons one might conduct a marriage by proxy and I suppose our reason is as good as any. We're both far from home.
I wanted all the details about how this magical day would take place with neither bride nor groom in attendance. Souleymane's uncle will be standing in for me and his father will be standing in for him. After arrival at the mosque there will naturally be some pleasantries. The family will exchange good greetings and news. There will be praying and more talking. Souleymane's uncle, Tonton Sao, will receive many words of advice about what it means to be a woman entering into marriage. He is expected to share this advice with me and remind me of passages from the Qu'ran that will guide me in my new role as wife. In a similar fashion, Souleymane's father will receive words of advice about what it means to be a good husband. His job is to make sure Souleymane is aware of the responsibilities of his new role. Afterward, there will be more praying and the formalizing of the contract. The family will move on to a small celebration. And just when I thought the whole thing couldn't get any more delightfully foreign, Souleymane mentioned that he hoped they would take photos. Photos? I wondered. Of what?
But of course it will be wonderful to have photos of his family and the mosque to represent the prayers and ceremony held on our behalf. What we will be doing that day? Much of the same. We will spend quiet family time together, praying, celebrating, being thankful for our union. And if we have friends around the globe, know that all are invited to raise a toast and celebrate with us.
We do plan a civil ceremony here in Kinshasa, a small party with friends in Congo and a larger affair once we can travel to Senegal this summer. But for now, we will enjoy the powerful thoughts and prayers of friends and family being sent out with intention and positivity which I imagine will meet in the cosmos and, once united, will rain back down on us in Kinshasa. We'll all be looking at the same stars and gazing at the same moon. This seems rather perfect too.
Marriage is something I hadn't really considered as a long distance endeavor however. Not the "staying- together-though-distance-separates-us" kind of long distance marriage. I mean the kind where a marriage ceremony takes place but you aren't actually present. Yeah. This was news to me.
Apparently it is a common occurrence (or at least more common than I had previously thought, which was not at all.) Efforts to look more into this have lead mostly to military accounts or, in plain language, marriage by proxy. Neither link mentions African countries but I have been assured by Souleymane that this process is known to occur often in Senegal. There are a variety of reasons one might conduct a marriage by proxy and I suppose our reason is as good as any. We're both far from home.
I wanted all the details about how this magical day would take place with neither bride nor groom in attendance. Souleymane's uncle will be standing in for me and his father will be standing in for him. After arrival at the mosque there will naturally be some pleasantries. The family will exchange good greetings and news. There will be praying and more talking. Souleymane's uncle, Tonton Sao, will receive many words of advice about what it means to be a woman entering into marriage. He is expected to share this advice with me and remind me of passages from the Qu'ran that will guide me in my new role as wife. In a similar fashion, Souleymane's father will receive words of advice about what it means to be a good husband. His job is to make sure Souleymane is aware of the responsibilities of his new role. Afterward, there will be more praying and the formalizing of the contract. The family will move on to a small celebration. And just when I thought the whole thing couldn't get any more delightfully foreign, Souleymane mentioned that he hoped they would take photos. Photos? I wondered. Of what?
But of course it will be wonderful to have photos of his family and the mosque to represent the prayers and ceremony held on our behalf. What we will be doing that day? Much of the same. We will spend quiet family time together, praying, celebrating, being thankful for our union. And if we have friends around the globe, know that all are invited to raise a toast and celebrate with us.
We do plan a civil ceremony here in Kinshasa, a small party with friends in Congo and a larger affair once we can travel to Senegal this summer. But for now, we will enjoy the powerful thoughts and prayers of friends and family being sent out with intention and positivity which I imagine will meet in the cosmos and, once united, will rain back down on us in Kinshasa. We'll all be looking at the same stars and gazing at the same moon. This seems rather perfect too.
19.10.12
État Civil
Paperwork is always a pain. There is nothing pleasurable about filling out forms and trying to find the supporting documents. Filling out forms in a foreign language is even more stupefying. Add in the foreign country/African culture factor and the usual doldrums of completing paperwork become a mysterious walk through a baffling land.
Preparing for marriage begins with paperwork. Frankly speaking, the US Embassy is hard to get to. Not physically- they have several locations around town and all are quite accessible. The problem is communication. They never seem to respond to email....or if they do, it could be months later. Remembering my advice to Souleymane about other contacts he had been trying to make, I decided to hop in the car and go downtown to ask for an appointment in person. Kinshasa does not run by phone or by internet but by face to face contact.
