"She's living out of a suitcase. She had all of her stuff shipped back home." The conversation came on the heels of a premonition someone on campus felt about the security of life for us ex-pats in the DRC. I was catapaulted into a state of shock for entirely different reasons.
Congo is full of aid workers and 'helping' agencies. I've been reading and learning a lot about the real effect this kind of work has on a country. In addition, MONUC is a huge presence here in the capital as well as in the east. It's complicated trying to weigh the cost/ benefits. But because we are already living in such high tension, I had difficulty imagining an event that would warrant evacuating the foreigners.
Nevertheless, my neighbor and I continued to contemplate. What would our contracts cover? Where would we go? And what would happen to any of the things we left behind? She contemplated how to best provide something for her nanny- who would certainly be in dire straits without a job. And I wondered what all of the Congolese who depended on foreigners for their livelihood would do.
But mostly I thought about myself. I felt caught in the dilemma of nationhood. Where would I be shipped off to? I simply can no longer imagine life in the U.S. and feel no desire to go back. For an instant of panic, I felt that familiar, weightless, floating sense of being without a home- no where to go. There are plenty of people I've encountered recently who have lived in the Congo for a decade or more. I wonder precisely at which moment does a country become home and when does the birthplace become abandoned, or if not abandoned, replaced as the country of identification?
While my neighbor continued to make decisions and lists about which of her things would be most important in an immediate evacutaion, I continued a stubborn resistance. I'm not going. Can I really say I'm not going? But I don't want to go. I have nowhere to go. Why should I go? This one track questioning played over and over in my mind as I compared myself to the Congolese--- who had no decision to make. I've long struggled with this ability to fly out of conflict. A privilege? A curse? A point of confusion if nothing more. Suddenly I felt like a refugee in reverse. I fully realized that someone else may very well be making this decision for me. And I realized it is not a hazard of teaching in many places. But in Africa, at any moment, the government could go south and things could get, well.....tricky. But I really am not ready to give up what I have found.
I am still clinging to the idea when you're home, you're home. And I don't feel able to fly off in the face of danger. I have never felt more content in my life, in my being, in the way I am greeted by each new day.
29.11.09
24.10.09
the very nothing
We sped to the airport at 100 mph (ok, so maybe it was 100 kph,) but it seemed as though the car itself were about to take off. At 5:30 am the streets were empty. I harboured plenty of doubts about whether the car was equipped with working brakes but I suddenly felt certain I would make the plane on time...provided of course there were no potholes or unexpected pedestrians to throw the car into a deathly spin.
After a short four days, I was regretfully leaving Lubumbashi, a city that had easily and quickly enchanted me. The Hotel Everybody created an atmosphere reminiscent of Guinee in so many ways and I felt just as awful leaving here as I did on my way to Gbessia.
I slept in Paris. All of the rooms were named after locations around the world (everything from Texas to Tokyo.) The 'deluxe' room included a large bed, small round table and its own toilet and shower. Of course, there wasn't actually any running water but at least I could bathe from my bucket in private. There was also the additional option of a TV, which I found unecessary, especially as there was no electricity except at night when the they ran the generator.
The generator was necessary because Hotel Everybody was also a hopping night spot. Just before dusk, they brought out the round plastic tables imprinted with the blue Primus logo and unstacked the chairs. The courtyard turned into an outdoor lounge and dance floor. A large speaker amplified the music playing in the disco room. People jumped up at their tables or filled in the walkway as the music moved them. And it did.
Every night seemed to bring a different crowd. Saturday, two futbol teams came in, drinking and dancing together. I smiled bemusedly as I tried to imagine American football players holding hands and dancing with each other in such a seductive way. Congolese dance is all about rotating the pelvis and low bent knees bouncing in and out. The sheer joy was evident as young boys sang and gestured trying to outdo each other's moves.
Sunday night was the most popular evening it seemed. Beautiful people in bright whites streamed into the disco room, which seemed to magically expand in order to accomodate them all. It was impossibly full. Walking in there was like stepping out of Africa. Black light flickered as a central disco ball spun a rainbow of fireworks splashing around the room. The music was intensely loud, prohibiting conversation. A smoke horn penetrated the noise every so often with a loud wailing siren as fog sprayed into the room. It was completely surreal.
I found a more enjoyable spot in the dining room where we generally ate our meals. It afforded a view of the stunning young Congolese as they came out of the darkness into the light. Often they paused for a last dance step just outside the doorway or a laugh with their friends. Many were drenched and dripping sweat. All were tall, proud and joyous.
