A few years ago I had that year as a teacher, the one that makes you reconsider your professional choice and start to view taxi driver as a pleasurable alternative (if you've been reading for any length of time or if you actually know me, then you know that I do aspire to be a taxi driver someday....really.) It was that year when the students and I did more than just not click, we got on each others nerves in a most annoying and terrible way. We pushed every single button and never gave an inch. Every day I felt like a comedian bombing on stage. And every minute I expected the kids to grab some Apollo style brooms and sweep me from the front of the classroom amidst a chorus of boos and shouts. It was the year that makes you want to run for the hills and never come out again. Every single day. For 180 days. Sometimes even the weekends aren't enough to make you feel safe.
I didn't quit teaching, however, and continue to enjoy most parts of my job. This year began in a most promising way -I finally had the dream schedule with all of my favorite subjects. I am teaching art, literacy and social studies. I have a variety of classes and grade levels. I even have enough time in my day to prep for art. And my partner teacher was pretty easy to talk to, fun to exchange ideas with and get helpful feedback from.
Until it all changed. And so drastically that for several weeks just getting up to go to school was a Herculean effort. I couldn't fall asleep at night for replaying events of the day and hashing over conversations- you know the kind, when you insert all the logical things you wish you'd said in the moment and responded with clarity and wit rather than confusion and anger.
Its calmed down a bit - in that tense sort of left on my own kind of calm. I miss the collaborating, the collegiality and the sense of being useful and purposeful in my job. I'm not exactly clear why it all went wrong, though there have been lots of insights that have helped me to accept the situation (mostly) without animosity.
This week is Arts Week at our school and in keeping with tradition a group of teachers has teamed up to plan events for the week. In the elementary we have developed monthly learning celebrations (our version of the old "school assembly") and so I have found myself in the midst of planning, coordinating and preparing for a different kind of art experience for our students to discover every day this week. Its a lot fun. I like thinking with others, problem solving, and developing ideas to their most creative potential. Even trying for crazy at times. Just enough outside the box to make a regular old event really wacky.
It's given me time to realize what I really do love about our school. We've had the chance, as teachers, to create worthwhile, innovative and meaningful experiences for our students. Every month they get a chance to show off what they know and to apply the concepts they are learning in the classroom to celebrations and fun events. We have the math fair with booths and activities centered around math concepts created by students. There is the All School Read and Author's Assembly when kids have a chance to respond to books and write their own to share. We have Leap into Science when kids get to think like scientists and dig deeper into the many realms of science in the real world. There is Arts Week and International Week. There is plenty of dancing, singing, creating, building, thinking, puzzling and laughing. It just feels good to celebrate learning.
And so, despite the challenges of this year, I think I can still leave with sweet memories of the little community school we have created.
18.3.14
17.3.14
Posts that never were
I woke sometime around 1 am with a horrible feeling that something is wrong. I spent a bit of time trying to distract myself with the usual late night venues- surfing Facebook (ever constant revealer of disturbing midnight secrets,) catching up on news (and non-news) from the Huffington Post and reading whatever else seems remotely interesting (this link about uncontacted tribes appeared in my FB feed, ironically the night of our book club meeting about The People in the Trees.) The Washington Post report on family planning in Senegal, when coupled with the myriad of responses, leaves me feeling twisted and of course, no one can really be sure what's happening in Crimea. An even bigger mystery is that of Malaysian flight MH370 and the many theories about what could have possibly happened there.
None of these have been enough to shake a sense of unease and personal tragedy from my own mind however. After an unsuccessful attempt to watch a film of some sort, I finally shut off the lights determined to sleep. It's easy to say what happened next was a panic attack, easy enough to chalk it up to hormones (that's a one-size fits all excuse for everything these days) but it didn't feel like that at the time. From this short distance of about 15 minutes, it feels right to call it a panic attack. I've been working on my ability to watch my emotions pass, like a scene in a movie, and not get too wrapped up in any one extremity (would be a helpful skill for getting through this school year. I have noticed improvement, definitely, or maybe it is just finally adapting to what has become one of my most bizarre professional years yet.) But overwhelmingly it was a sense of grief and loss. Butterflies. Powerlessness. Regret. Mostly just loss.