Passport in hand to prove my American-ness, I approached the security guard to inquire about making an appointment. He pointed out a flyer on the wall and indicated a phone number. I spoke with the man who answered and informed him that I was actually outside the door. He promised to talk with a guard and ask them to let me in. Wow. Appointment confirmed in less than a minute.
Once inside, I found the man behind the counter to be very helpful and pleasant. This is only my second experience at the embassy, in need of documents, and both times (once the appointment has been secured) have proven to be full of efficiency and politeness. Although he wasn't exactly sure what document I needed, he felt certain he could draw up a form and have it ready for me by the next morning, maybe even later that same day. He took my number and promised to call.
A mere two hours later, I received his confirmation call and made my way back to the embassy to retrieve the paper. It turned out to be exactly what I needed. A notice of non-empechement de marriage, meaning the embassy has no problems with me getting married as long as I follow the local rules.
This led to a trip to the maison de commune in Ngaliema to verify, again, the exact procedures and paperwork needed. The woman we spoke with was very friendly and remembered Souleymane right away. She invited us into the office to look at some more forms. The office had window shutters and door open with no screens. Every so often a breeze would waft past, blessing us with a moment of cool air. There were four desks crowded in there and the one we were beckoned to was actually a table stuck behind the door.
There was only one chair left and Mama Lily offered it to me. She began to explain some of the papers we needed. She even began to fill one out for us. We happily went along with this procedure until she informed us each of those papers would be $36. It hardly seemed possible. The Attestation de Residence was a badly copied form that asked merely for our name and address. Mama Lily didn't even ask for any ID, although we offered it to her at certain points for ease of spelling.
We decided to get the project du marriage paper instead as it was only $5. It has been interesting to me to hear this "project of marriage" mentioned several times. I suppose the undertaking of marriage is something like a project, but I simply never considered it quite that way. This paper outlined all of the things we would need and Mama Lily suggested we fill it out at home and bring it back when we had decided on a date. We tried to foresee all the of the questions we might have about the form before leaving the bureau and made many inquiries in hopes of achieving clarity and understanding. We never arrived at the reasoning behind buying a case of sucre, beer and whisky. Who would be drinking that and why should they benefit from our special occasion?
Filling out that form later in the evening became a project of its own. We had many questions about the parental consent part of the form (really?) and neither of us had full information about our dads. (Where did they work and when was their exact birth date? Ah yes....children of divorce.) I was stumped by the very first question which had a place to fill in your name followed by etat civil_______________. I thought the only answer here could be single (after all, if I were already married I wouldn't be filling out this form, would I?) Only later it occurred to me that in some cultures, I might actually already be married and still be filling out this form. Wow. That certainly opened my eyes a bit. I asked Souleymane what the procedure for plural marriage was in Dakar. Apparently when you get married there, you are requested to sign either monogamy or polygamy and then, if you sign monogamy, you must stick with that decision.
There was not a place to make such a decision on our form but we'd already had that conversation. We continued filling out the marriage contract to the best of our ability. The last page was completely confusing to me. None of the French words were ones I knew and I simply couldn't make any sense of it. Finally, after reading a few times, Souleymane was able to explain. It was the part of the contract referring to the DOT - wikipedia describes the dot as a gift to the family of the bride from the husband, also known as the bride price. In some countries, the future bride can make demands of her hoped-for husband about what this dot should actually be. We laughed as Souleymane and Ousmane traded dot stories from Guinea and Senegal. Most often, this is not discussed beforehand but is something the husband offers at the ceremony to the father of the bride. Depending on the offer, father reactions can be quite comical.
Ousmane was ready to jump in and accept my dot....whatever it might be.....but cannot stand in to be my witness. This is the last complication I seem to be having. According to the rules, my witness must be someone older than me. This has turned out to be an oddly difficult requirement to fulfill. Most of my friends and acquaintances here in Kin are younger than me, something I have once been criticized for but mostly pay no attention to. Added to that is the fact that it is difficult to actually know a person's age here. Age seems so fluid and relative in Africa. It most often appears a matter of convenience and choice, not stark reality.
So I am left to consider....finding a witness and pondering a dot.....
