Every time I write, I renew the best intentions of making it a more frequent habit. Post, post, post. But these past few weeks have left me battling a blinding head cold, molasses slow internet and two computer breakdowns. Yes- not one but 2 of the computers available to the house crashed. Or had help crashing. And so, nearly the entire month of April has gotten by without any witty and clever observations added to the blog roll.
The angst is behind me however (well, momentarily to be sure) as I received the good news of having one of the tortured machines returned to me unexpectedly in good health. The Mac is back. This is grand news on many levels- not the least of which involves the fact that as school draws to a close I must transfer all of my documents, photos and other life consuming technology pieces from one computer to another. I had no idea what that "other" would be or where it would come from. I'd browsed a shop downtown to see if there were any quality computers available and couldn't really be sure enough to make a purchase. For once, happy to have procrastinated in search of perfection.
Our IT tech at school is basically a genius. He is the perfect combination of IT whiz, capable electrician and hard-working positivity. I've never seen him without a smile on his face, despite what is surely more work than one person can handle. Although he is part of a 3 person department, I know if I need something repaired, prepared or explained, he is the person to go to. (Most of us know that, which is why he is horribly over-worked. That and the fact that he never says no.)
When my mac screen opened displaying the file of death with the infamous question mark, I thought it was over. Actually, I knew it was over. I asked his opinion and found out another mac user at school was suffering the same fate. A few days later, however, he came to me asking for a stab at my computer. He thought there was hope. Never one to bask in the sunshine before the clouds have truly parted, I handed it over with lingering doubt. Two days ago I happily got word that my machine was "under observation" but appeared to be working and in good health. He let me know he'd spent about 3 hours working on it and had used a compilation of parts from my previous dead mac. (Macs and I have a history- brief and deadly as opposed to the long and creative relationships I hear so many others raving about.)
I asked him to let me know how much it would cost and I was met with silence- and a smile, of course, the ever present smile. Nice to look at but completely useless in presenting a course of action. I decided to confer with one of the Congolese assistants with a bit of technology background, thinking he might have an idea about going rates.
While he didn't have any advice about dollar amounts, he did suggest a gift. I was a bit confused. Honestly, I thought- who doesn't want money? Or, to be brutally honest I thought, what Congolese doesn't want money? Because life is hard and salaries are small and Kinshasa is tres cher. However, he suggested that since my offer of money wasn't met with a price I could either leave something in an envelope kind of anonymously or offer a different kind of gift. He thought a gift of money might be outright refused and would even make future exchanges awkward- could perhaps be construed as an insult. He went on to elaborate that in all conversations he'd ever had, I'd always been referred to as "my good friend" or - and here he mentioned a Lingala word I didn't quite get but it meant to express endearment- someone that all else would be dropped for in order to help out.
Hmmm. It sounded good but not quite right. I'd recently reread Night Studies: Stories of Life in a West African Village- a charming, quick read about a guy living and teaching in Nigeria. He spends a lot of time with neighbor children and seems to enjoy getting to know the culture and succumbing to it's rhythms. Just like I want to do here. Except I can never seem to figure out the hidden rules.
Offering just a gift made me nervous about possibly insulting my colleague and IT godsend so I did what all good students do- I sought out a second opinion. Cultural Expert #2 said it was crazy not to offer cash and suggested I put $50 in an envelope and give it to him, with an adage that he can get some (phone) credit. While the idea of giving cash had been my original plan, I was still stuck on how much. Too little seemed equally as insulting as too much. Of course, in my mind I had been saved from buying a brand new computer so too much was relative to being saved from that impending doom- priceless really. In the end, I simply wanted to be fair (to both of us) and I was frustrated trying to figure out what fair was. Couldn't someone just give me an hourly rate?
I was reminded of the police and their Cocas. The most common way to give money to the traffic police or guards outside a store is to offer a small amount and suggest they buy a Coca. Sometimes they will make a drinking motion as you drive buy- a request for a little bit of cash to quench their thirst. This approach serves two purposes. One- it allows you to show some appreciation for a service. Two- it allows you to acknowledge whatever you are giving is probably not enough but the other person should accept it graciously anyway. I'd finally arrived at a solution (and a small feeling of confidence and understanding of culture after all. Maybe I wasn't as far behind Benjamin Madison as I thought. He makes it all sound so damned easy in his book- so lighthearted and carefree.)