Hotel Everybody had a different story by day, which was just as engaging to me. I spent the mornings walking in the marketplace, drawing and talking with those working nearby. I talked with Mama Louise in the outdoor kitchen and we prepared a few meals together. I made my first dish with the small iron cookstove used for cooking outside in Africa. I found it difficult to regulate the heat but Mama Louise indulged me by adjusting the charcoal as I needed.
I spent an entire day talking to Kazadi- who sold crates of beer and soda from a small cement depot in front of the hotel. I first met Kazadi when he took us to the Lubumbashi zoo- a trip fraught with laughter as we searched 'empty' cages for signs of animal life. One area held a small crocodile which appeared either plastic or dead. Kazadi insisted it was neither and threw a small stone at the animal. Nothing happened at all which only reinforced the point. Kazadi had a gentle manner and beautiful smile. I wanted to hear his story.
We sat in the depot, drawing and talking and watching the people go by. Aside from our brief sojourn to the zoo, Kazadi told me he works everyday from 8-6. He gets paid $20 per month and sleeps on a foam mattress on the cement floor. The windows are broken and the nights are cool in Lubumbashi. He keeps his clothes in a room at the motel which some of the other workers share. He takes one meal a day there and sometimes he pays for it, sometimes it is a gift.
Kazadi tells me he doesn't know the story of his father, as he died when Kazadi was only an infant. He thinks his father was a diabetic. "My mom, I know the story of my mom, " he says. "She collapsed in front of me." He was in sixth grade when his mom died. Someone took him in long enough to get through school and then sent him on his own to find work. He's done everything from selling shoes to stealing before finding the job at the depot.
Kazadi smiled frequently and seemed to have a joy for life that simply amazed me. He said he was only in Lubumbashi for 2 months and dreamed of a better life, studying at university. In some ways, the story of Kazadi is not a terrible one. He is employed, he sleeps inside- out of the rain and the dust, and he eats a daily meal with others. But the sight of his foam mattress rolled up behind the tin door is an image that stays with me.
Upon arrival to my own home, I felt completely overwhelmed by my possessions. I have an entire room dedicated to hanging my wet laundry and this boy is sleeping admist crates of beer. Its not the first time I've encountered someone with nothing more than a bundle of clothes, but I admit to becoming complacent, to forgetting. I look around at the few things I have, blankets, bags, photographs, a calendar on the wall, and I compare this to the very nothing that Kazadi has...and so many like him who, impossibly, have even less.
I remember the friendly smiles I was greeted with, the warmth as people held my hand while we talked and the ready conversation all around. I remember shared plates of food, the energy passing between dancers and the way passers-by would stop in a moment of joy for a quick dance step or to sing a refrain that everyone seemed to know. I remember these things from my quiet, solitary house and wonder who really has less. I know it is only me if I don't do something. And there is plenty that I can do.....
After a short four days, I was regretfully leaving Lubumbashi, a city that had easily and quickly enchanted me. The Hotel Everybody created an atmosphere reminiscent of Guinee in so many ways and I felt just as awful leaving here as I did on my way to Gbessia.
I slept in Paris. All of the rooms were named after locations around the world (everything from Texas to Tokyo.) The 'deluxe' room included a large bed, small round table and its own toilet and shower. Of course, there wasn't actually any running water but at least I could bathe from my bucket in private. There was also the additional option of a TV, which I found unecessary, especially as there was no electricity except at night when the they ran the generator.
The generator was necessary because Hotel Everybody was also a hopping night spot. Just before dusk, they brought out the round plastic tables imprinted with the blue Primus logo and unstacked the chairs. The courtyard turned into an outdoor lounge and dance floor. A large speaker amplified the music playing in the disco room. People jumped up at their tables or filled in the walkway as the music moved them. And it did.
Every night seemed to bring a different crowd. Saturday, two futbol teams came in, drinking and dancing together. I smiled bemusedly as I tried to imagine American football players holding hands and dancing with each other in such a seductive way. Congolese dance is all about rotating the pelvis and low bent knees bouncing in and out. The sheer joy was evident as young boys sang and gestured trying to outdo each other's moves.