It happens often that I wonder if I am too sensitive for this world. I am easily overwhelmed by senseless waste, unequal abundance and innocence wounded. Motherhood intensified all of these emotions, and perhaps it is to be expected now again, this increased sensitivity. But it makes even the mundane difficult to get through. I waiver back and forth between opening up and digging deeper back into a small, safe and oh so private world. As my need for support grows, my desire to hide away increases.
I have a list of blog posts I intended to write, something about blue garlic- which greeted me as I unwrapped my lunch one afternoon- apparently safe to eat. And something about this photo- an endless array of cornflakes- so typical of Kinshasa, where stores start off having all wonder of things and eventually cave in to the one brand mentality. Nothing is really consistent in Kin, except of course cornflakes.
I had small ideas to explore the nature of words (again) and how in Africa it is always said. "I am going to the hospital" rather than "the doctor's" which seems to give equal gravity to every illness- perhaps with reason. Or the differing ideas between illness and work- whether or not go or to stay home and the understanding that while one might feel obligated to appear at work, spreading illness is actually less preferable than being present.
There are probably a few more ideas on my list, ideas that seem good at the time, but I can't make them go anywhere anymore. I am so caught up in this limbo of waiting. The last time I felt such pressure from the universe was just before I decided to come here. Nearly every aspect of my life had to cave in before I could simply get up and follow my dream. Luckily, I have thought often of that time and am able to face these moments with a sense of peace- delusional or not, time will tell.
I know that I am a hard one to initiate change and so must often be forced. I think I have mostly come to terms with the future path, certainly am excited and welcoming about much of it, but remain stuck in a wrapping up business kind of mode that hasn't allowed me to do much more than observe what's going on around me. Our last months in Kin. White butterfly season- they are so abundant you can barely walk without feeling as though you may step on one. Nabih even sighted several flying just above the rows of cornflakes. Senegalese shopkeepers in Victoire sporting all the latest in shoe fashion (and I only know this because the males in my life are obsessed with footwear, though I marvel at why and how it is a majority of Senegalese who seem to be selling in the markets and storefronts.)
None of these half thoughts really explain why I awoke with such a foreboding feeling, or why I am still awake now at 5 am, when the birds have signaled a new day. None of it explains the rush of tears, shortness of breath and terrible pounding grief. I would be happy to never find out. Here's to hoping all my friends are safe, here's to making it through another day in Africa.
None of these have been enough to shake a sense of unease and personal tragedy from my own mind however. After an unsuccessful attempt to watch a film of some sort, I finally shut off the lights determined to sleep. It's easy to say what happened next was a panic attack, easy enough to chalk it up to hormones (that's a one-size fits all excuse for everything these days) but it didn't feel like that at the time. From this short distance of about 15 minutes, it feels right to call it a panic attack. I've been working on my ability to watch my emotions pass, like a scene in a movie, and not get too wrapped up in any one extremity (would be a helpful skill for getting through this school year. I have noticed improvement, definitely, or maybe it is just finally adapting to what has become one of my most bizarre professional years yet.) But overwhelmingly it was a sense of grief and loss. Butterflies. Powerlessness. Regret. Mostly just loss.
It happens often that I wonder if I am too sensitive for this world. I am easily overwhelmed by senseless waste, unequal abundance and innocence wounded. Motherhood intensified all of these emotions, and perhaps it is to be expected now again, this increased sensitivity. But it makes even the mundane difficult to get through. I waiver back and forth between opening up and digging deeper back into a small, safe and oh so private world. As my need for support grows, my desire to hide away increases.
I have a list of blog posts I intended to write, something about blue garlic- which greeted me as I unwrapped my lunch one afternoon- apparently safe to eat. And something about this photo- an endless array of cornflakes- so typical of Kinshasa, where stores start off having all wonder of things and eventually cave in to the one brand mentality. Nothing is really consistent in Kin, except of course cornflakes.
There are probably a few more ideas on my list, ideas that seem good at the time, but I can't make them go anywhere anymore. I am so caught up in this limbo of waiting. The last time I felt such pressure from the universe was just before I decided to come here. Nearly every aspect of my life had to cave in before I could simply get up and follow my dream. Luckily, I have thought often of that time and am able to face these moments with a sense of peace- delusional or not, time will tell.