What I am left to wonder about, however, is Cultural Expert #1. How could his advice be so different? He suggested I buy a nice shirt or a jersey and offer that, saying sometimes a gift says more. Unfortunately, doing the wrong thing in a cross cultural situation could send a whole lot more of an unintended message. While a huge part of me detests things that are illogical, unclear and hard to follow a small secret part of me is a bit relieved to feel a genuine understanding of this puzzle.
Yes, by offering $50 to "buy credit" the receiver then has an opportunity to express how expensive phone calls are these days and suggest that perhaps more is needed. We can then ensue a conversation about an entirely fictional thing, all the while negotiating the price for a real life service that was offered and received. Who needs price tags? Price tags are for foreigners, she thought, as she smugly sipped her Coca.
24.4.14
6.4.14
Small Treasures
Life in Kinshasa cultivates an appreciation of the little things- minor moments that can be turned into small treasures of time. During our vacation we made a few discoveries, tried some new things and stepped out of our comfort zone when possible. Some of the highlights:
- Protein popcorn- This delicious treat was discovered at a friend's house during movie night. We started the tradition by bringing flavored popcorn (chocolate- a house specialty, and cheese, another favorite.) The hosts added to the fun by finding this scrumptious recipe (although the name seems misleading- sounds healthy but can it really be? With corn syrup?) She is the kind of person to actually have corn syrup on hand (surely my version will include some form of substitution. Although corn syrup made it to my shopping list this week, I didn't actually spy it in any of the stores.) Highly recommended for popcorn enthusiasts.
- My ever jubilant fitness instructor offered a few classes in the pool during this break since attendance was light. During one class we got around to theorizing about kickboxing in the water- which was quickly scheduled for the following Thursday. Some of the water exercises were great- though I have a hard time believing it's really as good- if not more intense- than an out of water experience. In my current state however, a good floating workout feels wonderful. Kickboxing was a bit of a miss however. The resistance of the water slowed things down (adding to the muscle toning benefit I imagine) but something was lost in the attitude. I think much of the appeal and motivation of kickboxing is feeling like a bad a*# mo-fo and that kind of gets dampened when all your punches throw up little splashes of pool water. But we tried it- ever the good guinea pigs for our award winning instructor (can't do that in Canada, we told her smugly, always trying to maintain our title of favorite fitness buddies- making up in spirit what we lack in numbers.)
- I spent a few fun days wandering around in confusion as I tried to digest the metric versions of weight gained. Though I am trying not to harp on turning 40, facts are it's in my mind a lot. For most of the past year in fact. And gaining weight is a heck of a lot scarier now than ever before. It just doesn't go exactly where you want it to, and there is an ever present acknowledgement that it will probably be a lot harder to get off this time around. I've been keeping mental track of my numbers- 61kg to begin with and the most recent weigh-in- 67. A mere 6 kg. I let the confusion and happiness settle in for awhile (ok, I knew it was damned near impossible that I had only gained 6 kg....but I wanted to revel for a moment.) Once I did the conversions I found out 6kg= about 13lbs. Much more realistic. But still not terrible for the halfway point. My next google search involves looking into how to make your own weights because one of the things I am seriously going to miss is having the weight room available- well stocked, 24 hours and free. While I probably will not be casting my own weights from cement, there are a few good ideas here and an uplifting story.
- The other place I am going to miss will be the pool. When all else fails, going to the pool is the one sure option to induce a carefree feeling of luxury and vacation. It is easy to stare up at the blue sky framed with palm trees listening to the parrots and imagine yourself in any tropical location in the world. A little mental vacation. Often our not-quite-Olympic-sized pool is empty, giving an even greater impression of opulence- as though you were lounging in your own backyard. Occasionally there are other kids around for Nabih to play with, adding some fun to an otherwise dull day. I usually spend my time stretching and exercising underwater, practicing some pull ups on the bars by the diving blocks in an endless attempt to add muscle to my persistently skinny arms. Nabih likes to hang off the basketball hoop (pulling that net closer and closer to the water) and practice perfecting his tricks. Sometimes we bat a ball around or play some random game of dive and catch. No matter what we do, it's refreshing and relaxing. Stress and unhappiness guaranteed to melt away at the pool.