Sunday night was the most popular evening it seemed. Beautiful people in bright whites streamed into the disco room, which seemed to magically expand in order to accomodate them all. It was impossibly full. Walking in there was like stepping out of Africa. Black light flickered as a central disco ball spun a rainbow of fireworks splashing around the room. The music was intensely loud, prohibiting conversation. A smoke horn penetrated the noise every so often with a loud wailing siren as fog sprayed into the room. It was completely surreal.
I found a more enjoyable spot in the dining room where we generally ate our meals. It afforded a view of the stunning young Congolese as they came out of the darkness into the light. Often they paused for a last dance step just outside the doorway or a laugh with their friends. Many were drenched and dripping sweat. All were tall, proud and joyous.
Hotel Everybody had a different story by day, which was just as engaging to me. I spent the mornings walking in the marketplace, drawing and talking with those working nearby. I talked with Mama Louise in the outdoor kitchen and we prepared a few meals together. I made my first dish with the small iron cookstove used for cooking outside in Africa. I found it difficult to regulate the heat but Mama Louise indulged me by adjusting the charcoal as I needed.
I spent an entire day talking to Kazadi- who sold crates of beer and soda from a small cement depot in front of the hotel. I first met Kazadi when he took us to the Lubumbashi zoo- a trip fraught with laughter as we searched 'empty' cages for signs of animal life. One area held a small crocodile which appeared either plastic or dead. Kazadi insisted it was neither and threw a small stone at the animal. Nothing happened at all which only reinforced the point. Kazadi had a gentle manner and beautiful smile. I wanted to hear his story.
Kazadi tells me he doesn't know the story of his father, as he died when Kazadi was only an infant. He thinks his father was a diabetic. "My mom, I know the story of my mom, " he says. "She collapsed in front of me." He was in sixth grade when his mom died. Someone took him in long enough to get through school and then sent him on his own to find work. He's done everything from selling shoes to stealing before finding the job at the depot.
Kazadi smiled frequently and seemed to have a joy for life that simply amazed me. He said he was only in Lubumbashi for 2 months and dreamed of a better life, studying at university. In some ways, the story of Kazadi is not a terrible one. He is employed, he sleeps inside- out of the rain and the dust, and he eats a daily meal with others. But the sight of his foam mattress rolled up behind the tin door is an image that stays with me.
Upon arrival to my own home, I felt completely overwhelmed by my possessions. I have an entire room dedicated to hanging my wet laundry and this boy is sleeping admist crates of beer. Its not the first time I've encountered someone with nothing more than a bundle of clothes, but I admit to becoming complacent, to forgetting. I look around at the few things I have, blankets, bags, photographs, a calendar on the wall, and I compare this to the very nothing that Kazadi has...and so many like him who, impossibly, have even less.
I remember the friendly smiles I was greeted with, the warmth as people held my hand while we talked and the ready conversation all around. I remember shared plates of food, the energy passing between dancers and the way passers-by would stop in a moment of joy for a quick dance step or to sing a refrain that everyone seemed to know. I remember these things from my quiet, solitary house and wonder who really has less. I know it is only me if I don't do something. And there is plenty that I can do.....
10.10.09
In Plain English (or as close as I can come to it anyway..)
But that was not even the beginning of the perfect day. (Well, technically, that was the beginning, but that is not yet the perfect part, although it was a nice time.)
I had arranged for Jacques to come to Stand Proud with me this Saturday to do some drumming with the kids. Last week, as we drew, music played and some of the kids were dancing and moving. It seemed evident they would love to have some live music to groove to.
"Are we going to draw today?" one child asked me and I couldn't tell if it was hopefully or with lazy interest. I sent them off to gather the others for a great surprise.The children were immediately drawn to the drums and with Jacques' incredible spirit he easily inspired them to dance, sing and express themselves. Their eyes were filled with pure joy and excitement and smiles lifted every face. I felt completely happy to see them so caught up in the moment. And it really was about the moment. I did not feel any need to think about longevity, sustainability or continuity. I just wanted a day of pure pleasure for these kids. And they got it. So did I.
Nothing gold...
I am sure I would have noticed the armed guard even if Mohamed hadn't said, on the way out of the gate, "You see? Noah's security men have guns." Guns? Weapons was a more accurate word from my perspective. A gun is something small that you can fit in your hand or the waistband of your pants. This was slung over the guard's shoulder and at least as long as his arm, from shoulder to fingertips- unlikely to be hidden in a waistband or anywhere else. The purpose of this machine was to be seen and carried with presence.
