Magic chalk

Just when I had vowed to get back to some kind of regular writing, I was attacked. It was a big nasty Congo sickness attack that pulled me under for more than a week. In fact, just now, I feel it threatening to come back again.

In general, I am a pretty healthy person. I try to eat well, exercise often and think naturally. But it seems one can't really avoid sickness altogether in Congo and of course the problem lies in the fact that getting sick in Kin is not something you can just ignore. Because it could be malaria, a dangerous amoeba, or just the flu. Or an amoeba from last time that you never quite got rid of.

A malaria test is pretty simple to get here and you can even buy a test-yourself-at-home kit in the pharmacy. I elected to run down to the corner clinic and get a quick pinprick. A follow up telephone call a few hours later  informed me that I tested negative for malaria. But my body was screaming out all kinds of fever and pain and nausea. I wasn't really convinced.

Africa has some very intense shots. I have had the "fever shot" twice now and it is a wonderfully powerful thing, even with my aversion to doctors and medicines. A friend of mine called his doctor friend who actually made a house call to me in what felt like the middle of the night. Come to think of it, the last time I had this fever shot, it was also by house call. I was in Kankan, Guinea at the time and something about the red dust there seems to render all visitors ill as part of the welcome package.

The nurse- who arrived with the doctor and a little silver tray filled with new syringes, medicines and a blood pressure cuff- took my vitals and shot my backside with the marvelous elixir. While my fever dissipated and I spent a night of good, deep sleep I wasn't really better at all the next day. My stomach was in a terrible state of dry heaving and nausea.  It no longer felt like malaria but a dreaded stomach virus.

I slept the entire day, being washed over with wave upon wave of dizziness every time I opened my eyes. I made a trip to the see the doctor at his clinic this time, and was promptly given an IV. Every sickness in Congo seems to require an IV and of course, its always malaria. Even when it's not. I tried to insist that I'd had the test and it was negative. I tried to insist that it just didn't feel like malaria, but I made little progress. Its always malaria. The tests themselves are often considered unreliable or uninformative- or so I've heard. I've always had good faith in the lab I go to.

However, I was given some quinine (by IV drip of course) which only increased my dry heaving. My friend who accompanied me fell into further shock and panic at watching my efforts to heave the empty contents of my stomach, and perhaps parts of my stomach itself, steadily increase. Eventually he convinced the nurse to take out the drip- the bag had nearly but not quite finished- and we made a hasty retreat back home.

The next morning I was feeling better- slowly better. I had resorted to eating small snacks like potato chips and crackers every hour to calm my stomach. As long as I did that, I was able to walk around and even go to work again. It went on that way for days- each day slowly improving while I munched my way through the entire junk snack section of the corner store.

But then the itching started. Perhaps a side effect of the quinine. There are always side effects. And the itching was so intense it woke me up one night at 1 am. I spent a delightful hour scratching my legs, my abdomen, my back, my arms. Just clawing like a cat and swept up in the pleasure, pain and surrealism of it all. I woke in the morning wondering if it hadn't been part of some bizarre dream. I could almost feel my tail twitching and the taste of fur in my mouth.

The itchiness went on for a few days, becoming more and more inconvenient. I'd begun to self medicate (another must for sickness in Congo) and had taken Zentel (in case of worms or bacteria) and a few antibiotics (in case of other stomach parasites or the dreaded amoeba). I stopped the antibiotics after only a few days because of other unpleasant side effects. (There's always side effects.) I'm not actually sure if the itchiness was related to the quinine, the amoxicillin, or something else altogether. My friend noticed the scratching and suggested a local medicine. (There's always a hidden local medicine that's bound to do the trick.)

It looked like this, but it's not this.....yeah. 

It came in the form of a yellow rock (I've searched everywhere for the name of this magic chalk, but I simply cannot find it.) The rock is crushed into a powder (it's only 300FC so you have to do your own crushing) and is safe enough to eat. "You can even eat this, super safe, super strong but wouldn't harm a baby," I'm told as he takes a nibble off the rock. I am immediately in love with all the paradoxes of this material, which is said to come directly from the Congo River itself.