It's always good to try and do one thing that will outshine all others. If I can think of one event that will give the boys something to talk about and remember - just one day out of the ordinary- I can usually coast on those memories for awhile (and stave off the dreaded 'there's nothing to do' for the rest of the week.) So, we packed up and headed off to the 'snake park' one Sunday- Kinshasa's anti-venom unit situated on the outskirts of town in the middle of dirt roads and long grass. There had been a lot hype recently from a group of teachers who had gone there and so we were surprised- and disappointed?- upon first driving up to the 'park.' Park is a big name for an outfit that could have fit on my back porch. But then, I guess snakes don't actually need much room- preferring as they do to remain all coiled up in the dark.
To be fair, the hype centered around how knowledgeable the staff was and the information they could provide about each of the kinds of snakes. There were about 9 large cages set up on stilts, framed with screens in a shady area of the field. There were some large plastic barrels and smaller plastic tubs lined up over top in a row on some wooden shelves to the left of the cages. And there were snakes. Lots of them.
We started with a tour of the venomous ones. The handler took each one out with a long metal hook and we watched from a distance. He told us he'd been bit 6 times. Well, the last time the snake didn't actually get the venom inside. He repeated often how snakes need an enclosure to hide in or they will die from the stress, even as he nudged them from their homes so we could get a glimpse of the deadly creatures. The cobras did a little dance for us as the keeper informed us that all snake charmers were bogus. Cobras follow the movement of the flute, not the music. All snakes are deaf.
When it came time to view the non-venomous snakes, the fun began. The real reason you go to the snake park is so you can hold the snakes- and snap a thousand pictures to prove to your friends how brave you are. You'll notice I am not in any of the pictures. My bravery comes out in different ways.
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| Love the pure enthusiasm on Mohamed's face. He is game! |
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| The snake diva- a friend's daughter approached everything with calm interest |
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| Nabih is clearly more cautious |
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| but proud of his participation |
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| Mohamed seems good...... |
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| ....until the snake turns around for a kiss |
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| What would a trip to the snake park be without a little snake charming hat? |
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| It looks really good on Nabih |
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| The python is most impressive.... I freaked out at first thinking it was a boa |
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| Christian really hates snakes...a lot. But he was ready to help the kids and always first to hold a snake- true bravery |
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| It's actually quite heavy. Nabih declined but snake diva was ready |
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| My favorite part of the whole experience. Love this guy. |
After the awesome reptile experience (we declined a chance to go down and see the crocodile as it required a long walk through muddy fields or a trek in the car....) we set off to find Lac de Ma Vallee.... a cozy little restaurant by a lake for some afternoon relaxing, complete with peddle boats. We'd been here once or twice before and I knew the boats would be another memorable adventure.
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| Love the road to the lake |
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| Nabih's peddle boat face--- he always begins with a bit of trepidation |
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| The brother's go out- it soon becomes peddle boat wars as everyone migrates to their own boat. Let the racing and bumping commence! |
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| Christian and I pose for a photo by the lake |
5.4.14
No niche is not necessarily a good niche
The last two weeks of vacation have passed....without much fanfare. I have struggled to get through each day in a positive spirit and feel useful and upbeat. I wonder why it is such a struggle for me and appears so natural and second nature to some. I've tried to practice being slightly more open and casual about things in conversations. As we waited for other students to show up to class one afternoon, my kickboxing instructor asked how the break was going. I attempted a casual but honest response, "I usually freak out the first few days but I think I'm mostly over it now....." She replied with an interested, "Really? What do you mean exactly...?" And so I told her I usually get a bit depressed....it's definitely something I've heard before in the confines of our exercise room. One someone had mentioned she gets depressed if she doesn't work out and I immediately and exactly knew what she was talking about. Or at least, I thought did. Hearing her and knowing me. But as I shared my thoughts that day, sitting on the dusty rubber floor of the PE room, I wondered. I sounded casual enough, just a bit of sharing but not over sharing- no need to make the situation uncomfortable.
But my depression isn't really like that. It's not casual and flippant. It's not something that comes around for a few days and then goes off, like a cancelled tv series. Its all consuming and debilitating. I literally can't get out of bed. Add new mama hormones to the mix and I am in tears and unable to get out of bed. For reasons that are unknowable. Reasons that didn't seem to really exist the day before. Reasons I used to be able to talk myself out of but not on this day, and maybe not the next. They are days filled with second guessing, doubting, and loneliness. They are long and inconsolable days.
