Maluku

Sunday September 21, 2008 10:01 pm

It appears it is possible to have horrible weekends, even in Africa. This one began as bad as any I’ve had in the States, for no good reason as truly wretched weekends do. Sometimes I think it comes from not knowing exactly what’s going to happen. It eliminates the ability to be visually prepared, an essential component for me.

There was a trip to Maluku for teachers and families. I was told it was a restaurant on the river about an hour and a half away from the school but with a large space to walk around outdoors. I was assured I wouldn’t be tied to a table (easier to fast if I can walk away from the food) and it would be great for the boys.

So I’m picturing some kind of upper class restaurant that has a view of the river and a large rolling meadow to chase the kids around outside. Just showing up for the bus gave me a sense that I might be wrong. People had huge bags with towels and blankets. I heard them talking about swimming. I began to rethink my packing strategy (popcorn for the bus, plenty of band-aids and a camera.) Strangely enough, just before we left, Nabih’s pants split completely open (perhaps not so surprisingly because I had just repaired them that morning.) This allowed me to dash home and grab a change of clothes for him, swimsuits, and a pair of sandals (I also assumed major bugs- they told me no bugs. My feet were dying in sneakers!)


Kinshasa gave way to a bit of harsh countryside speckled with small cement blocks and occasional neighborhoods. There were curtains blowing through the doorways and someone working in every yard. The grasses looked sharp and jagged, everything still waiting on the rain. It was all dry, parched and dusty- a difficult way to live. Every so often a patch of garden appeared flaunting a hint of the green that is rumored yet to come.

Eventually, Congo showed a bit of her hills and small mountains. It is almost similar to the Hudson Valley. The houses became softer, the landscape a bit greener. My eyes are still colored by war and everywhere I looked, I saw soldiers moving through the grass. I wonder how anyone would know what happened. Because most of all, the houses that I saw appeared so distant from the rest of the world, so isolated and small. It was only on the way home, in the dusk, that I saw some had lights flickering inside and small TV’s tuned to local channels.

We arrived at the picnic area and I immediately wanted to go home. An insurmountable wave of irritation and anger overcame me. It settled deep within and churned up every so often lest I forget its presence. I felt stuck and unhappy like a sulking child. The view of the river and mountains spread out before us. Many had already laid their blankets on a perfect spot. I was reminded of a television set tuned to a channel I didn’t want to see.

There were about 4 or 5 small huts along the coastline. They were made in the style of a small cement half-wall and topped with a grass roof. Inside there was a table and chairs. This was the ‘restaurant.’ It was true, I would not be tied to a table. I tried to walk around but it was not clear which land belonged to the picnic area and which was for private houses. There were many people coming and going. Some selling fish or fruits, some were little kids. I watched a group for a bit, playing by their house. It was two boys hacking at a tree with a machete. Ah, the toys of Africa. Before I could become too alarmed, the oldest took it away and then there was something else to hold their interest.

My boys were happy to swim and Mohamed, especially, had a great time. Several of his friends had come along and they splashed and played in the water. There were canoes to look at and some fishermen who caught gigantic fish. All of the children ran to touch them.

But still, I was irritated. I was reminded of a beach in Guinea where we stayed for a few nights. The first day was a bit like this as well. I managed to find a quiet, lonely hut to rest in. Here, I felt stuck with Americans. I just kept looking out at the group feeling so completely out of sorts and out of place. Perhaps a ‘family’ outing with me missing my family? In Guinea, I spent my time drawing but here, someone else was drawing. And that unsettled me too.

Just when I was making it through the day, the boys decided they wanted to go on a boat ride. I was content to let Mohamed go with his friends and a few adults but when Nabih got on, I had to go too. Sensory overload. Frequently this is my problem and my ability to manage it depends on many things. Clearly this was not a day for handling it well. The children were so loud and constantly reaching overboard to grab plants and sticks in the water. It was difficult to convince Mohamed not to do it when everyone else was- my problem for most of the day. I had an odd ‘strict parent’ image of myself that I’ve never seen before. I was also extremely uncomfortable with my seat in the front, near our 12 year old paddle boy. I simply could not enjoy a ride powered by his labor. I did take his photo, he smiled a shy consent when I asked him, and later gave him 400 FC. I couldn’t tell, by the look on his face, whether that was the right thing to do or not. I was simply disgusted with entire affair.