I know that I am a hard one to initiate change and so must often be forced. I think I have mostly come to terms with the future path, certainly am excited and welcoming about much of it, but remain stuck in a wrapping up business kind of mode that hasn't allowed me to do much more than observe what's going on around me. Our last months in Kin. White butterfly season- they are so abundant you can barely walk without feeling as though you may step on one. Nabih even sighted several flying just above the rows of cornflakes. Senegalese shopkeepers in Victoire sporting all the latest in shoe fashion (and I only know this because the males in my life are obsessed with footwear, though I marvel at why and how it is a majority of Senegalese who seem to be selling in the markets and storefronts.)
None of these half thoughts really explain why I awoke with such a foreboding feeling, or why I am still awake now at 5 am, when the birds have signaled a new day. None of it explains the rush of tears, shortness of breath and terrible pounding grief. I would be happy to never find out. Here's to hoping all my friends are safe, here's to making it through another day in Africa.
6.3.14
Past lives, future adventures
I continue to search for a direction, knowing that our paths are about to change dramatically. I have half-heartedly completed a respectable stack of applications to send off to a variety of international schools. Every so often I get a little nibble- a return email with some small request for more information. But it hasn't really progressed beyond that.
My number one choice- after much thought and deliberation on their part- finally sent me an email stating they could not actually offer me a job this year, but maybe next. Little birds whisper in my ear that even at this moment there are those that conspire to change that decision and I guess time will tell if they find success.
It has been discouraging to say the least. I know that the interview process was good, that the fit between skills and needs was a match and the location ideal. I figure if a school so completely enamored with me can't deal with the circumstances, then no one else really will either.
It makes for an interesting analysis however and I have spent a fair amount of time trying to figure things out. The whole process raises several questions. The first of which revolves around location. (The second of which to be discussed at a later date perhaps.) Whenever I get one of those interested little nibbles, I begin a process of imagining myself in a new locale. It's usually fun for awhile, but when I try to put the details in place, things get weird. Anyplace sounds interesting initially, as a vacation. Putting long term attachments to the idea always seems to send me reeling. Because in the end, I don't want to raise my children in a place that's too white. And I ask myself absurd questions like, "How do the Chinese feel about blacks? Are there any Africans there?" Thailand or the Philippines conjure up relaxing images of islands and long, luxurious coastlines. Until I spend a little more time on the school websites, viewing pictures of students and activities. It's the dark faces that are missing.
I wonder what's going on with me because, after all, I am white. Caucasian to be precise, I suppose. I have never been able to identify with a specific ethnicity, not really knowing much about my family. My mother's side claimed Italian heritage, among others, and I guess if I think hard enough I might occasionally identify with food from there. But that's as deep into the cultural alliance as I can get.
So I am left to wonder why exactly do I feel so connected to Africa and Africans? I tried to find some research on this topic- people of one race or ethnicity who identify more strongly with those from another- but I couldn't really find much. Tabloid-esque tell-alls about white women who only date black men (and theories on why) that don't quite hit the mark. While I am well aware of the "women-who-only-date ________" phenomenon (insert whatever you like on the line. I once had a conversation with a lady in a bar who informed me she only dated cops....Asians, Italians, Indians, Cops, Military, Cons or Ex-Cons.....you name it and there's some kind of woman out there who will fall for it- and only it.) but that's not exactly what I am talking about. Dating, marrying, physical attraction. No, I am talking about the rest of real life. The mundane bits.
What I am uncovering, as I search for a place to live, raise my kids and settle in my roots, is that I would really feel like something were missing if I wasn't living here in Africa. Somewhere- anywhere- on the continent, though, of course, I have my preferred regions. There are a certain number of people who might feel that way about living in America or Canada (there's an awful lot of fiercely loyal Canadians here in Kin,) but they most often hail from that country originally.
So what's up with my weird trans continent obsession? Where did it come from and how was it born? While there are plenty of novels and romantic movies about the ex-patriot who finds him or herself hopelessly in love with Africa those stories usually involve some sort of rolling farm in South Africa or tranquil village in Tanzania. The main character is usually surrounded by a bunch of other ex-pats and claims to love the land. I'm not sure it's quite the same thing for me.
