Fresh food- fast food?

I've pretty much adapted to the lack of what used to be my favorite foods here in Kinshasa. I've come to accept what's available as my new favorites and the high prices of occasionally splurging on my old. A sale on grapes makes it even more possible. (only 4000FC- that's a deal even in the states I think!...well, ok I have no idea what the price of grapes is in the states these days so I can't be sure, but 4000FC is just under $5 and a package- or 5- of red seedless grapes is well worth it.)

Eating local might be the new craze everywhere else but in Kinshasa it's a must. The plus side is that eating local also often means eating fresh. I've woken frequently to finding this in my kitchen- a pan full of what looks like tied up grass. Lemongrass. Usually a sign someone in the house is feeling a cold coming on.

There's another kind of fresh food that's caught my eye and left me fascinated in that horrified way that happens when something is just so different it can't be synthesized. It's partly because I don't eat meat and it's partly because, as an American - an urban American- I have been comfortably removed form the reality of where meat comes from.

Eating goat is one of the delicacies of Congo. Goat is readily available and often grilled to order. You can find goat kabobs  at many outdoor stands as well as tucked in the back or off to the side of many cafes and restaurants. The "goat stand" is accompanied with the sound of whacking and chopping. Because the goat is just that fresh.

In this poor case, the goat does not yet seem aware of what happened to his cousin or the fate that surely awaits him. Surrounded by cardboard he must think he's landed in some kind of heaven, unknowing that the real heaven is only days away.

Despite my revulsion, no one else really seems to notice the hanging carcasses. They walk by - I even observed one man pushing it slightly out of his way- and stand next it while placing their order. I've come to see it as the ultimate in fresh, fast food. (Although, depending on the number of patrons, the goat plate could actually take awhile to receive.) It is grilled or smoked (I'm not completely up on the culinary method here, I just know there is a large grill and a lot of smoke) and it comes served on a plate wrapped in a brown paper, usually accompanied with a small pile of red pepper and seasonings and perhaps some mayonnaise. Finger food.

Myself? I'll stick to the vegetable stands selling tomatoes and eggplants and sweet potatoes. Even better, I'll stick to the green beans and cucumbers fresh from my garden. I don't eat out often, and when I do it's certainly not local (the tofu plate at that Chinese restaurant on the boulevard is simply divine!) but for all the meat eaters out there, I recommend the goat. Better than McDonald's. Fresh, fast and local.

Molested in the Market

Last weekend I took a friend to the arts markets around town. She is getting ready for her departure from Congo and wanted to stock up on some final artwork and crafts. She has adopted a child here and so was also buying for some families she knows with adopted children from Congo. Searching for mementos from home.

We went first to the 'marche de valeur' or thieves market as often translated into English with a play on 'valeur'- cultural, artistic or of value- and voleur- thief- as in the prices are often so ridiculously high you feel as if you've been stolen from. I do love certain parts of the market- the stalls in back where a fabulous collection of old masks and statues can be found. It's truly hit or miss when visiting. On some days, vendors are reasonable and easy to bargain with. On others, prices are prohibitive. On everyday vendors call out as you pass, imploring you to stop and visit their stand, insisting it is somehow different than the billion others next to or directly across from them.

I like to view the market as a museum, a place to go and fill my eyes with artwork, rather than to buy. Occasionally I have a true mission and on this day it was to do the bargaining for my friend and help her cross off items on her list. Despite it being one of those "miss days" where the prices seem to be laughably outrageous ( $20 for that cup? I bought the same thing here last month for just $5) we managed to secure some reasonable purchases.

My friend wanted to go to "the beach" next, a place I'd never been, preferring to get my fabric on the rue de commerce at these wonderful stores. The beach is not actually a beach but the harbor where you can grab the ferry to Brazzaville. The place where the women sell their fabric is virtually hidden from view. Upon first glance, it appears to be just a few women sitting on the street with their wares. Closer inspection reveals a narrow, camouflaged alley. The alley way contains stall after stall of fabric, all appearing slightly similar and hanging so close to each other that individual patterns are hard to discern. Both my friend and I relied on the "if there's something good here, it will jump out at you" method of choosing fabric.