The powder is mixed with oil- my friend insisted on the oil "that you cook with" but I eventually talked him into using some almond oil I have for mixing essential oils with. Seemed better for my skin. This chalky oil mixture is then rubbed all over the body, leaving, well, a chalky oily glaze on the skin. "Don't wash that off," he implored. The smell of this substance, not altogether pleasant, only slightly unpleasant was- of course- one side effect. The other was the satisfying sensation of rubbing oneself with a rough, course substance (which in itself might be related to any relief of the itchiness one is already feeling.)

I was then instructed to take a teaspoonful of the powder, swallowed with water and repeat the next day. I've been assured all itchy sensations will disappear. I have noticed a distinct reduction in my discomfort and feeling a lot more human like and less cat like for certain. Right now, I'm just waiting for some other side effect to show itself....or maybe the amoeba to wake up back up....

Rebelle..times 10

I began watching Hotel Rwanda again...just to remind me. Sometimes a good film can transport you from the everyday into reality. Sometimes I need to remember what reality is for others. And as the film began, I thought of the need for films like that about Congo. Films, novels, children's stories. Anything and everything to make the people remember. And not even remember, but to know. The reality that continues today. Right now. Because I've been here for five years already and it remains the same. I see myself become complacent. I know that story- about the women in the east, about the children too young to see the things they do.  I know that story but what am I doing about it?

People have heard about Rwanda. They've heard about Darfur. But I'm not really sure they've heard about Congo. As I am watching the film, I remember Rebelle....War Witch, in the English title I believe. An amazing film. A Congolese actress from the streets of Kin who won an award even. But I'm still not sure people know about Congo.

The group I have been dancing with would like to celebrate their first anniversary by holding a fundraiser for the women and children in the east. A noble jest, as it is explained in French. It makes good sense- our group of women who come together to find strength, courage and community in dance. We want to show our support for women who need strength, who need courage and who have been let down and abandoned by their communities.

Big names can dot it. Eve Ensler held a dance in the streets for women. One Billion Rising. Even Kinshasa had a chapter.  Angelina Jolie has been traveling. And the word is- people need to take her seriously, although I find the picture of the woman sleeping next her really explains it all. Can any American female imagine taking a nap while sitting next to Angelina? Really? But were we to walk a day or two in the steps of that woman, filled with her memories, her struggles, her impossible view of the future, we might find Angelina a bit irrelevant as well.

But big names do draw publicity. They bring news and public interest and hopefully a bit of awareness. Perhaps I was a bit naive to think a small group of women here in Kinshasa could do the same. We've been trying to organize a dance event with our instructor since January. Myself, I was inspired by the youth in Kisangani who rallied together to present a concert for peace as well as the Eves and Angelinas of the world. We are women, and we want to support our sisters.

Organizing a concert in Kinshasa is not as easy as one might think. There is the problem of space, of parking, of inviting the people who are wealthy enough to donate but not so wealthy that they've already closed their eyes to situations they know too well. It's about attracting the people who need to know more and the people who care. Its about inviting the artists who can send a message and presenting an image of strength, solidarity and compassion. And its also about finding a way to do this on a shoe string. Because, franchement, we're not Angelina Jolie. We are a group of women led by a Congolese artist- from Brazzaville, a refugee of war with bullet scars to prove it- who wants to use his talent to support the women of his sister country.
 
To be sure, the women who attend weekly classes belong to the middle class. They have contacts. And we've been trying to exploit this- true Kinshasa style. True to business anywhere. It's all about the networking. Our efforts have led us down many many roads - many expensive roads- before arriving at a real possibility in negotiating with the Grand Hotel.  This appeared to be a lucky break. A soirée at the Grand Hotel could bring the kind of people who can really donate, who would think nothing of parting with a hundred dollars or so for the sake of an elegant evening and a good cause.

The hotel asked for a paper of confirmation from the Hospital Panzi, where we planned to donate the money. The hospital has made recent news concerning Doctor Denis Mukwege and his assassination attempt. Perhaps we aimed too high, because, although the doctor has returned home,  the hospital has yet to get back us. About whether or not they'd like to accept our donation. Which complicates things when searching for donors.

It's not the first time I've had this experience in Kinshasa.  The experience of trying to give money to people who may not actually be ready to accept it. In this case, however, I was doubly surprised. I guess you can never really get used to the way things work in Congo. Often without logic or reason, but with some kind of synchronicity that can't be counted on or determined. A charity that may or may not accept your gift.

The paper of acceptance is important because, as one hotel worker responded, "So many people talk of the women being raped in the east. But how can it really be possible? All those soldiers....acting like that all of the time. How can it be? It's probably just another scam to get money...."