Preparing for marriage begins with paperwork. Frankly speaking, the US Embassy is hard to get to. Not physically- they have several locations around town and all are quite accessible. The problem is communication. They never seem to respond to email....or if they do, it could be months later. Remembering my advice to Souleymane about other contacts he had been trying to make, I decided to hop in the car and go downtown to ask for an appointment in person. Kinshasa does not run by phone or by internet but by face to face contact.
Passport in hand to prove my American-ness, I approached the security guard to inquire about making an appointment. He pointed out a flyer on the wall and indicated a phone number. I spoke with the man who answered and informed him that I was actually outside the door. He promised to talk with a guard and ask them to let me in. Wow. Appointment confirmed in less than a minute.
Once inside, I found the man behind the counter to be very helpful and pleasant. This is only my second experience at the embassy, in need of documents, and both times (once the appointment has been secured) have proven to be full of efficiency and politeness. Although he wasn't exactly sure what document I needed, he felt certain he could draw up a form and have it ready for me by the next morning, maybe even later that same day. He took my number and promised to call.
A mere two hours later, I received his confirmation call and made my way back to the embassy to retrieve the paper. It turned out to be exactly what I needed. A notice of non-empechement de marriage, meaning the embassy has no problems with me getting married as long as I follow the local rules.
This led to a trip to the maison de commune in Ngaliema to verify, again, the exact procedures and paperwork needed. The woman we spoke with was very friendly and remembered Souleymane right away. She invited us into the office to look at some more forms. The office had window shutters and door open with no screens. Every so often a breeze would waft past, blessing us with a moment of cool air. There were four desks crowded in there and the one we were beckoned to was actually a table stuck behind the door.
There was only one chair left and Mama Lily offered it to me. She began to explain some of the papers we needed. She even began to fill one out for us. We happily went along with this procedure until she informed us each of those papers would be $36. It hardly seemed possible. The Attestation de Residence was a badly copied form that asked merely for our name and address. Mama Lily didn't even ask for any ID, although we offered it to her at certain points for ease of spelling.
We decided to get the project du marriage paper instead as it was only $5. It has been interesting to me to hear this "project of marriage" mentioned several times. I suppose the undertaking of marriage is something like a project, but I simply never considered it quite that way. This paper outlined all of the things we would need and Mama Lily suggested we fill it out at home and bring it back when we had decided on a date. We tried to foresee all the of the questions we might have about the form before leaving the bureau and made many inquiries in hopes of achieving clarity and understanding. We never arrived at the reasoning behind buying a case of sucre, beer and whisky. Who would be drinking that and why should they benefit from our special occasion?
Filling out that form later in the evening became a project of its own. We had many questions about the parental consent part of the form (really?) and neither of us had full information about our dads. (Where did they work and when was their exact birth date? Ah yes....children of divorce.) I was stumped by the very first question which had a place to fill in your name followed by etat civil_______________. I thought the only answer here could be single (after all, if I were already married I wouldn't be filling out this form, would I?) Only later it occurred to me that in some cultures, I might actually already be married and still be filling out this form. Wow. That certainly opened my eyes a bit. I asked Souleymane what the procedure for plural marriage was in Dakar. Apparently when you get married there, you are requested to sign either monogamy or polygamy and then, if you sign monogamy, you must stick with that decision.
There was not a place to make such a decision on our form but we'd already had that conversation. We continued filling out the marriage contract to the best of our ability. The last page was completely confusing to me. None of the French words were ones I knew and I simply couldn't make any sense of it. Finally, after reading a few times, Souleymane was able to explain. It was the part of the contract referring to the DOT - wikipedia describes the dot as a gift to the family of the bride from the husband, also known as the bride price. In some countries, the future bride can make demands of her hoped-for husband about what this dot should actually be. We laughed as Souleymane and Ousmane traded dot stories from Guinea and Senegal. Most often, this is not discussed beforehand but is something the husband offers at the ceremony to the father of the bride. Depending on the offer, father reactions can be quite comical.
Ousmane was ready to jump in and accept my dot....whatever it might be.....but cannot stand in to be my witness. This is the last complication I seem to be having. According to the rules, my witness must be someone older than me. This has turned out to be an oddly difficult requirement to fulfill. Most of my friends and acquaintances here in Kin are younger than me, something I have once been criticized for but mostly pay no attention to. Added to that is the fact that it is difficult to actually know a person's age here. Age seems so fluid and relative in Africa. It most often appears a matter of convenience and choice, not stark reality.
So I am left to consider....finding a witness and pondering a dot.....
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