I'm in the middle of a city, spend most of my time alone in a borrowed house that provides as much frustration as satisfaction and when searching to socialize I usually prefer Congolese artists whose company infuriates me as often as it provides solace. I don't exactly fit in here any better than I did in America. There's very little to romanticize.
I haven't really arrived at any answers. An easy out would simply be to say I don't want to raise my kids in a school where they are the only children of mixed race. It is simply overflowing with inter-racial families here. There seem to be combinations from every country on the planet -Italian-Congolese, American-Rwandan, French-Malian. But the reality is I could chose wisely and find similar melting pots in other areas- large cities where cultures collide, fall in love, marry and have children who then go to school with their multi-hued heritages coloring the hallways with a variety of skin tones and hair textures that would allow my children to blend in.
It's not really about blending in though. I do like that fact that my children have friends from other places whose families speak a multitude of languages. I like that they are aware of countries I hadn't even heard of until I was in college. And I really like the fact that they seem to understand how big and small the world is at the same time.
But there is a definite part of this feeling that is purely, selfishly me- not mom related. I like it in Africa.It fills me up and makes me whole on those days when emptiness threatens to eat away my soul like acid. Maybe I don't need more of a reason than that.
My fourth grade literacy class is studying India- home of both Hinduism and Buddhism. My recent life events have sent me on a quest to seek advice and knowledge from all level of spiritual books and so the two have nicely collided. Past lives. Karma. Old ideas reinforcing themselves in my present life once again. Maybe my intense passion for all things African is simply the part of me that was born here before and hasn't yet found a way to let go. Not really sure if that means I should resist or give in? Not really sure the choice is completely all mine to begin with.
My number one choice- after much thought and deliberation on their part- finally sent me an email stating they could not actually offer me a job this year, but maybe next. Little birds whisper in my ear that even at this moment there are those that conspire to change that decision and I guess time will tell if they find success.
It has been discouraging to say the least. I know that the interview process was good, that the fit between skills and needs was a match and the location ideal. I figure if a school so completely enamored with me can't deal with the circumstances, then no one else really will either.
It makes for an interesting analysis however and I have spent a fair amount of time trying to figure things out. The whole process raises several questions. The first of which revolves around location. (The second of which to be discussed at a later date perhaps.) Whenever I get one of those interested little nibbles, I begin a process of imagining myself in a new locale. It's usually fun for awhile, but when I try to put the details in place, things get weird. Anyplace sounds interesting initially, as a vacation. Putting long term attachments to the idea always seems to send me reeling. Because in the end, I don't want to raise my children in a place that's too white. And I ask myself absurd questions like, "How do the Chinese feel about blacks? Are there any Africans there?" Thailand or the Philippines conjure up relaxing images of islands and long, luxurious coastlines. Until I spend a little more time on the school websites, viewing pictures of students and activities. It's the dark faces that are missing.
I wonder what's going on with me because, after all, I am white. Caucasian to be precise, I suppose. I have never been able to identify with a specific ethnicity, not really knowing much about my family. My mother's side claimed Italian heritage, among others, and I guess if I think hard enough I might occasionally identify with food from there. But that's as deep into the cultural alliance as I can get.
So I am left to wonder why exactly do I feel so connected to Africa and Africans? I tried to find some research on this topic- people of one race or ethnicity who identify more strongly with those from another- but I couldn't really find much. Tabloid-esque tell-alls about white women who only date black men (and theories on why) that don't quite hit the mark. While I am well aware of the "women-who-only-date ________" phenomenon (insert whatever you like on the line. I once had a conversation with a lady in a bar who informed me she only dated cops....Asians, Italians, Indians, Cops, Military, Cons or Ex-Cons.....you name it and there's some kind of woman out there who will fall for it- and only it.) but that's not exactly what I am talking about. Dating, marrying, physical attraction. No, I am talking about the rest of real life. The mundane bits.
What I am uncovering, as I search for a place to live, raise my kids and settle in my roots, is that I would really feel like something were missing if I wasn't living here in Africa. Somewhere- anywhere- on the continent, though, of course, I have my preferred regions. There are a certain number of people who might feel that way about living in America or Canada (there's an awful lot of fiercely loyal Canadians here in Kin,) but they most often hail from that country originally.