This was one perspective I'd never really considered. That the Kinois themselves would consider it all a ploy for others to hold fundraisers and pocket the money. But of course, suspicion and connery abound in Kin's "every man for himself" atmosphere. Making it ever easier to believe the cry for the women and children of eastern Congo is but one more scam in the effort to line personal pockets with gold.

While our plans have not yet been realized and the evening of dance and art remains, as yet, uncertain, perhaps any money we raise would be more productively spent on films, children's books, pamphlets, and photos to be distributed on the streets. Because awareness starts at home. And the Kinois need to be the first to rise up for their compatriots, their sisters and children who are living the unimaginable. We need Rebelle times 10. So people remember. 

Dancing with Yourself

Although Kinshasa is known for its nightspots, I admit to not being well acquainted with this side of the city. But it is not completely foreign to me either. I had been feeling like I'd seen enough to think its pretty much all the same.

Last weekend, however, I had a chance to check out a new spot- well, new to me. The music was loud and the globe lights were spinning. I was immersed in visions of a similar club I'd entered and immediately turned around and left. This time I figured I'd give it a try, though any hopes of conversation seemed dashed by pulsing rhythms. I settled back, as much as one can do in a bar stool, and watched the dancers through the mist spewing from the smoke machine.

Their movements were not the crisp, clean kind I am accustomed to seeing in dance classes. They lacked energy and abandon, though one woman on the floor had an admirable style and seemed to emminate joy. The steps were slow and subtle in that way that Congolese dances sometimes have. But what struck me most was that all of the dancers were facing the wall. They were lined up on the small, wooden dance floor staring into the full length mirrors that filled one entire side of the dance area. Even the those who were clearly there with partners. They didn't look each other in the face but watched their movements and shared laughter with reflections.

Just when I thought I had finally conquered my fear of dancing in public (yes, I have danced in public!) "There is really no way I could dance with myself in public," I immediately thought. One of the ways to get over my fear of dancing in front of others is to simply forget whatever I might look like and simply try to feel the music. Ha. Try doing that when everyone is facing an imposing panel of mirrors. Mostly they were staring at themselves but occasionally having eye conversations with others as well. I laughed at bizarre-ness of it all.

Then I realized that perhaps it wasn't so odd. You would never be without a partner, dancing with yourself. You would forever be copying your own movements. Gone is the idea that you would be the only one doing that somewhat complicated and risque movement on the floor. No, you would always have a partner- whatever your dance style- the perfect cavalier, completely in sync with you, perfectly complimenting whatever you do. "Maybe there is something to it after all," I began to think, safely, singly, from my bar stool.

african dreams

What's the scariest thing you've ever seen? As a mother some of my most terrifying images are not of things that have actually happened, but of those moments of potential. That breathtaking, heart stopping moment before something happens. As of yet, luck has held us in the potential, and events have turned in such a way that we have managed to avoid calamity. But even now, more than ten years removed from some of those incidents, the imagined vision of what might have been still holds the power to quicken my pulse and cause a sharp intake of breath.

I write "as a mother" but I could easily write "as a woman." Because women are in the unfortunate position of being witness to some of the scariest things. I write that with the idea of war in my mind. I know. Men are most often the ones who go to war, who witness killings and death up close and personal. But if you have lived in the scariest things part of the world, you know what's most often horrifying doesn't come with the chaos of battle. It comes in bright sunlight, when you are least expecting it. It creeps in stealthily with a slow motion that gives you  enough time to imagine the most frightening outcome and all the ways you are powerless to stop it. The scariest things freeze you in that dream state where screams are never voiced and moving with any sense of speed or control becomes a futile effort. The scariest things leave you lingering in that haze long after the day has dawned and dreams have been put to bed.

Sometimes the scariest thing you've seen hasn't really happened. You just wait in anticipation of it. Every moment rigid, every second tense, caught in a perpetual 'flight' mode. Because everyone knows you never escape the monsters in a dream. The only thing you can do is just wake up. And if you're already awake?

Truth?

The kids are fond of posting this on FaceBook. Truth. One word- a question, an invitation. This post is often followed with what's meant to be real sentiment. A private emotion. Vulnerability. They label it truth almost as a disclaimer or warning of sorts. "Don't blame me (judge me, hate me, love me) for what I am about to say, it's just the truth."