The boat ride truly sunk me. Shortly after, we packed up to go but the bus ride home was a cacophony of song and noise, laughter and howling, crying, screaming, stomping and chaos. If I could have packaged it and presented it again to a workshop of teachers, I could truly explain sensory integration disorder. I only made it through the ride by thinking of people who experience their every day like that.

The front part of the bus was involved in some kind of Casey Cassum count down randomly playing 3 minute intervals of 80’s hits. The back of the bus was filled with children alternately shooting vehicles behind us and barking like dogs and imitating various farm animals (someone had the fine sense to sing that song…who let the dogs out…...which became pigs, chickens and finally children.)

I thought again of my trip in Guinea. Our bus ride was long and we sang, but it was the songs and rhythms of Africa. There was an energy that seemed to match the landscape, a harmony that united us with where we were rather than draw distinctions.

It’s not that I didn’t recognize the songs everyone was singing, or even enjoy a few…and they certainly had incredible voices! But it is a culture I was hoping to leave behind, in hopes of embracing a new. This is clearly not the international circuit. It is more like coming to recreate your home here, long enough to get back to your home there.
But I really came to be home, here.

This morning Jacques stopped by with the drums. It seemed a promising start. Even as the boys began to play, a lingering residue of irritability clouded my day. It was a fundraising picnic day for the school, however, and I had agreed to paint faces. So I had to start by painting some kind of smile on my own.

I do like face painting, however, and the creative outlet proved exactly perfect for me. Nabih sat close (he truly is amazing, though grumpy at times) and 2 ½ hours flew by as I turned children into spidermen, batmen, tigers, butterflies and fairies. I was able to hand a box full of cash to the PTC and end my weekend feeling something close to human. Sensorially integrated.

Counting the ways

I read a blog someone had began…Kinshasa how do I love thee….and I am constantly reminded of this, though I think why do I love thee. Most of my queries are not related solely to Kinshasa but Africa in general. It is a constant question about why I am here and feeling so at home when there are definitely sights and systems that simply should not be.

I have been trying to fast for Ramadan and am constantly reminded of how hungry people are. Being hungry makes you very tired and everywhere I see people sleeping, all I can see is how they are starving too. This is the point of Ramadan, to make you aware of the suffering of others. I cringe when I remember times I’ve heard people use the word ‘lazy’ as a descriptor and even when I remember Mama Rochelle dozing off on my back porch. To be fair, people doze off many places, I view it as a form of waiting, but also I have now this extra veil. Hunger is exhausting.

While I am riding through the streets noticing the hungry, tired people catching naps on slender wooden benches or hard concrete steps, I cannot grasp the systems that keep them trapped. Clearly a better standard is possible because many are living it here. But how can it be made accessible? There are many who do not have electricity or running water in their homes, and I can’t think of a single reason for this.

I amuse myself when I am out by guessing what kind of house each person is coming from. It is a great curiosity for me. I saw a woman who had just bought an extension strip and so must assume she has electricity. I try to make a guess about the people in cars but it is not possible yet for me to discern the taxis from the other cars. As we sat outside a store the other day, I kept thinking people were stopping to pick up their friends, the way they coasted to the street edge just long enough for the person to jump in. Only after ( I think my intelligence may be diminishing here in Kinshasa) did it occur to me that they were taxis. I don’t know how you can tell if you’re jumping into a taxi or some kind of crazy terrorist- kidnapper’s car. Just part of the risk I suppose. Chalk it up to another strange reason we all love to be here.

Earlier that same day at the market, I had stopped to regard some oranges someone was selling. At times, my French completely fails and I cannot process the numbers. It finally occurred to me that this particular corner was not one where I wanted to be trying to make a purchase. So I apologized and walked away. Immediately a group of boys came following me, asking for money or food. I caught one reaching his hand into my plastic shopping bag. I made a look of mock surprise and a local “Heh?!” and, luckily, he snatched his hand back and I stepped onto the bus. Just after however, this group of boys was joined by a few older and all began yelling something about a photograph. It seems someone took their picture, which is not allowed in the downtown area. (Can you really imagine a city where no photographing is allowed?) I can’t be sure if this was a real event or one fabricated by the boys in order to demand money (punctuated by threats to call the police.) Even the driver had difficulty getting them to go on their way. Surely this is not the reason why we love it here.