I wondered what position his father held that warranted armed security at the gate. And as I drove out, I thought for a moment of the family that lived within the walls and the implications of having such high level protection. Nothing to envy. I went home to record that, while my face painting adventure had been aside the wealthy and important, I was happy to be counted among the peasants.
I had responded to a request from a parent to facepaint at her daughter's birthday. Apparently she had seen my work at the annual welcome picnic for school and gotten my number from the organizers. For unknown reasons, I agreed. In some ways, it sounded fun and in other ways, I simply have a hard time saying no. I agreed to transform a bunch of 5-9 year olds into fairy princesses and wall climbing superheroes in exchange for bringing the boys to the party (which I had heard would be a pool party with swimming, good snacks and fun.) I was completely unprepared for what I walked in to.
The house was a short drive down a very small, country type lane. Typically, the houses were all surrounded by large perimeter walls giving nothing away except a number. This particular house was at the complete end of the road. We were graciously welcomed into the drive by friendly security and my breath was immediately taken away.
I have, in my position as teacher and an American, found myself in some relatively high class homes (the American Ambassador has a lovely home, the president of the Board of Education has an equally luxurious and picturesque abode) but this house instantly transported me from Congo to deep in the middle of a romanticized landscape painting. Bordering the drive was a lush, green lawn that sloped and curved down to the house. There were several small, cottage like buildings on the grounds decorated with minature trees and flourishing shrubs. Just to the left, a view of the backyard unfolded and beyond, a scene reminiscent of a traditional village. Women walked down a dusty road as children ran after a rolling tire. The distant muted tones contrasted sharply with the vibrant greens and warm hues of the yard and house. The doorway was arched and lent a Spanish appeal to the entranceway. African masks hung above the door and beveled glass framed each side. I wanted to wander the gardens, snapping photos and reveling in the beauty. It was at once charming and a bit disarming.
I was welcomed into the house by a beautiful, intensely dark African woman (so many of the families here are breathtakingly beautiful.) We had never met and she introduced herself. I complimented her house as unease began to creep up. I was clearly out of my element. We stepped into a stone tiled dining area where several guests were seated, enjoying drinks and snacks. Most of the conversation was in French and I did not recognize anyone, not even the children. Dashed were my images of painting faces amidst running, jumping children and joking with those I might know from school. I was crushed in a massive, nearly painful grip as she introduced her husband, a bald and serious German.
Children being children, the boys were easily swept off to play with one acquaintance from school. I was left to sit alone, unsure how to join in the conversation and wishing only to hide behind my own mask of painted faces. A butler (?!) offered drinks, which I could only decline. The birthday girl appeared, a delicate, golden child framed with luxuriant curly hair and beset with calm, determined eyes. She placed a chair in front of me and sat down expectantly. I took this as a grateful sign to begin and moved her into a more comfortable placement by the stunning, ceiling to floor glass wall. This put some distance between me and the other adults, relieving the pressure and anxiety of my social phobia. I felt distinctly outclassed.
The boys had no trouble relating, however, and made themselves quite at home playing and eating. Mohamed took advantage of the pool which boasted a marble fountain of an African princess holding a calabash. Everywhere I turned, I was confronted with glass French doors, polished tile floors or winding steps leading to small landings equipped with ornate metal benches and chairs. I remained in a state of shock and silence as long I could before making what I hoped was a not too hasty exit.
In searching for the hostess to offer my thanks and farewells, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen. It was a kitchen with a solid, hinged door. The kind that hides a trio of cooks and cleaners. The kind that is not welcoming to strangers or houseguests. It was not a kitchen of warm laughter shared over hot beverages, but one of hushed whispers and silent smiles of service. As full of fairy tale potential the house seemed to be, I, cynically perhaps, sensed a falseness to it all. Perhaps my vision was tainted by the veils of injustice. I felt slightly off balance because I could not quite reconcile how something this exquisite could exist in the middle of such disheartening poverty.
Vero lives up the road about 5 minutes. I am completely aware that at her house there is frequently no water for weeks at a time. She shares a two room flat with 3 other adults and 5 children. Her elderly aunt has moved to an area around the back of the house and sleeps with the rabbits and pigeons she raises. I simply couldn't put the two worlds together and felt ill at the prospect of trying. Oddly enough, I have passed hours at Vero's, reluctant to go home. Yet here, surrounded by oppulence, I couldn't stand another second.
As we passed the armed guards, I thought of the privileged life the three dazzling children and their equally gorgeous parents would continue to lead. I could envision their daily joys and successes and simply wondered why life couldn't be as golden for everyone.