When this post takes the form of a question it becomes an invitation not only for feedback, but a request to share your real self. Who are you? And what do you think of me? I am mid-decision about whether this is a viable way to get real feedback from your friends and acquaintances. I remain stuck in the middle because I wonder which truth the writer or the requester is referring to. The truth of this moment or the truth in place that existed before? Or perhaps it is the truth of tomorrow? I resist the urge to take part in these exchanges of truth because I doubt the existence of a real truth but see ever changing versions of a momentary reality.
 

The truth about this house? At one time it was palatial, grand, full of elite. At one time it was home to gatherings and parties of the most important, influential and prominent people in power. Move forward slightly in time and we can witness the truth of its destruction and pillage. Military and police swooped in, grabbing whatever was seen as valuable and plenty that was not. From furniture to fixtures the house was reduced to a mere shell of the opulence and beauty that had been its reality only months and weeks and days before. In the present? The house is filled with a sparse collection of renters, each in their own rooms with their own cook stoves and their own systems for washing, cleaning and preparing for the day. It is slowly being repaired, dreamed about, built up perhaps not quite to its former glory but to something respectable.

The inner foyer (yes, we'd already entered the main front door)

I imagine another truth standing beside the story of this house. And that is that its not alone. There are many of these houses, once a symbol of a burgeoning wealth destroyed by the frustrations of the common people and now cautiously being returned with hope and optimism for the future. I imagine many of these houses, standing empty, neglected and barren, their owners having fled to comfortable European safety.

Neglected swimming pool- a science experiment of its own

The truth I don't have to imagine? The homeless of Kinshasa, wandering streets in darkness and rain, searching for shelter.

View of the city from the backyard

An African Fairy Tale

He was on the beach, a place he particularly liked to go in the evenings. Looking out over the ocean off to the horizon inspired a kind of hope in him. Somehow the vastness of the water seemed to bring the rest of the world closer. Anything was possible, and it was possible out there in the world. Somewhere where dreams come true.

It was here on the beach that he met her. Not the woman of his dreams, not his future wife or mother of his children but suitable. Interesting enough for the moment. They shared  laughter, a sunset and visions of their future. One of them reveling in vacation, the other struggling with the day to day.

When the inevitable time came for separation, they reached an agreement. He would meet her back in her country and she would find a place for him to stay. Had, in fact, a place in mind already. An old family hotel, abandoned after the time of Mobutu, raided by the new regime and left empty. The place had recently been returned to and was slowly in the stages of repair. It remained palatial and liveable.

He set up camp there, waiting patiently for a small cook stove and pots to prepare meals with, eating mangoes and bananas in the mean time, turned off of the bland foufou and wary of the unknown sauces simmering in streetside stalls. He told everyone he had arrived to work in the boating industry, having promised to keep his affair under wraps. She was the daughter of a general. A connected family, back in the time.  She's a widow with three grown children scattered around the globe. She has power and influence in this new Kinshasa and she's promised to help this young African man get a step up in life. 

Aside  from the room in the empty palace and living in secret,  their agreement includes the financing of his project- it really does involve a boat of some kind. He was in the fishing sector back home in Dakar. Maybe in a few years he will have enough to set off for Europe, search for a wife, find a small house and begin the next part of his African fairy tale.

A Communal Engagement

We'd stopped to inspect the eggplant when the woman behind the table said something to Souleymane. He turned to me and laughed. "She says she assisted at our marriage," he told me. "Assisted" is the French word. I guess it means something like "attended" but whenever I hear it, my American mind always thinks the speaker is giving more importance to his or her presence than was the reality. Or maybe it is apt. It is often the guests who add the ambiance and the memories.

We shook our heads as we walked away, remembering the bizarre event that was our civil union. That seemed to be the final proof. (I'm not completely positive, but I suspect only in Kinshasa could you be...) Walking down the street on a perfectly normal, sunny day, browsing for healthy purple eggplants when a complete stranger informs you that she witnessed your wedding.

We both imagined the civil union to be not much more than a problem of paperwork. Sign a few forms, present some I.D. bring a few witnesses. Nothing was ever clear and we struggled to understand various parts of the requirements (Do we really have to bring a white plastic chair? I've never seen anyone else bring a chair? None of the chairs in the place are white? What do they do with all those chairs? Whiskey? We need to bring a bottle of whiskey.....? Really?)