It took me many years to realize everyone doesn't have days like these (or weeks or years.) And after that thought, I spent months wondering what it would be like to never be plagued with these days. Ever. Imagine a whole life lived in the sunshine, knowing what you see and feel around you is the real reality and never entering the dank and musty cave of self doubt and loathing. I cannot imagine.
Writing is unreachable at this time. I used to spend lots of energy pouring my thoughts into pages and pages of emotional outburst. I rarely do it now. Painting, sculpting, and drawing are often one way out- a path I can usually step on that will eventually lead me back into the sunshine of normality. But not words. And definitely not upbeat, observant, happy words. Getting to the blog is hard.
This is not a blog about battling the dragon of depression- though it could be. Certainly there are many who are also caught in the same battles or have loved ones resting on the brink. Surely it would be worthwhile to share in the most illustrating prose what it's really like living with a mind that is so intent on tricking itself.
But I am not here for that. "It's not my thing." And what I have found out most during this small vacation is that I don't really have a thing. I resist things. I could have a blog about turning 40. Or what it's like to be expecting in Congo (complete with my second greatest love- more doctor stories!) I could write about living with teenagers (a parenting blog) or have an educator's blog or an artist's blog. There are relationships- intercultural, interracial, multilingual, a vast array of social and economic boundaries being crossed and double crossed. For every aspect of me, there is the potential to specialize in a blog exploring all about it. While I enjoy reading about each of those things, none of them are specifically "my thing." I'm not a niche person and I guess I never really have been- though I often think I aspire to be.
I have always dreamed of being a master of something....or maybe I dreamed of knowing a little bit of everything and nothing completely. The Renaissance factor. I think, really, I wanted to know something so completely and fully my confidence could never waiver. Except I can't seem to pick the thing I want to know. It's always changing- or it's equally diverse in interest and intensity- both paths leading me to be more of a Renaissance than a connoisseur.
As I set off to embark on "my own thing" I realize I am going to need a lot of sturdy goals in place- something else that began to taunt me these two weeks of freedom. If depression grabs so easily here in the middle of security and tranquility- what is it going to do to me in the middle of the unknowns?
I need to have a firm vision and a plan for getting there (which I mostly do.) But the bigger items to pack in the suitcase are determination and resolve. Giving up is simply not a choice. I realize this whole thing would be so much easier if I could just settle on a niche- call it my own, embrace it and throw every ounce of energy into birthing a project of my design. Completely. But I remain pulled in a few different directions.
all the while maintaining what I believe is a firm foundation. A niche would be better.
But my depression isn't really like that. It's not casual and flippant. It's not something that comes around for a few days and then goes off, like a cancelled tv series. Its all consuming and debilitating. I literally can't get out of bed. Add new mama hormones to the mix and I am in tears and unable to get out of bed. For reasons that are unknowable. Reasons that didn't seem to really exist the day before. Reasons I used to be able to talk myself out of but not on this day, and maybe not the next. They are days filled with second guessing, doubting, and loneliness. They are long and inconsolable days.
It took me many years to realize everyone doesn't have days like these (or weeks or years.) And after that thought, I spent months wondering what it would be like to never be plagued with these days. Ever. Imagine a whole life lived in the sunshine, knowing what you see and feel around you is the real reality and never entering the dank and musty cave of self doubt and loathing. I cannot imagine.
Writing is unreachable at this time. I used to spend lots of energy pouring my thoughts into pages and pages of emotional outburst. I rarely do it now. Painting, sculpting, and drawing are often one way out- a path I can usually step on that will eventually lead me back into the sunshine of normality. But not words. And definitely not upbeat, observant, happy words. Getting to the blog is hard.
This is not a blog about battling the dragon of depression- though it could be. Certainly there are many who are also caught in the same battles or have loved ones resting on the brink. Surely it would be worthwhile to share in the most illustrating prose what it's really like living with a mind that is so intent on tricking itself.
But I am not here for that. "It's not my thing." And what I have found out most during this small vacation is that I don't really have a thing. I resist things. I could have a blog about turning 40. Or what it's like to be expecting in Congo (complete with my second greatest love- more doctor stories!) I could write about living with teenagers (a parenting blog) or have an educator's blog or an artist's blog. There are relationships- intercultural, interracial, multilingual, a vast array of social and economic boundaries being crossed and double crossed. For every aspect of me, there is the potential to specialize in a blog exploring all about it. While I enjoy reading about each of those things, none of them are specifically "my thing." I'm not a niche person and I guess I never really have been- though I often think I aspire to be.