The women were impossibly aggressive (even more so than at the Marche de Valeur) and called out, reached out and followed us down the skinny, muddy path. We stopped occasionally to browse and purchase, all the while my friend was informing me that she rarely got to the end. The pressure to purchase was just too much to support for any continued length of time. We reached our limit and turned around to begin snaking our way back to the entrance.

A woman came over to me and draped a piece of cloth over my shoulder. As I turned to hand it back to her, she began walking away. I started to lay the fabric on a wooden table when she picked it up and put it back on my shoulder saying "No, don't put it there." I agreed it wasn't the cleanest place to lay the cloth but I had no intention of buying it and told her so. She began talking about "cadeau" and I told her yes, it will be a gift to me if you don't take it back because I am not buying it. Reluctantly she pulled the piece back in.

But as I took a step forward another woman came down from her stall and blocked my path. It wasn't that she was physically imposing, it was more a problem of space. The pathway was so small and crowded it was impossible to get around her. She began shouting- or so it seemed from my perspective- and trying to push more fabric on me. I found this to be an incredibly ineffective marketing technique as it only evoked impatience and anger. At the same time, an older woman sitting at her stall behind me began tapping my derriere to get my attention and possibly draw me over to her stand. Another incredibly ineffective technique. After two taps, which really felt more like lingering caresses, I was incensed. I felt completely violated. Her hand placement invaded all my boundaries of personal space and privacy. I ended up yelling at the woman in front of me to "Arrêtez!" though I seriously intended that for the woman behind me. As the tapping continued, I managed to push past her and make my exit.

But I was left with a feeling of dirt and scum. I wasn't happy with the emotions I'd felt or the way I handled them. After processing with my friend a bit, I realized the problem. I'd been molested by a woman. I felt sure if it had been a man, I would have turned and responded without doubt. A strong word, a finger in the face. But the fact that this was coming from a woman left me confused and uncertain. I couldn't figure out what was happening at first and was caught up in an uncomfortable feeling which led almost to panic. I left feeling deeply disturbed, not only by what had happened but by my inability to manage it.

Which in turn led to reflection about the irony. Why is it that I feel more prepared to deal with a man who oversteps his bounds? Because, as a woman, I have experienced and come to expect it from a man? Or because, as a woman, I have come to expect fellow women to have an understanding and respect for personal privacy? I am not sure what let me down more- this woman and her actions- or the thought that it would have been more bearable from a man.

Touching someone who does not want to be touched is not acceptable in any sense. When explaining to a male friend later that evening, he said, "No, it is just their way." After more discussion, and several examples of women who use hand holding or arm touching in much more acceptable- and effective- ways he acquiesced into seeing it is not "just their way" but it is wrong.

I was never drawn to the beach before, disliking their display of fabric and the choices available. And now it seems certain I will probably not return, preferring instead to buy my cloth in the happy chaos of music and DJ's at Bizou Bizou or any number of stores on the rue de commerce. I'm still left to contemplate the women of the beach- struggling with being a foreigner, a mondele, displaying an image of wealth and privilege that elicits such aggression and hostility. While it rarely occurs in my world, the one I've created these 5 years in Congo, I guess the possibility never truly goes away.  I can't escape being a stranger, one of the others.

Life by SMS

Africa has mostly skipped over the land line phenomena and jumped to directly to mobile phones. This is even more apparent in Congo, where land lines don't seem to exist at all. (I did see a desk phone in the Grand Hotel and it took me awhile to wonder what seemed so odd about it. I've never seen a desk phone in Kinshasa.)

Text messages are the preferred method of communication as they are cheap and reliable. Actually calling someone often results in a fuzzy, distorted connection or simply not getting though at all. The government recognizes the importance of texting (SMS) and has even been known to shut it down in cases of "national security."  Congo is not the only country to employ this method of securing its citizens. Mozambique and Egypt have also utilized this in an attempt to maintain control.