So what's up with my weird trans continent obsession? Where did it come from and how was it born? While there are plenty of novels and romantic movies about the ex-patriot who finds him or herself hopelessly in love with Africa those stories usually involve some sort of rolling farm in South Africa or tranquil village in Tanzania. The main character is usually surrounded by a bunch of other ex-pats and claims to love the land. I'm not sure it's quite the same thing for me.
I'm in the middle of a city, spend most of my time alone in a borrowed house that provides as much frustration as satisfaction and when searching to socialize I usually prefer Congolese artists whose company infuriates me as often as it provides solace. I don't exactly fit in here any better than I did in America. There's very little to romanticize.
I haven't really arrived at any answers. An easy out would simply be to say I don't want to raise my kids in a school where they are the only children of mixed race. It is simply overflowing with inter-racial families here. There seem to be combinations from every country on the planet -Italian-Congolese, American-Rwandan, French-Malian. But the reality is I could chose wisely and find similar melting pots in other areas- large cities where cultures collide, fall in love, marry and have children who then go to school with their multi-hued heritages coloring the hallways with a variety of skin tones and hair textures that would allow my children to blend in.
It's not really about blending in though. I do like that fact that my children have friends from other places whose families speak a multitude of languages. I like that they are aware of countries I hadn't even heard of until I was in college. And I really like the fact that they seem to understand how big and small the world is at the same time.
But there is a definite part of this feeling that is purely, selfishly me- not mom related. I like it in Africa.It fills me up and makes me whole on those days when emptiness threatens to eat away my soul like acid. Maybe I don't need more of a reason than that.
My fourth grade literacy class is studying India- home of both Hinduism and Buddhism. My recent life events have sent me on a quest to seek advice and knowledge from all level of spiritual books and so the two have nicely collided. Past lives. Karma. Old ideas reinforcing themselves in my present life once again. Maybe my intense passion for all things African is simply the part of me that was born here before and hasn't yet found a way to let go. Not really sure if that means I should resist or give in? Not really sure the choice is completely all mine to begin with.
23.2.14
The Best Fake Food
Since living in Congo I feel like I have become something of an expert in food substitutions. Of course, I use expert in a very casual way- similar to my approach to cooking. Because I abhor routine, can't make a straight line with a ruler and generally never measure anything completely correctly (though I am of the home-ec generation which taught me to pack the measuring cup full and level with the edge of a butter knife....) I have always considered myself something of a haphazard baker.
Living in Kinshasa has a tremendous way of boosting one's ego however. After years of cooking with my students and offering home baked sweets during our classroom author celebrations (always, always with a warning to eat at your own risk) my ego has been fluffed. It seems many of the kids come from no bake families and are therefore easily impressed by my lopsided brownies or whatever's-left-in-the-fridge fruit scones.
Baking has become a necessity in Kin as many of our favorites are just not available. It's also due to the fact that most store bought items are laughably expensive and food shopping is often the result of budgetary constraints rather than culinary delights.
But I have completely enjoyed learning how to make my own yogurt, tofu, bread from scratch, chocolate cake with coco powder and pie fillings from the real fruit or vegetable rather than the can. Cooking and baking are as satisfying as making art at times and most enjoyable when they can be done for pleasure rather than purpose (read Sunday afternoons are fun baking days, Monday nights after work and exercise class...not so much.) I haven't reached the level of preparation that has me pre-planning meals and cooking to freeze so my weeknights can filled with reheating ease. But I do enjoy the spontaneous tastiness of a scrumptious dinner or the sweetness of a surprise dessert.
Everything tastes better- either because we've made it together- Nabih tends to be the baker and cheese grater while Mohamed is the chef; it's a perfect combination, really- or because we haven't had a particular dish in so long it seems like a luxurious treat.
Kinshasa can't always be relied on have the ingredients you want and so I have developed my own list of substitutions and omissions. (I am sure the real experts and farm girls of the world have this down to a science but since it always seems like experimenting with unknown consequences, successes are pleasant and satisfying.)