I have always dreamed of being a master of something....or maybe I dreamed of knowing a little bit of everything and nothing completely. The Renaissance factor. I think, really, I wanted to know something so completely and fully my confidence could never waiver. Except I can't seem to pick the thing I want to know. It's always changing- or it's equally diverse in interest and intensity- both paths leading me to be more of a Renaissance than a connoisseur.
As I set off to embark on "my own thing" I realize I am going to need a lot of sturdy goals in place- something else that began to taunt me these two weeks of freedom. If depression grabs so easily here in the middle of security and tranquility- what is it going to do to me in the middle of the unknowns?
I need to have a firm vision and a plan for getting there (which I mostly do.) But the bigger items to pack in the suitcase are determination and resolve. Giving up is simply not a choice. I realize this whole thing would be so much easier if I could just settle on a niche- call it my own, embrace it and throw every ounce of energy into birthing a project of my design. Completely. But I remain pulled in a few different directions.
all the while maintaining what I believe is a firm foundation. A niche would be better.
24.3.14
The Pony Express
Living overseas presents a number of challenges, many of which have been overcome or have even disappeared in the last 6 years. It's amazing how those things once perceived as challenges eventually morph into new ways of living. We haven't been back to the US for two years and so we've had to make some adjustments. Rather than our annual stocking up on clothes, shoes and supplies we've found ways to do that here. While it seemed a bit expensive at first, we've adjusted to that too (after calculating the cost of air fare and the environmental footprint, it all equals out I suppose.)
One thing I haven't exactly figured out, however, is the burden of paperwork. I have managed to escape much of this part of life- rent and utilities included certainly cuts down on the bill paying. I have a great accountant on-line, banking on-line and that leaves only my student loan payments to go out by mail.
By mail. The school had been offering the grand luxury of mail service once per month. We are able to send out envelopes only and receive small (really small) packages. It was enough to take care of the other odds and ends that can't be taken care of online and to allow for a small treat now and then (a pair of US soccer cleats, for example. Or a bag of chocolate chips.)
Sometime back in October my ATM card stopped working. After some investigation I found out that my card had been reported stolen. As I stared at the card in my hand, I queried further. Stolen? There wasn't a lot of information forthcoming but it turned out my bank had reported it stolen. Maybe something to do with the numbers on their side being hacked into. In any case, I ordered a new card and put my Amazon shopping on hold for a month.
Except after a month, the card never showed. I called again and the customer service agent politely informed me they would send a new one and if I didn't see anything in 5-7 days I should call back. Except our mail route could take 1-2 months depending on timing and so I was left to take even deeper breaths and more Amazon hold time.
This saga has continued on, past our vacation (try traveling to another foreign country without the safety net of having your bank funds available....ho hum.) In February, the month I was certain the card would arrive, it seemed the glitch occurred over here on our side. The package was sent to the "wrong side" of customs and is now being held for.....ransom? It's not looking so good for March's mail either, since that remains MIA as well.
Which leaves me faced with the fact that I may be finding myself in a World With No Mail. It might not seem so important, especially as the debate about the viability and need for a postal service continues. Wadhwa writes, "But as despised and problematic as it is, the Postal Service is one of the most important institutions in this country – it is essential to a functioning economy, and it is, thankfully, not going anywhere, any time soon." As someone living in a country without reliable mail service, I can only agree- and hope he is right.
Things are about to get sticky. As I am about to mark another year off my personal calendar, my driver's licence is up for renewal. I can renew on-line (provided my address is the same as the one on my old licence, oh yeah- maintaining an address and all the other requirements in order to qualify for bank accounts, driver licences and even paypal accounts becomes nearly impossible the more time spent overseas...) but there is no way (yet) to receive the actual document on-line. Nope. I need the poste to make that happen.
In the case of my lost and lonely ATM card, most likely stuck in a dark back corner of some cold customs office, I have devised a plan B. Hopefully I will be able to get (yet another) one sent to a friend who is visiting the US during this spring break. And hopefully it will arrive in the precious window of time she is available at that particular address so that she may then bring it back to me in her luggage. Or her pocket. It is, after all, not very big. And doesn't weigh much. Vive le pony express.
This method won't provide much help for my driver's licence. Luckily, if it does expire, I have two years to renew it before I am required to start all over again- by taking the written exam and the road test. Which would definitely require a personal presence in the US. And there's just no guarantee when that event will happen again. Especially since the odds are great we are going local.