I wondered what position his father held that warranted armed security at the gate. And as I drove out, I thought for a moment of the family that lived within the walls and the implications of having such high level protection. Nothing to envy. I went home to record that, while my face painting adventure had been aside the wealthy and important, I was happy to be counted among the peasants.
I had responded to a request from a parent to facepaint at her daughter's birthday. Apparently she had seen my work at the annual welcome picnic for school and gotten my number from the organizers. For unknown reasons, I agreed. In some ways, it sounded fun and in other ways, I simply have a hard time saying no. I agreed to transform a bunch of 5-9 year olds into fairy princesses and wall climbing superheroes in exchange for bringing the boys to the party (which I had heard would be a pool party with swimming, good snacks and fun.) I was completely unprepared for what I walked in to.
The house was a short drive down a very small, country type lane. Typically, the houses were all surrounded by large perimeter walls giving nothing away except a number. This particular house was at the complete end of the road. We were graciously welcomed into the drive by friendly security and my breath was immediately taken away.
I have, in my position as teacher and an American, found myself in some relatively high class homes (the American Ambassador has a lovely home, the president of the Board of Education has an equally luxurious and picturesque abode) but this house instantly transported me from Congo to deep in the middle of a romanticized landscape painting. Bordering the drive was a lush, green lawn that sloped and curved down to the house. There were several small, cottage like buildings on the grounds decorated with minature trees and flourishing shrubs. Just to the left, a view of the backyard unfolded and beyond, a scene reminiscent of a traditional village. Women walked down a dusty road as children ran after a rolling tire. The distant muted tones contrasted sharply with the vibrant greens and warm hues of the yard and house. The doorway was arched and lent a Spanish appeal to the entranceway. African masks hung above the door and beveled glass framed each side. I wanted to wander the gardens, snapping photos and reveling in the beauty. It was at once charming and a bit disarming.
I was welcomed into the house by a beautiful, intensely dark African woman (so many of the families here are breathtakingly beautiful.) We had never met and she introduced herself. I complimented her house as unease began to creep up. I was clearly out of my element. We stepped into a stone tiled dining area where several guests were seated, enjoying drinks and snacks. Most of the conversation was in French and I did not recognize anyone, not even the children. Dashed were my images of painting faces amidst running, jumping children and joking with those I might know from school. I was crushed in a massive, nearly painful grip as she introduced her husband, a bald and serious German.
Children being children, the boys were easily swept off to play with one acquaintance from school. I was left to sit alone, unsure how to join in the conversation and wishing only to hide behind my own mask of painted faces. A butler (?!) offered drinks, which I could only decline. The birthday girl appeared, a delicate, golden child framed with luxuriant curly hair and beset with calm, determined eyes. She placed a chair in front of me and sat down expectantly. I took this as a grateful sign to begin and moved her into a more comfortable placement by the stunning, ceiling to floor glass wall. This put some distance between me and the other adults, relieving the pressure and anxiety of my social phobia. I felt distinctly outclassed.
The boys had no trouble relating, however, and made themselves quite at home playing and eating. Mohamed took advantage of the pool which boasted a marble fountain of an African princess holding a calabash. Everywhere I turned, I was confronted with glass French doors, polished tile floors or winding steps leading to small landings equipped with ornate metal benches and chairs. I remained in a state of shock and silence as long I could before making what I hoped was a not too hasty exit.
In searching for the hostess to offer my thanks and farewells, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen. It was a kitchen with a solid, hinged door. The kind that hides a trio of cooks and cleaners. The kind that is not welcoming to strangers or houseguests. It was not a kitchen of warm laughter shared over hot beverages, but one of hushed whispers and silent smiles of service. As full of fairy tale potential the house seemed to be, I, cynically perhaps, sensed a falseness to it all. Perhaps my vision was tainted by the veils of injustice. I felt slightly off balance because I could not quite reconcile how something this exquisite could exist in the middle of such disheartening poverty.
Vero lives up the road about 5 minutes. I am completely aware that at her house there is frequently no water for weeks at a time. She shares a two room flat with 3 other adults and 5 children. Her elderly aunt has moved to an area around the back of the house and sleeps with the rabbits and pigeons she raises. I simply couldn't put the two worlds together and felt ill at the prospect of trying. Oddly enough, I have passed hours at Vero's, reluctant to go home. Yet here, surrounded by oppulence, I couldn't stand another second.