Salt is one ingredient I find myself without- not sure why this is- but I generally leave it out of all baked things. I've learned to manipulate the amount of yeast- not sure if it is the humidity here or something about my baking but rising breads have always been a little shaky. It's improving, most definitely, almost to the point of being dependable, as long as I add more than the recipe calls for. Eggs are another ingredient I am often lacking- mostly due to living with a house of hungry guys. A spoonful of mayonnaise has been my standard substitute, the alternate a little extra oil. (I've recently uncovered a plethora of websites about egg substitutes including applesauce, but haven't tried many of them.) I now know the value of eggs however and in order to get those chocolate cakes fluffy and light- you need eggs. Lots of them. Other missing ingredients include shortening, ricotta cheese (cream cheese works well, cottage cheese and certain yogurts also work. Feta cheese is available here and that makes a tasty replacement.) Graham crackers aren't found so often but tons of other sweet cookies are and they all crush up nicely for an easy pie crust.
Last Sunday we picked up this monstrous thing from the squash family. It made a tasty fake pumpkin pie (so tasty in fact I splurged for a $7 can of whipped cream- no mixer or I could whip up my own surely...) Nabih admired it so much I let him have a slice for breakfast (squash for breakfast? Go right ahead, I thought with secret mom glee.) I roasted the seeds for some fake pumpkin seeds and used some to make gingery squash soup. There was plenty left to freeze for future Fake Pumpkin Pie (now an official family favorite.)
We've made our own Oreo Cookies (so many tasty recipes from Smitten Kitchen,) key lime pie from real limes, sesame bagels, hot pretzels and so much more. It all seems healthier when I make it myself and I don't feel bad about eating it anytime (chocolate cake for breakfast! I love Bill!)
Living in Kinshasa has a tremendous way of boosting one's ego however. After years of cooking with my students and offering home baked sweets during our classroom author celebrations (always, always with a warning to eat at your own risk) my ego has been fluffed. It seems many of the kids come from no bake families and are therefore easily impressed by my lopsided brownies or whatever's-left-in-the-fridge fruit scones.
Baking has become a necessity in Kin as many of our favorites are just not available. It's also due to the fact that most store bought items are laughably expensive and food shopping is often the result of budgetary constraints rather than culinary delights.
But I have completely enjoyed learning how to make my own yogurt, tofu, bread from scratch, chocolate cake with coco powder and pie fillings from the real fruit or vegetable rather than the can. Cooking and baking are as satisfying as making art at times and most enjoyable when they can be done for pleasure rather than purpose (read Sunday afternoons are fun baking days, Monday nights after work and exercise class...not so much.) I haven't reached the level of preparation that has me pre-planning meals and cooking to freeze so my weeknights can filled with reheating ease. But I do enjoy the spontaneous tastiness of a scrumptious dinner or the sweetness of a surprise dessert.
Everything tastes better- either because we've made it together- Nabih tends to be the baker and cheese grater while Mohamed is the chef; it's a perfect combination, really- or because we haven't had a particular dish in so long it seems like a luxurious treat.
Kinshasa can't always be relied on have the ingredients you want and so I have developed my own list of substitutions and omissions. (I am sure the real experts and farm girls of the world have this down to a science but since it always seems like experimenting with unknown consequences, successes are pleasant and satisfying.)
 |
| Homemade calzone with spinach, eggplant, mushrooms, mozzarella cheese and a ricotta substitute |
Salt is one ingredient I find myself without- not sure why this is- but I generally leave it out of all baked things. I've learned to manipulate the amount of yeast- not sure if it is the humidity here or something about my baking but rising breads have always been a little shaky. It's improving, most definitely, almost to the point of being dependable, as long as I add more than the recipe calls for. Eggs are another ingredient I am often lacking- mostly due to living with a house of hungry guys. A spoonful of mayonnaise has been my standard substitute, the alternate a little extra oil. (I've recently uncovered a plethora of websites about egg substitutes including applesauce, but haven't tried many of them.) I now know the value of eggs however and in order to get those chocolate cakes fluffy and light- you need eggs. Lots of them. Other missing ingredients include shortening, ricotta cheese (cream cheese works well, cottage cheese and certain yogurts also work. Feta cheese is available here and that makes a tasty replacement.) Graham crackers aren't found so often but tons of other sweet cookies are and they all crush up nicely for an easy pie crust.