Finally, we'd managed to navigate the bizzare mandates, nail down a price, and secure all of the forms (or create our own) for a reasonable(-ish) fee. We debated how early to show up on the day of ceremony as we'd been given an 11:00 start time but figured it could begin hours earlier or later than anticipated.

The commune is always bustling with business on the weekends. Weddings abound. This particular Friday was no different. We arrived to find a traditional "band" playing in the "parking lot." I realize the need for quotes because neither of those words conjures up images of the reality. The parking lot is a dirt lane littered with rocks bordering on boulder size, trees with roots larger than my arm and potholes the size of small ponds - erosion effects from the recent rains. The band was under the tree, their belongings scattered behind the trunk and piled up next to the cars. They filled up the lane just in front of the building with their dancing and drumming. Their costumes were raffia, beads and bare skin. They had white painted faces and feathers sprouting from their heads.

A wedding had already begun....a "special" wedding. We'd seen this choice outlined on the fee sheet. $450 for a special wedding. We chose the "normal" affair for more than half off the price.  Turns out the normal people have to wait for the special people to finish their ceremonies. Special= private, we learned. So we went over to a nearby stand and had a drink while deciding what to do. There were 7 private engagements scheduled before us normal folk. It could mean a 2-3 hour wait.

Showing off her nails while we wait for the marriage
 

We decided to go home and wait, since the commune was only a 10 minute walk from our house. Souleymane talked with one of the commune employees and seemed convinced she would call us when it was time. The rest of us had no faith in that system. We debated about what time to return, having been isntructed the ceremony would begin "before 3:00." We walked home, prepared rice and continued with our day.

It might have been around 2:00 or so when we decided to call the woman and see how things were progressing. Turns out the ceremonies had already begun and we were late for our own wedding. We quickly changed, gathered our things and made our way back down to the commune. We began to wonder if they would make us pay more for missing the regular ceremony.

It was crowded, hot and stuffy. We climbed up some stairs and started across a metal bridge that seemed certain to collapse under the weight of the witnesses. "Follow me," the woman said as she disappeared into a mass of people. I didn't really see how I could possibly follow. People turned to look at me and motion with their hands. She said to follow her, what are you waiting for? they seemed to be saying. I felt like Alice in Wonderland as I took a magic step into a seemingly impassable crowd.

Inside, two women were asked to give up their seats to us and we melted into a small rectangular room impossibly full of people.

All the couples in front of us are waiting to be married as well
After the marriage, the women sit to the right of the husband

And then the comedy began. Strangers stood before us, giving vows, sharing a kiss, presenting their union before a room full of .......? Friends? Family? Neighbors? I couldn't tell if the loudest cheers were from family members or just a show of popularity. It seemed like a reality T.V show. We shook our heads in amazement that we would have to get up there. Our witnesses, along with the kids, were lost in the crowd outside the door, leaving us virtually alone.

When it was finally our turn (having arrived late, we were the last couple) the crowd was so loud that the official was forced to ask them to quiet down. Only he said, " This is not a market place. Quiet down or you'll be asked to leave." I'm still not sure what all the noise was about, or why such a stern response. People had been yelling, blowing whistles and making a general ear deafening racket since the beginning of the ceremonies. After our acceptance of each other as husband and wife, we returned to our seats where we were instructed to take the opposite seating from before. A symbolic gesture of......? It reminded me of graduates who flip their tassle to the right after they receive their diploma.

The ceremony was not finished. One of the officials began reading a long and personal sounding document. I didn't catch every word but I heard birth dates, addressess, family lineagae. What could they possibly be doing? I wondered. Were they going to read out such personal information for each of us?

Luckily after her 10 minute declaration, she simply began to call the couples up with their witnesses to sign the big book, a perfect addition to my Alice in Wonderland adventure. Souleymane signed first and I was instructed to stand next him with my hand on his shoulder. Oh the pomp and decorum of Africa. We all signed and posed for pictures. After leaving the commune, they wanted us to pose for more pictures in three or four different places (all presumably with various aspects of the official communal building in the background.)

We decided we had enough marriage photos (feeling our real ceremony had been officiated in Dakar and our celebration was already behind us, complete with beautiful photo memories.) We clearly disappointed the burgemeister and company as we left on foot, sans photo ops.  

No limo needed, happy to walk home in the Kinshasa sunshine