As we passed the armed guards, I thought of the privileged life the three dazzling children and their equally gorgeous parents would continue to lead. I could envision their daily joys and successes and simply wondered why life couldn't be as golden for everyone.
27.9.09
Madame Mondele
I returned minus one pair of scissors. I am trying to figure out if I should be grateful or indignant. I did begin with 12. It could easily have appeared to the untrained eye that I had plenty to spare. I am forever battling this concept of poverty versus prosperity.
It actually began when I dropped Mohamed off at a birthday party. A new restaurant has opened in Kintambo which has left everyone abuzz. Birthday parties themselves have a tendancy to leave me feeling overwhelmed and out of my social sphere. It is then that I realize Mohamed's friends are children of diplomats and ambassadors. The luxuries I see upon dropping him off make my radiant surroundings seem dreary in comparison. The latest party was being held at the aforementioned new hotspot in town. The bright, colorful building boasted sparkling glass doors and shiny tile hallways. One entire wall was covered with a mixture of paintings and three dimensional art complete with African masks and a cowrie shell design. Several flights up we were presented with a very Western style cafe. Burly men in black t-shirts and nylon caps were waiting to greet us. The dining area was full of tables and patrons enjoying an early lunch. A private party room off to the side enclosed a childrens climbing and play area. As I'd heard a salad and pita sandwich had run one couple something in the neighborhood of $30, I could not really comprehend the price of this party- 20 children for sandwiches, fries and a drink.......
Everything I do here puts me in the land of the surreal. At one time in my not too distant past, I was standing in a cold kitchen accepting bags filled with staples from a dear friend who was aware of my dire situation. No money for nutriants or warmth. My landlord was offering to loan me money so I could put a bit of oil in the tank during a long and particularly cold winter. I couldn't see past the next meal. But here I am pulling into a parking lot filled with sleek, shiny SUV's in polished blacks and grays. I dropped my child off at a birthday party that probably cost more than I spend on a month of groceries. As I pulled around to the back exit, the gate opened to reveal a teeming mass of children clothed in dusty rags waving sticks, empty hands and cheerful smiles in my direction as I, the imposter, deftly drove the car over piles of paper scraps and around craters that littered this back alley. When I returned a few hours later, the children were gone- disappearing with the rain- but I could still see them, and I could still feel their presence along the cramped and littered lane.
Whle Mohamed was whooping it up with his friends, Nabih and I headed for ACDF. This day I had brought their drawings, of which I have been collecting for unknown reasons, and thought we could work together on a forest collage. I was also prepared with their salt sculptures and paints from the previous week in case it seemed possible to organize and manage two different activities at once. I can never be sure how many kids will be there and which ones exactly. It makes a continuing project challenging at best.
After arriving, I quickly decided to scrap the painting plans and work solely on the collage. I taped up some sheets of large green paper which were a sharp and welcome contrast to the gray, dingy walls. The kids seemed to get the idea pretty quickly and began easily cutting out their past drawings. Many were also anxious to begin new drawings which were also cut out and pasted. It was a hive of busy concentration. Several children quickly became designated the 'gluers' and were in charge of assembling the collage on the wall. Less clear were my directions, suggestions and samples of how to construct trees, grass and water. We managed to get a few tree-like structures around the edges and a square of water somewhere in the middle to accomodate a swimming rhinocerous whose legs were accidently cut off by an overly enthusiastic snipper.
In their zeal, however, things began to become fantastic. Horses were flying in the sky only inches away from army helicopters. Men walked effortlessly along the jungle treetops and jeeps supported elephants without caving in. I laughed as I questioned in my broken French, "Es'que ca vole?"
They laughed right back assuring me it was so, animals and houses alike could fly.
I managed a shift when one boy proudly showed me his drawing of one the new washers. Yes, it was definately reminiscent of the sporty machines sitting in the corner. A few moments later I noticed him grandly applying glue and tacking his portrait to the uppermost corner of our second jungle scene.
"Do they really have that in the forest?" I inquired. I really could not tell if they were getting the concept of creating a jungle collage or if they were expressing perspective in a different way. I am well acquainted with the village drawings that are multilayered, descending down the page, house upon house upon garden until a river runs along the bottom. It is akin to the Oriental design using a vertical, rather than horizontal, perspective.
Yet again I was met with laughter and a nod.