Finally, I went out to see an amazing concert by Youssou N’Dour. The very poignant billboard announcing his show presented one performance at a certain hotel for $200. I opted for the next night at an outdoor arena for $30, chair not included. I took the boys and we really had a good time. Of course, we waited for hours until the show started and Nabih fell asleep. Once it finally began, Mohamed simply could not sleep. It was that engaging. Youssou N’Dour invites many performers to liven up his show, dancers, drummers and others. I thought it would be so amazing to see him in Africa. It wasn’t until after I arrived that it occurred to me (that diminishing intelligence again, I think it’s related to all the burning garbage sending off toxic, brain-damaging waves) that the concert was not accessible to most Congolese. Figure $5 a day- this would be a week’s salary. I could never attend a concert in the States that cost as much as a week’s salary.

There were many Congolese but just as many etranger. And it was amazing to see him in Africa. It has been a long time since I have heard strong and powerful music. I remembered so many things about who I used to be.

That is something that happens here in Africa too. It is very easy to feel cut off and left out. It is very easy to get caught up in the rhythm of work and home, a simple life to be sure, pleasant but also neglectful. I really came to find a service and sometimes I allow myself to become just as busy and self absorbed as I did at home.

Leaving the show at night is a feat that definitely calls for outer awareness however. As we walked to the car, the groups of boys quickly assembled. They followed us to our car, and others to theirs, demanding a fee for ‘watching’ the car. The guy who was driving thoughtfully opened our side first and quickly got the boys and I inside. They seemed to surround him with even greater urgency as he made his way to the driver side door. They can get pushy and insistent. I think it is something you know will happen and pretend to have experience with, but I don’t see how it can ever get less nerve racking. It must forever remain a tense moment because there are too many variables to allow a set policy to be effective. Just as things were getting a bit too hands on, another boy came up, loudly sending the others off. Then he, in turn, expected to be the grand winner for saving the day (or night.) Finally, however, the guy who was driving managed to slip some money to the young boy who was originally commissioned for the job. Certainly, we cannot count this in the ways we love thee.

Truthfully, I simply do not know why I am here. Others, and I think there are many, would readily say they do not actually love thee and are here for various reasons financial and career related. Perhaps I have some of those. Just as I have some days when I want to scream in frustration at the lack of internet connectivity or the complicated steps involved in making a phone call. There are the days when trying to complete a simple act, which has now become a twisted contorted version of its former self, is enough to send me over the edge, but still I can say, I do love thee. Just don’t ask me to count the ways.

Mondele

Tuesday September 16, 2008 9:57pm



Every nonwestern (non-White?) country has a term for the whites, usually a word the children scream as they run alongside your car or behind the bus. I have never been able to figure out if I should take offense to this or not. I always picture a bunch of white children running after a black person yelling ‘nigger.’ Of course, the historical context and implications are not there and I’ve come to see it is no comparison but I dislike it none the less. The word in Sousou is fote, in Lingala, mondele, in Wolof toubab. Actually, I learned that ‘toubab’ literally means ‘no worries’ as in a person who is always happy and has no worries. This is a supposed reference to our elevated and wealthy station in life. I might assume the other words have similar connotation but have heard them uttered in such a way as to express disdain or contempt as well.

So here I am mondele but I have managed to make some pleasant Congolese acquaintances despite that. The incident that spurred all of this occurred with the incredible power of class and status associated with mondele. It has been difficult for me to adjust to such strong social distinctions, though I am finding my way. Nabih, however, has discovered long before I how to implement his power. Sad to say, his days of apprentice gardener are over (at least in an official sense, we will be planting a garden of our own next Saturday and he is welcome and invited to dig in the dirt!) It was one day, a few weeks ago now, that he managed to convince someone of his dire need to see me. It was a school day and I had been off running errands or meeting in another room. He could not find me and apparently made his wishes so well known that he was led to the Administration building right to the superintendent herself. A three year old child! Amazing. Of course, I was feeling something other than amazement as she relayed this story to me. Kind as she is, it was punctuated with remarks that stated how impressive and socially intelligent Nabih is, to have managed such a feat. I had other adjectives in mind but smiled politely and agreed with her. Yes, certainly impressive and intelligent.

The positive aspect is that she managed to accomplish what I could not which is to say that Nabih has no longer been hanging around my classroom like a sad, lost puppy dog. The nanny, Mama Vero, is having a much easier time managing him and his willfulness.
We miss Nabih a bit but he still gets to the playground and occasionally plays with the other children. He is still wishing feoverently to go to school and I know he misses having friends his own age to play with. It will be here faster than I know it. He is dressing himself now and even doing his hair. He keeps asking for an earring (so far I’ve said no) and has managed to spend a night or two completely in his own bed.