Aside from politics, SMS are a favorite way to communicate greetings (Christmas and New Year's have my phone beeping off the hook to signal all the messages of blessing and well-wishing coming my way.) I noticed a trend of creating fancy designs with the characters that form an image of Christmas trees or hearts accompanied with a generic message of blessing for the family and a prosperous New Year. I am never really sure if I should respond to these messages as I seem to be one on a list of many recipients. Junk mail by SMS is how I tend to see it (though I was accused by one friend of not replying and so now consider the messages more carefully.)

Other acquaintances have gotten in the habit of sending scriptures and reminders? pleas? to recall the words of God and keep believing, keep praying. My own personal evangelists reminding me to keep the faith.

The most bizarre messages, however, have come in the form of love poems. I have been asked on a blind date (yes, how did you get my number exactly?) and presented with propositions of undying love, all by SMS. I've been implored to "give me a chance" or more poetically in the French "essaye un gout"- try a taste. I've been wished good night, happy dreams, good morning, and enjoy your weekend at random intervals with "I'll never give up on thinking about you" and "my heart rests only with you" all more eloquently written yet completely unsolicited by me.

I have been caught completely off guard and unsure about how to respond. I simply don't understand where the messages are coming from. Not who, of course for all but the mysterious Sam (or was it Alain asking me on a date, whom I simply had never met before- though he assured me he'd gotten my number from a mutual friend at some art event) but for most of the messages, their name pops up as a registered contact in my phone. I know these people, I just can't figure out what has prompted them to send such messages. Our real life interactions never hint at such a direction.

My social awkwardness leaves me feeling the only option is to ignore them and they'll go away. It does make it hard to have a relationship with someone when my phone is ringing with love notes.  In a few cases, I've been obligated to request that they not write me again. In another case, the ignoring seemed to work and I only receive the infrequent Mbote! at this point.

In all seriousness, I thought perhaps they were some kind of joke. It seemed so odd to be receiving the multitude of messages about such personal feelings from so many different people around the same time.

On the other hand, I have also been menaced by text. I've been ordered and threatened by SMS. (Luckily mobile phones have a nifty "automatic call reject" option that simply doesn't accept phone calls from certain numbers. This does nothing to stop incoming text however.) I have an entire phone filled with those nasty messages, just saving them for use in court I suppose.

Of course, I have received other intense SMS messages. An English student of mine sent out news of her mother's death. US embassy warnings of unstable and potentially dangerous areas come by SMS. And I once received a formally written invitation to a birthday party by SMS- followed up with a Thank You text.

I admit to resorting to text at times, as it seems easier to send a written message with news of something that might prove difficult to say. In Africa, text is also much cheaper than a phone call. And comes with the ease and ability of sending to more than one person. I've received "copies" of messages to other people and been included on mass distribution lists ('severe traffic on boulevard, take alternate route' or 'demonstration at the US embassy, avoid downtown.')

In all, I am amazed at the flexibility and vast utility of how text messaging has evolved in Africa. Banking by text, sending cash to relatives and friends and yes, even dating by text are all some examples of the usefulness of this medium. I haven't signed up for any of those services however and continue to be perplexed at some of the messages I receive in this life by SMS.

AWED- but only because I'm supposed to be

"Do you know Jacky Ndala?" I asked  my assistant teacher. I'd heard he was a famous Congolese TV personality but I was trying to determine how famous famous really meant. I'd had the opportunity to met Mr. Ndala- JackyNdala- as he seems to be frequently called, as if it is all one name- during one of the many organizational meetings for the AfroZumbah charity event and one year anniversary celebration. Jacky had agreed to do the media coverage for the event at a heavily reduced price.

I had sent him a text message requesting a copy of his logo. I was working on flyers for the event and wanted to add logos of participants and sponsors at the bottom. Jacky called me about 15 minutes later to confirm I'd received his email.

"Jacky Ndala just called me, " I informed my assistant, to gauge his reaction, still trying to determine the level of famousness.
"He doesn't call people," came the reply. "Normally, with someone like him, you would need to call and hope he picks up." That seemed to confirm it. He must be really well known.