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| I'd really hoped it would make a good pumpkin substitute |
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| Super hard to cut..kept feeling like I wanted a machete |
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| Traditional squash inside, nice orange color |
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| Roasted squash seeds- taste just like pumpkin |
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| These pies were gone in days! Kinshasa Autumn in February |
going local
It's a likely bet that wherever we go, we'll be going "local," meaning no more fancy contracts that provide a house, utilities and free dishes. The thought has me ever more conscious of how spoiled we are here. Whenever I feel the pleasant breeze from a ceiling fan, I am reminded that a time may soon come when we are drenched in sweat from African heat wishing for one cool breeze. (I am hoping to thwart this by finding something that offers ocean air, at least on occasion.)
Of course, it all became that much more real when a friend, offering to help find housing, remarked he would look around, search for something nice, you know, with an indoor toilet. Oh yeah. Not sure if I am ready to be that local but it's always helpful to get a good reality check. An adventure awaits (now just hoping the boys will see it that way....)
Of course, it all became that much more real when a friend, offering to help find housing, remarked he would look around, search for something nice, you know, with an indoor toilet. Oh yeah. Not sure if I am ready to be that local but it's always helpful to get a good reality check. An adventure awaits (now just hoping the boys will see it that way....)
16.2.14
When words fail
It is simultaneously a time when so much is happening and yet nothing is happening. This confusing contradiction results in an assortment of words that are not yet ready to be born into the world. While Nabih is busy constructing a homemade lava lamp....I'm busy feeling like I just want to "go far..."
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| The countryside of Bas Congo |
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| I watched man walk down this road and I fought the urge to follow, to find out where it goes... |
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| Colorfully organized fruit and vegetable stand by the roadside |
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| Small house with wood for sale |
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| Country house by the road |
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| For some reason I find these displays of patriotism kind of creepy in the country |
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| Termite mound through the window |
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| Clear skies and countryside...reminds me of NY mountains |
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| Leaving Bas Congo and entering Kinshasa, officially |
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| Saturday chores |
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| Heading back into the capital |
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| Makes me remember that I am actually a country girl... |
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| Coming from Matadi these trucks are loaded with supplies |
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| Back in Kin I spend a lot of time staring at this painting...the story behind it later |
2.2.14
No Longer Mates
I've spent nearly every day of 2014 curled up on the couch, the bed or the floor calculating the hours it might take to digest whatever small food I ate last and trying to hold on. Apparently I have a phobic reaction to throwing up. Dry-heaving, no problem but actual vomiting results in all sorts of panic attack symptoms. I'm not sure when this developed, or why, but I can see it is deep rooted and borders on a psychosis.
I've also learned about myself that if I am one day old and ill I will most likely become the crotchety old woman who yells at everyone and ruins their good time. Being sick makes me short on patience and low on kindness. This revelation reminded me of one I'd had during my last observed Ramadan. Being hungry makes one tired. It was such a profound thought to me that tired took on a whole new meaning. Not the sleepy, weary tired of staying up all night and not the exhausted, can't walk another step tired that comes from physical exertion, but more of a deep in your bones, invading every cell and slowly shutting down the mind tired that comes from not having enough nutrition to make the body function.
Being sick makes one crabby. Not the cranky, I didn't get enough sleep crabby but the snap at someone before even thinking with a just plain mean response crabby. Which shouldn't surprise me....it's an awful lot like my mother and as we age it seems inevitable we become more like our parents- no matter how little time we spent together. But it is disappointing. I wanted to be a better person than that. I wanted to be the sweet old lady who says uplifting and slightly mysterious things full of bits of wisdom, emitting a fragile strength that carries me through to my last tranquil day.
I'm not dying, though I may feel like it at times, and so there is still time to develop this person who won't become a bane to the young nursing home attendants. I'm sure much of the strain has to do with job stress and the impending life changes facing me. Returning to Kinshasa after this last small vacation was particularly hard. I've been feeling a lot like this except I've been in the Congo for twice as long as the author, which makes things all the more poignant.
Last September, last summer really, all the way up until about October, I had thought I was staying. Putting down roots and making my final peace with Kinshasa. I was prepared to call it home once and for all. Sometimes I try to get back to that state of mind, when riding the streets at night with a cool wind and lazy city sounds filling the air made me feel cozy, comfortable and filled with a sense of belonging. We know each other, Kinshasa and I. And we understand how to get along.
