Kaloli-Kampala

19 Oct. 2008 10:00 pm

The birds resemble old men as they walk around, hunched over, lifting their scrawny legs high before taking off to nest atop the trees. A cup of tea costs more than my meal of matooke and vegetable sauce. I am in Uganda for the AISA conference and it is another world. I say I am in Uganda, but I know there is a real Kampala here under the manufactured British beauty. This Africa is very neat and clean, the roads are paved and even have markings painted on. This part of Kampala is quite new and fresh. When I see what can happen here, I cry for Congo. There is simply no excuse for the way so many live in Africa. There is simply no excuse for the low expectations that I may have held. (I suppose I could continue to say there is simply no excuse for all of the garbage littering the rest of Kampala- and why such a small area manages to be so clean?)

Our plane took us first to Nairobi and I must admit shock at the zigzagging freedom we were allowed. No yellow lines marked our path into the country. There were no military holding back vicious looking German Shepherds with rifles slung casually across their back or held menacingly in their hands. In my naivety, I thought all African airports looked alike. Not so Jomo Kenyatta. Even Entebbe glimmered with new tile and a Western style appearance, shelves stocked with merchandise. Immense bags of candy filled the stores. A glimpse through the windows showed books, shoes and many other items determined to fill as yet unknown needs.

I am enjoying the hotel, the conference and meeting other professionals. I haven’t much to spend, however, and forego the group trips to the local shopping mall (mall!) The crafts sound interesting and I am almost overtaken by a Congolese want- such a lack of material items makes me feel that I have needs which may not really even be there. It is a desperate desire to stock up on goods that I may not see again for months.

Truly it is quite beautiful here and the billboards encouraging home ownership could almost lure me into thinking Uganda is well developed and prosperous. Surely it could be on its way. The road from the airport was well paved, lined with more motorcycles than pedestrians and bordered by (sidewalks!) small shops filled with goods and lit from within by bulbs (electric light bulbs!) It is amazing how quickly we adapt to our surroundings. I have only been in Kinshasa for 3 months and here I am expressing amazement about small tin shops powered with current. Perhaps I must mention the road from N’Djili, where masses of people huddle around candlelight as they try to sell their goods in the dark night air. There are no sidewalks, more people than cars and more cars than actual items to buy.

The newspaper I read this morning highlighted several differences as well. There were more opinion pages and advertisements, an entire section on commentaries and politics. More humor, albeit British style- the paper was scarcely PG-13. I browsed sections on fashion and music news, even classifieds, all in English; another foreign concept for me- Africa in English. I can’t get the French to stop falling from my lips.

I spent the evening talking with 2 Congolese teachers from school. I had been hoping to understand this perspective. Like Lamine and his friends, they spent some time talking about race and history. There are so many ethnicities and for those in Congo/Uganda/Rwanda a history rife with tension and war. There were clearly two perspectives, neither easily arrived at. One was still filled with fear and anger, emotion enough to water her eyes during the conversation. The other, more worldly, filled with understanding and compassion. It is not the people that should hate each other, it is the political few that created and sustained the wars. A difficult position to arrive at with conviction, to be sure.

As they related their stories, I was reminded of a story I had heard earlier during a workshop entitled Tales to Change the World. This was a story that described exactly the perpetuation of hatred and prejudice before me, of deciding without really knowing. I took the time to repeat it, this simple folktale about making a friend and knowing he’s a friend even if others tell you it can’t be so. And this story spurred another tale or two, from a similar perspective. Stories of true life experience. Stories of war. Tales that worked in the same way to make a small change, a slight shift in perspective and possibility. I should not think to cry for Congo, but shine with light towards the energy of change. Even if it only begins with a story.

Driving storms

Saturday October 10, 2008 9:18 pm

It’s a perfect rainy night for sleeping, but I cannot. Lamine is coming in early this morning and it has been affecting me oddly all day. At least that’s what I think has been affecting me. Saturday shopping can sometimes be odd enough unto itself.

The rainy season rolled in on a thunderous storm cloud sometime last week. A thunderstorm in Congo is unlike anything I have experienced…ever. It is truly biblical. Only with the heaving thunder, do I get such a clear picture of how immense and large the sky really is. It’s like another land up there, cavernous and vast. “Clap” is too weak a word for what happens after the rumbling buildup. The surging booms and crackles echo off the atmosphere, giving a vivid picture of the planet’s roundness. The finale is so forceful it seems as though the earth itself will split in two. It could be felt so intimately I feared perhaps I might break apart as well.

There was no sleeping that night either so I rose, did schoolwork and read a book until 3 a.m. I could not help but think, if this is how the rainy season goes, it will be impossible to get much sleep.

Tonight around dusk the air turned such a deep and rosy pink. I could only think of that weather rhyme…”Red sky at night sailors delight, red sky in morning, sailors take warning.” At least that’s how I think it goes. But clearly, I felt red sky at night, get ready for fright. Sure enough, less than an hour later the wind picked up. The most fascinating thing about the wind here is that the trees are so tall and thin. They rain down mango and avocado fruits like pelting hail. Even the ‘leaves’ that tumble are huge palm fronds that quickly cover the path. It is easy to imagine a hurricane scene from some deserted island movie and the destruction that will follow.. Perhaps after some months experiencing the season, these storms will not produce such drastic images. With no personal history to reference, every storm holds the potential to create a massive impact. It is delicious to be home, feeling cozy and safe.