In discussing the arrangements for the evening, we'd met twice for drinks and once for dinner. Slowly, I began to understand some things. But initially I was confused about the purpose of the meetings. Not much was said and little seemed accomplished. I asked a lot of questions, trying to get some history on Jacky's work. I don't have television and so I couldn't even rely on some current events to help me figure out who he was. I was able to piece together some idea about his work as he answered my many questions. Apparently he works with arts and culture, frequently with music artists- singers, also famous here in Kin, such as Fally Ipupa and Werrason. In addition, he promotes up and coming artists and has worked with Vodacom and their many superstar competitions. The dancers, singers and musicians at our event seemed to know this well. After the guests had left and they'd gotten a bit to eat, all of the performers crowded around Jacky trying to get a photo.

I found a few things about him on the web such as his blog and some information about an accident he had back in January. Somehow, not having the history meant it just wasn't as impressive. I was too busy still trying to figure out the culture of business and opportunity in Kinshasa. How to make things happen. Trying to understand the social nuances that become so much the more complicated in a second language that's being spoken in a foreign country.  I am slowly arriving at the comprehension part, but feeling the awe of meeting a famous person? Well, only because I'm supposed to.....

Jacky and Christian at the Soiree, Grand Hotel, Kinshasa

Bankers: dancing

Recently I had the unusual opportunity to accompany my dance teacher to one of his more interesting classes. He's been working with a group of bankers- yeah, the money kind. They've been gearing up for a big conference at their headquarters in Nigeria. Apparently this conference will include representatives from all the Access branches around Africa. Naturally, they will hold a dance competition.

I've been back to the class, which takes place on a rooftop balcony, a few times since. I am tickled by the idea of a bunch of bankers dancing. Something about my American sensibilities finds humor in trying to merge the image of a stuffy US banker getting down with his colleagues- and what's more, preparing to strut his stuff in front of colleagues from all over the continent.

These bankers are anything but stuffy (I had the greatest pleasure in seeing the bank manager show off his sexiest cha-cha-cha while encouraging his underlings.) They have been taking their own time to practice for 2 hours a night twice a week for months. They're looking forward to the trip.

The choreography and song selection is meant to show the best of DRC, hence the Independence Cha Cha Cha selection. I've watched the dancing bankers grow from their first hesitant steps to really confident movements. They laugh, cajole, encourage each other and I have been witness to the power of dance to truly build community. I imagine their working relationship has improved because of it. Not to mention the magic of dancing on a rooftop in a cool Kinshasa evening.

I happened to be present one night when the manager informed the dancers that they wouldn't all be able to travel to Nigeria. The 3 couples- none of whom shined too brightly individually as dancers- made a picture perfect ensemble when dancing together. They each carried a certain joy and rhythm and seemed to be having genuine fun. I couldn't imagine only 2 of the couples dancing without the others. And what a weight for their teacher. He was told to pick the best of the 6 to represent their bank, their branch, their country. Oh the difficulty. He began that evening's practice a bit severe, serious. But in the end he has only managed to insist that they all travel. He can't make the cut. I agree that the 6 of them together carry the most ambiance.

It was this same evening that I overheard a conversation between the manager and another of his employees (apparently a rogue non-dancing banker.) The manager was criticizing a decision made by the employee during his handling of a money transfer between two different clients. I tried not to pay much attention, feeling distinctly like I shouldn't be present although I had been personally invited into the office for a seat. What caught my ears was another contradiction in terms. As a means of wrapping up the conversation, the manager began to advise his employee, "Search for the spirituality in your work. You really must. Find the spirituality." He sent him off with wishes of God blessings and other hopes for salvation.

I've been thinking a lot about finding the spirituality in one's work- how it struck me as odd and yet necessary all at the same time. Certainly not advice one hears in most American institutions. It coincides nicely with the emphasis on dance. What a better way to represent oneself, one's country, one's spirituality than through the language of dance. From the mouths of bankers....

UPDATE: All six dancers got to take the trip to Nigeria after all. Great news for them!

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.