Events have conspired in such a way, however, that it turns out Kinshasa and I are not soul mates. We won't be hunkering down together to get the boys through their middle and secondary years of school. We won't be launching them off to colleges and futures out in the world and we won't be waiting to welcome them home with arches of woven palm leaves and open arms.
In between bouts of nausea and amoeba attacks, I've been using all my couch time to imagine new beginnings. What do I want to do with my life? Of course, in imagining new starts it's impossible not revisit the past with a bit of nostalgia for what could have, should have, might have been.
In remaining true to my resolve to be a better person, I'm trying to stay focused on the present. What can I do now? I see lots of nature in my future, mountains or water. I'm really hoping for a place that will allow us to spend more time outdoors. I'm trying to open up my mind to locations I hadn't before considered. Every so often, I dream about the paths I really want to take, though it can be easy to get lost in the tangled web of contradictions that always seem to define my future plans. The illness doesn't just take over my body, but it corrupts my mind as well, leaving just as many days curled up on the living room rug feeling hopeless and stormy gray.
Sunny skies or not, the facts remain. There are four months left in Kinshasa and then the boys and I will be off on a new kind of adventure
I've also learned about myself that if I am one day old and ill I will most likely become the crotchety old woman who yells at everyone and ruins their good time. Being sick makes me short on patience and low on kindness. This revelation reminded me of one I'd had during my last observed Ramadan. Being hungry makes one tired. It was such a profound thought to me that tired took on a whole new meaning. Not the sleepy, weary tired of staying up all night and not the exhausted, can't walk another step tired that comes from physical exertion, but more of a deep in your bones, invading every cell and slowly shutting down the mind tired that comes from not having enough nutrition to make the body function.
Being sick makes one crabby. Not the cranky, I didn't get enough sleep crabby but the snap at someone before even thinking with a just plain mean response crabby. Which shouldn't surprise me....it's an awful lot like my mother and as we age it seems inevitable we become more like our parents- no matter how little time we spent together. But it is disappointing. I wanted to be a better person than that. I wanted to be the sweet old lady who says uplifting and slightly mysterious things full of bits of wisdom, emitting a fragile strength that carries me through to my last tranquil day.
I'm not dying, though I may feel like it at times, and so there is still time to develop this person who won't become a bane to the young nursing home attendants. I'm sure much of the strain has to do with job stress and the impending life changes facing me. Returning to Kinshasa after this last small vacation was particularly hard. I've been feeling a lot like this except I've been in the Congo for twice as long as the author, which makes things all the more poignant.
Last September, last summer really, all the way up until about October, I had thought I was staying. Putting down roots and making my final peace with Kinshasa. I was prepared to call it home once and for all. Sometimes I try to get back to that state of mind, when riding the streets at night with a cool wind and lazy city sounds filling the air made me feel cozy, comfortable and filled with a sense of belonging. We know each other, Kinshasa and I. And we understand how to get along.
Events have conspired in such a way, however, that it turns out Kinshasa and I are not soul mates. We won't be hunkering down together to get the boys through their middle and secondary years of school. We won't be launching them off to colleges and futures out in the world and we won't be waiting to welcome them home with arches of woven palm leaves and open arms.
In between bouts of nausea and amoeba attacks, I've been using all my couch time to imagine new beginnings. What do I want to do with my life? Of course, in imagining new starts it's impossible not revisit the past with a bit of nostalgia for what could have, should have, might have been.
In remaining true to my resolve to be a better person, I'm trying to stay focused on the present. What can I do now? I see lots of nature in my future, mountains or water. I'm really hoping for a place that will allow us to spend more time outdoors. I'm trying to open up my mind to locations I hadn't before considered. Every so often, I dream about the paths I really want to take, though it can be easy to get lost in the tangled web of contradictions that always seem to define my future plans. The illness doesn't just take over my body, but it corrupts my mind as well, leaving just as many days curled up on the living room rug feeling hopeless and stormy gray.
Sunny skies or not, the facts remain. There are four months left in Kinshasa and then the boys and I will be off on a new kind of adventure
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