"C'est vrai?! Un machine, dans le foret?" Really?! A machine in the forest? I felt determined to get to the heart of the confusion. But as he turned to look at me and assure me, completely and truly with every ounce of his being that YES! there were washing machines in the forest, the trees finally gave way and I saw everything for what it was. His eyes were shining and he patted the corners of his creation firmly to the wall. His work was on display for all to see. THAT was greater than any juxtaposition of brown and green construction paper I was hoping would be assembled into an arrangement of tree and leaf like shapes. There was a use for their carefully drawn designs of the past and it was simply to be hung, admired and commented upon.
As I was realizing this, I looked over to the benches in the back of the room. A few mintues after arrival, a storm appeared in the sky forcing the older teens and visitors to move inside. They sat on the benches, talking or just looking, not having much to do. Some took up the task of coloring or cutting, others just chided those who were involved. There is an art to this patient waiting here in Africa. I've seen it many places as well as repeated in the theater. African dramas are often comprised of social scenes that involve sitting and talking. Its true to life. But it also requires a constant readjustment of my perspective.
Comparitively, drawing a realistic model and hanging it on the wall turns the piece into a focal point, a source of discussion, admiration and even some good natured joshing. Recognition and validation by one's peers secured. (I am sensing a pattern here. I just need to remember that I see it and that it is of value.)
This day there was more of a teaching component to the activites. I felt a distinct eye on me as the mothers of prospective recipients watched from their new, inside seats. We were now the entertainment. And I do have a role to fill on these Saturday's. While I continue to decipher what it means to me personally, the children have no doubt. "Madame, madame.." they call as I hand out supplies. They want refills, pencil sharpeners, more markers, markers that work,...etc. Occasionally, I feel they are too demanding and I try, in Lingala, to get them to say please. "Soko olingi," I prompt. Although I've learned a few useful phrases, their reaction never differs. They smile and laugh as general comments circulate the room. I can never be sure if they take me seriously. And with the extended audience, the chorus of "Madame" was ever growing, song like and clearly the subject of some discussion. We will have to work on my name and I on theirs.
There are moments of concentration and focus interspersed with chaos and confusion. Generally it is in the setting up and cleaning up that supplies tend to go missing. I have been aware of this and understand it is a risk of the trade. The lego building has remained on hiatus for this very reason. I imagine there is a bit of it that could be cured by relationship building. The more often I visit the center, the better we come to know one another, the more respect we might develop. But I am distinctly aware of a bridge I cannot cross. As I work there, I see myself through their eyes. I feel foreign and unknown to myself in this light. It makes the gaps between us seem all the more insurmountable. With my 12 pairs of scissors and 13 glue sticks, every week I show up with books and paper and crayons in bright pink pails. Just last week, I was badgered to rudeness by a girl who wanted one of the pails and felt I should be obligated to give it to her.
I begin to lose my patience. I want them to make the connection that I am bringing these supplies and materials for their benefit and if they filch them piece by piece, there will be nothing left to bring. I want it to be an even exchange of gifts. If I bring the the entertainment, they can respond by sending me off with all of my original pieces. But it cannot really work this way. No matter how many times I come, there is always the chance that I won't show up. They are awaiting the day when I fly off to some other locale, leaving them once again to dusty, dreary Saturdays sans l'art, sans l'jouie. Until some other mondele shows up with grand ideas and hopeful plans. I am not sure if I can transcend this image of the wealthy white. I still carry memories of my own dark time, peering into empty kitchen cupboards and wondering how the children will eat. I know that, in comparison, it is not really the same. But I also know that, while I do not necessarily want to be their 'madame mondele,' I have not comitted to Kinshsasa. It is very likely I am waiting for a plane to whisk me off to some other locale.....
It actually began when I dropped Mohamed off at a birthday party. A new restaurant has opened in Kintambo which has left everyone abuzz. Birthday parties themselves have a tendancy to leave me feeling overwhelmed and out of my social sphere. It is then that I realize Mohamed's friends are children of diplomats and ambassadors. The luxuries I see upon dropping him off make my radiant surroundings seem dreary in comparison. The latest party was being held at the aforementioned new hotspot in town. The bright, colorful building boasted sparkling glass doors and shiny tile hallways. One entire wall was covered with a mixture of paintings and three dimensional art complete with African masks and a cowrie shell design. Several flights up we were presented with a very Western style cafe. Burly men in black t-shirts and nylon caps were waiting to greet us. The dining area was full of tables and patrons enjoying an early lunch. A private party room off to the side enclosed a childrens climbing and play area. As I'd heard a salad and pita sandwich had run one couple something in the neighborhood of $30, I could not really comprehend the price of this party- 20 children for sandwiches, fries and a drink.......