I guess in many ways he reminds me of Mohamed, who also could not wait to go to school. It will come. Mohamed has asked if I could just teach fifth grade until he gets there so he can be in my class. That might be rushing things a bit. Of course, someone told Mohamed when he finishes his spelling book he will be in second grade. Ambition set in and his teacher actually had to keep the book at school. He completed several pages ahead and even slept with the book. I tried to explain to him that he couldn’t really get to second grad early but he is still determined to try. Just a coupla mondele, looking for the good life.

The Wisdom of Lando

The Wisdom of Lando aka Papa Lando, who cleans my room after school. He sweeps, I grade papers, we trade thoughts.


As I have begun to have conversations in more detail, friendly Congolese want to ask more questions about Americans. I find it difficult to hear them say “les blanc (the whites)” as if we were all the same. Just as difficult as being in the US and hearing people talk of “the Africans.” I want to remind both parties that the country is vast (America) and that Africa is a continent comprised of many countries. One should show caution before making such broad sweeping statements.

However, I suppose there is a bit of human nature to this and tried to find some delight in their (mis)perceptions of Americans. So I composed a list, recognize yourself , be wary, be amused.

Ÿ American women are free, they have a lot of privelege and don’t want to get married.
Ÿ If you did want to get married, it doesn’t cost too much. (no dowry.)
Ÿ If you have a lot of children, the government will help you (pay you.)
Ÿ If you have a job in America, you will become rich.
Ÿ Families don’t stay together in America, they’re not close. (surely this is true in many cases, but also NOT for many close knit families who have seen generations pass through one house or piece of land.)
Ÿ Everyone in America has a job, a lot of money and no one is hungry. (We could only aspire to this.)
Ÿ It is only the people in Texas that are mean spirited. The rest of the states are good natured and friendly to all.
Ÿ Your children will take care of you when they are adults. (Really, this is an African idea that is assumed to be true for Americans. Lando laughed at me when I told him how grown children will still ask for money to help with college, a car, a house, etc. He laughed even louder when I told him about the huge hospitals where we stash our old folks and pay other people to take care of them. He did not believe me. “Who pays?” he asked incredulously.)

An interesting concept was raised about salary. Lando remarked that in Congo workers are often paid by the day. In America, it is better, he reasons, to be paid by the hour. It sounds good until you realize all of the regulations in place. There are overtime limits and many companies discourage or even prohibit any overtime at all. Often, companies look for part-time help, in which case the hourly pay adds up to much of nothing, a little bit of something. And most ironically of all, the better jobs in America are the ones that pay in salary, not even by the day but by the year. These jobs are often time consuming and people take work home with them. They work on weekends or long distance electronically while on ’vacation’ or holiday. Generally, you work until the job is done, which it often never is and so the salary becomes small compensation for the quality of time you’re missing. There was really no way to explain this to him that he would actually believe and comprehend so I just left it. Yeah, it seems reasonable that getting paid by the hour would be a lot better. Just like it seems reasonable that getting to America would solve all your problems make the world a better place. Some things, there’s just no arguing. As for the Texas thing, well………

International Instructor

It has been difficult to arrive at this publication. Too many thoughts, not enough time, frustration setting in. I have been reading a book subtitled A Handbook for Teachers in International Schools and it has brought many things to my attention.

Adjustment- As with any change there are stages of adjustment. I can recognize my “honeymoon” stage now that I have passed it and am beginning to face some of the frustrations of living and teaching here. Part of it also was that I simply did not want to succumb. I think I am still doing ok but there are definitely days when everything just seems off.

There can be a lot of pressure trying to manage a class of very differentiated learners with little to no support. Pacing is the most difficult. I can manage modifying test and homework but I find it a challenge to keep everyone interested in the lesson. I still feel at times that I am doing entirely too much talking. It is not easy (possible) to make every lesson full of sparklers and streamers.

Most interesting has been what I am learning about requests. I may present an assignment and punctuate it with a ‘please,’ as in “Do numbers 1-23 in your math book, please.” Or “Please draw a picture to go with your paragraph.” Somehow, the mere fact of including please results in an immediate hand raise and question….”Do we have to?”

I cannot laugh at this any more and just try taking a deep breath. “Yes, you have to.” Without the please it sounds very abrupt and directive, which is what I need to learn to be.

I am learning other things as well, like how to use an overhead projector ( go left to move right, up to move down, etc. and purchase an LCD ASAP.) The kids seem to like the projector. I took a poll. It also made it into our appreciation box (Yes, someone actually wrote “I appreciate the overhead projector” -10 year old author.) Believe it or not, I also conducted a small group math lesson using individual chalkboards. I felt like a one-room school house. The boards were actually convenient and made the lesson fun. It’s not that we’re so low tech, it’s just unreliable tech right now.