Tonight, however, I had been invited to a wedding reception and was obliged to have my first driving experience. I suppose, like Africa, I can never do anything halfway. I did try to excuse myself from the event but it was too late. There were three very formally dressed people unable to travel by foot or by car to their destination. SO! I waded up to the jeep (this is quite a hike across campus, through a mucky soccer field and across a flooded drive) imagining a lightening strike at any moment. After a slight scare, I managed to gain access to the key for the vehicle. Behind the wheel, the world was right again. I do love driving.

I agreed to bring them up the road to the reception but decided I would not stay and simply return straight away (perhaps due more to social phobia than the storm. A fully formal event such as this was probably not the best idea to attend alone.) As promised, the place was only 5 minutes or so up the road, 7 km away. Theoretically, a straight shot.

In actuality, I found my self on the opposite side of the road more frequently than on my own. Several times I looked up to see a truck or bus coming at me with only one headlight. There are even a few cars with no headlights at all. Of course, when looking up I was unable to examine the road for deep craters. (They tell me with enough practice, I will have memorized where the holes are, thus freeing my eyes for oncoming traffic.) This entire scenario is only possible because everyone is traveling 20 mph…maybe even less. At least, I was. There was a small stretch where I managed to get into fourth gear but it was a dark lonely patch of road near school with few pedestrians and real pavement.

Despite my initial hesitation to travel out into the storm, I am quite happy I did because I feel completely free now. There is hope that I will learn the route and head out into Kinshasa should I need to. Of course, Saturday shopping has always been about more than just the shopping…..

Wonderland

Monday September 29, 2008 9:51 p.m.

There is a magical path to school showered with wispy strands of a vibrant pink flower. The tree grows in my backyard. It began a few weeks ago. The ground beneath turned a slight pinkish hue. Slowly it began to spread until there was a full carpet of hot pink. It is a bright and unworldly sight. I am somehow reminded of James and the Giant Peach as I set off for school (perhaps I’ve had a warm-up with all the centipedes I find in the shower each morning.) It is such a simple, yet wondrous thing, this tree shedding its petals in such a beautiful, casual way. I still cannot believe these colors exist in nature. I grew up with the bright but earthy tones of New York autumns. The hues there are often as grand, the colors as lively. But I have never been privileged to have a door to Wonderland in my backyard. Not a day goes by that I don’t stop to remind myself, yes, I am living my dream. This was it. To be here. And I so completely am. It is as wild as the lizards that crawl across my wall. (They are in the same fashion as the wall hangings often found in the Southwestern décor, only with a moveable component.)

There are moments I stop to think, so this is what its like, to have the very thing you dreamed. To live a good, charmed life. And it certainly feels that way to me despite the frequent electric outages (actually decreased in the past few weeks) and water outages (still fairly predictable- Saturdays mid-morning.)

There have been days when Mohamed is particularly weepy that I stop to wonder. But I think it is due more to some we’d like to vote off the island than to any great disaster of change. I’m sure there are moments when we might be voted off as well…. But I can see it becoming a bit difficult to manage children’s relationships in such a close neighborhood with such a small school.

It is all connected to the difficulty in traveling and arranging play-dates outside. I’m trying to promise I’ll get there and stop being complacent with our lack of mobility. Driving is a huge step. There appear to be no traffic laws -it is even possible to drive down the middle of the street, creating a third lane of traffic. Why not? After all, there are no lane markers. I have seen a traffic light, though it doesn’t appear to currently be in use (or at least not connected to any voltage.) In many intersections there are police directing traffic, but the hand signals are clearly in another language (Lingala, perhaps? Probably not French, as I can’t quite make them out.) It is not just the other cars that one must worry about. The pedestrians walk around in a daze. They step into the street and begin to cross without even noticing they have entered into dangerous territory. I have seen too many people begin to walk only to come alive at the last minute- they shake their head as their eyes begin to come into focus. Sometimes they step back, often they just stop so you can swerve around them. It is considerate.

I have not yet been able to forget the words of advice offered during our brief intro to driving in Kinshasa. Most notably, if you should hit someone, do not stop. Drive directly to the nearest police station, hospital or government office. Hitting someone can quickly result in an angry mob outside your car. If possible, it is advisable to get the person into your car and take them to the hospital or police station. It is not advisable to get out of the car. It is not advisable to hand the police your real driver’s license. Do not open the window to the police but show them your i.d. through the rolled up window. Or, if you must, slide it through a slight slit in the top (even better- carry a laminated photocopy of the real thing.) As Americans, this is contrary to everything we’ve learned. It is such a contrast from a country where the police are to be trusted, obeyed, and respected. It is assumed they will do what is right and true and just…for most anyway. (Do I need to preface this by saying white Americans?)

Here, the Congolese that work into the evening are sure to be gone by nightfall. The military are not far from where we are. They ride the streets at night. It is supposed to be a safe, secure feeling but here in Wonderland, it is just not so. They are feared for harassment and brutality. How can a country hope to recover when there is no safety for its citizens? When I try to think about the wrongs of Africa, it becomes such a twisted, convoluted mess. It seems impossible to find a way to unravel the jealousies and hatreds, the hunger and greed; it seems impossible to open the closed minded focus that sees only what is good for some as opposed to all. It seems impossible to find a solution that is even slightly plausible.

And yet, today I managed to receive 2 dinner invitations, both from long term families, who have somehow found a way to chip slowly at a small piece, to make a bit of a difference in the way that they know how. Sometimes it seems like that is what I’m doing here, searching for my gift. Searching for a way to make a bit of positive change. Of course, I’m assuming I have a gift and that its forces can be put to good. If not, I suppose there’s always tea with the Mad Hatter.

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………