I am slightly seduced by the idea of just melting more and more into my surroundings. How important is it to maintain my US documents? Can't I just get a driver's licence from whatever country I happen to be living in? The temptation is grand as it becomes harder and harder to stay in touch. But I know the reality is once it's gone, it could be impossible to get back (re: the address problem, and supplying all those supporting documents like utility bills and other non existent papers I can't produce to prove I exist.)
And so, while paper work has always seemed more of a burden to me than it's ever been worth, I will throw forth one final effort at retrieving the documents that allow me to maintain some small connection to a country that gets ever further away even as I take small steps to realizing that Amazon and I may also no longer be mates.
One thing I haven't exactly figured out, however, is the burden of paperwork. I have managed to escape much of this part of life- rent and utilities included certainly cuts down on the bill paying. I have a great accountant on-line, banking on-line and that leaves only my student loan payments to go out by mail.
By mail. The school had been offering the grand luxury of mail service once per month. We are able to send out envelopes only and receive small (really small) packages. It was enough to take care of the other odds and ends that can't be taken care of online and to allow for a small treat now and then (a pair of US soccer cleats, for example. Or a bag of chocolate chips.)
Sometime back in October my ATM card stopped working. After some investigation I found out that my card had been reported stolen. As I stared at the card in my hand, I queried further. Stolen? There wasn't a lot of information forthcoming but it turned out my bank had reported it stolen. Maybe something to do with the numbers on their side being hacked into. In any case, I ordered a new card and put my Amazon shopping on hold for a month.
Except after a month, the card never showed. I called again and the customer service agent politely informed me they would send a new one and if I didn't see anything in 5-7 days I should call back. Except our mail route could take 1-2 months depending on timing and so I was left to take even deeper breaths and more Amazon hold time.
This saga has continued on, past our vacation (try traveling to another foreign country without the safety net of having your bank funds available....ho hum.) In February, the month I was certain the card would arrive, it seemed the glitch occurred over here on our side. The package was sent to the "wrong side" of customs and is now being held for.....ransom? It's not looking so good for March's mail either, since that remains MIA as well.
Which leaves me faced with the fact that I may be finding myself in a World With No Mail. It might not seem so important, especially as the debate about the viability and need for a postal service continues. Wadhwa writes, "But as despised and problematic as it is, the Postal Service is one of the most important institutions in this country – it is essential to a functioning economy, and it is, thankfully, not going anywhere, any time soon." As someone living in a country without reliable mail service, I can only agree- and hope he is right.
Things are about to get sticky. As I am about to mark another year off my personal calendar, my driver's licence is up for renewal. I can renew on-line (provided my address is the same as the one on my old licence, oh yeah- maintaining an address and all the other requirements in order to qualify for bank accounts, driver licences and even paypal accounts becomes nearly impossible the more time spent overseas...) but there is no way (yet) to receive the actual document on-line. Nope. I need the poste to make that happen.
In the case of my lost and lonely ATM card, most likely stuck in a dark back corner of some cold customs office, I have devised a plan B. Hopefully I will be able to get (yet another) one sent to a friend who is visiting the US during this spring break. And hopefully it will arrive in the precious window of time she is available at that particular address so that she may then bring it back to me in her luggage. Or her pocket. It is, after all, not very big. And doesn't weigh much. Vive le pony express.
This method won't provide much help for my driver's licence. Luckily, if it does expire, I have two years to renew it before I am required to start all over again- by taking the written exam and the road test. Which would definitely require a personal presence in the US. And there's just no guarantee when that event will happen again. Especially since the odds are great we are going local.
I am slightly seduced by the idea of just melting more and more into my surroundings. How important is it to maintain my US documents? Can't I just get a driver's licence from whatever country I happen to be living in? The temptation is grand as it becomes harder and harder to stay in touch. But I know the reality is once it's gone, it could be impossible to get back (re: the address problem, and supplying all those supporting documents like utility bills and other non existent papers I can't produce to prove I exist.)
And so, while paper work has always seemed more of a burden to me than it's ever been worth, I will throw forth one final effort at retrieving the documents that allow me to maintain some small connection to a country that gets ever further away even as I take small steps to realizing that Amazon and I may also no longer be mates.
18.3.14
Our sweet school
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.
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.
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.
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