My classroom is really quite spacious and bright, plenty of room for 25 students and a reading area, small group work area and cubby space. We have a bright tile floor and high windows that let in the light.

I have really been enjoying my teaching here. Sometimes I must say I do feel the pressure. This is mostly because I am favoring small group work now and this is a new concept for many of the children. It is important to remember my job is to coach them and guide them into developing the skills that make successful collaborative projects work. Our class museum will be a first experience.

There are other recognizable instances from the book---names for one. There is a student in my class whose name I could just not figure out. For the first two weeks of school I was calling him by his last name. He never told me. When I asked him what his father called him, he told me “Junior.” So I had to laugh. Surely he didn’t want me to call him Junior in class. Compositionally, some families write the last name first and it appeared that this family had done so as well. Turns out they had not.

Finally, I am suffering at times from a feeling that I must do it all. This is common to me, as I tend to be a perfectionist, but I must realize it is simply not possible. Having several children in class that do no speak English raises a great challenge because I want to provide them with all of the individual attention and assistance they deserve. It is simply not possible to do this with such a large class.

So it continues to be imperative that I creatively search for ways to instruct and explain our lessons. This is good. Living on campus, however, means that I am often creatively pondering these strategies in the evening hours as Mohamed and Nabih try to amuse themselves by wreaking havoc on my classroom.

Nabih may be considering changing his profession from gardener to instructor and Mohamed is getting quite adept at fencing with a yard stick.

The hunters

Yay! One photo. After waiting so long, none of them seem particularly exciting. I've posted photos on Picassa web and invite all to see them there. Here are Mohamed and Nabih inside the 'jungle'- a short path to school surrounded by trees and shrubs and bugs. I guess they're hunting lions in the photo. There a million great sticks and pieces of bamboo to be found, no need to bring toys! I am working on taking some more photos of life and will hopefully will have luck again to post them here.

The dance

5 September 2008 10:30 pm

Last Saturday we went to see a dance show. I was a bit nervous because you can never be certain how an event will turn out and I can always be certain that one of the boys will have a major breakdown. (All the good stuff happens right in the middle of naptime. Perhaps there is some sense to the birthday party we have been invited to tomorrow which initially seemed odd, occurring from 10-12.)

We went to see the dance teacher, Jacques, perform with his group. It was a free show at the Cultural Center of Congo- fancy name, fancy-ish place. Either it could be more or it used to be more, probably a bit of both. Small audience, simple performance no costumes, few props. I had no idea what to expect and could never have anticipated anyway.

The show was, not being a dance critic, a ‘modern- interpretive’ style, I suppose, if such a thing exists. I found myself at once moved and uncomfortable by it. African art is generally filled with dramatic pauses that go on too long for Western senses and music that is too loud and overbearing. I brought so much of myself to this show that I couldn’t really be sure if what I was feeling truly came from the dance or from me. I spent a bit of time trying to determine if my background knowledge was the right ‘set’ to be using to evaluate the performance.

It was punctuated with moments of blaring horns and convulsive body movements. All that I’d ever read about torture and prisons filled my head. All the biographies I’d read about journalists and young women, college students, and small boys fleeing for their lives only to be captured and imprisoned for simply being, caught up with me. It went on for a long while.

The dance included some Western ballet, puppet- like and domineering (Belgian influence perhaps?), followed by a moment of African freedom with traditional drums and dancing. This moment of hope quickly led back to discussion and confusion, yelling and accusation accented again with convulsing and twitching, violence and intimacy interspersed with moments of searching, “Moi?, Moi?” the refrain.

Finally, there seemed to be death, as several dancers fell to the floor and their partners tried everything to support them, to raise them again to life, eventually succumbing themselves to grief. A child jumped down from his perch where he had remained throughout the entire show. He regarded his people and addressed the audience, “Moi?”

I could never tell if I liked the show. There was clearly some talented dancers and drummers. There was clearly a powerful message. I felt so overwhelmed by a country at war for more than a decade, a powerless people living with violence and despair. I saw poverty in a way I had not truly seen it before. I felt it. It was there with me, a living breathing thing in the room.

Like the show or not, it was art- authentic, expressive, effective. Impossible not to be disturbed.
After, we went to the river to walk behind the embassies. It was breezy and beautiful though hauntingly so. The war was just behind my eyes.