Everything I do here puts me in the land of the surreal. At one time in my not too distant past, I was standing in a cold kitchen accepting bags filled with staples from a dear friend who was aware of my dire situation. No money for nutriants or warmth. My landlord was offering to loan me money so I could put a bit of oil in the tank during a long and particularly cold winter. I couldn't see past the next meal. But here I am pulling into a parking lot filled with sleek, shiny SUV's in polished blacks and grays. I dropped my child off at a birthday party that probably cost more than I spend on a month of groceries. As I pulled around to the back exit, the gate opened to reveal a teeming mass of children clothed in dusty rags waving sticks, empty hands and cheerful smiles in my direction as I, the imposter, deftly drove the car over piles of paper scraps and around craters that littered this back alley. When I returned a few hours later, the children were gone- disappearing with the rain- but I could still see them, and I could still feel their presence along the cramped and littered lane.
Whle Mohamed was whooping it up with his friends, Nabih and I headed for ACDF. This day I had brought their drawings, of which I have been collecting for unknown reasons, and thought we could work together on a forest collage. I was also prepared with their salt sculptures and paints from the previous week in case it seemed possible to organize and manage two different activities at once. I can never be sure how many kids will be there and which ones exactly. It makes a continuing project challenging at best.
After arriving, I quickly decided to scrap the painting plans and work solely on the collage. I taped up some sheets of large green paper which were a sharp and welcome contrast to the gray, dingy walls. The kids seemed to get the idea pretty quickly and began easily cutting out their past drawings. Many were also anxious to begin new drawings which were also cut out and pasted. It was a hive of busy concentration. Several children quickly became designated the 'gluers' and were in charge of assembling the collage on the wall. Less clear were my directions, suggestions and samples of how to construct trees, grass and water. We managed to get a few tree-like structures around the edges and a square of water somewhere in the middle to accomodate a swimming rhinocerous whose legs were accidently cut off by an overly enthusiastic snipper.
In their zeal, however, things began to become fantastic. Horses were flying in the sky only inches away from army helicopters. Men walked effortlessly along the jungle treetops and jeeps supported elephants without caving in. I laughed as I questioned in my broken French, "Es'que ca vole?"
They laughed right back assuring me it was so, animals and houses alike could fly.
I managed a shift when one boy proudly showed me his drawing of one the new washers. Yes, it was definately reminiscent of the sporty machines sitting in the corner. A few moments later I noticed him grandly applying glue and tacking his portrait to the uppermost corner of our second jungle scene.
"Do they really have that in the forest?" I inquired. I really could not tell if they were getting the concept of creating a jungle collage or if they were expressing perspective in a different way. I am well acquainted with the village drawings that are multilayered, descending down the page, house upon house upon garden until a river runs along the bottom. It is akin to the Oriental design using a vertical, rather than horizontal, perspective.
Yet again I was met with laughter and a nod.
"C'est vrai?! Un machine, dans le foret?" Really?! A machine in the forest? I felt determined to get to the heart of the confusion. But as he turned to look at me and assure me, completely and truly with every ounce of his being that YES! there were washing machines in the forest, the trees finally gave way and I saw everything for what it was. His eyes were shining and he patted the corners of his creation firmly to the wall. His work was on display for all to see. THAT was greater than any juxtaposition of brown and green construction paper I was hoping would be assembled into an arrangement of tree and leaf like shapes. There was a use for their carefully drawn designs of the past and it was simply to be hung, admired and commented upon.
As I was realizing this, I looked over to the benches in the back of the room. A few mintues after arrival, a storm appeared in the sky forcing the older teens and visitors to move inside. They sat on the benches, talking or just looking, not having much to do. Some took up the task of coloring or cutting, others just chided those who were involved. There is an art to this patient waiting here in Africa. I've seen it many places as well as repeated in the theater. African dramas are often comprised of social scenes that involve sitting and talking. Its true to life. But it also requires a constant readjustment of my perspective.
Comparitively, drawing a realistic model and hanging it on the wall turns the piece into a focal point, a source of discussion, admiration and even some good natured joshing. Recognition and validation by one's peers secured. (I am sensing a pattern here. I just need to remember that I see it and that it is of value.)
This day there was more of a teaching component to the activites. I felt a distinct eye on me as the mothers of prospective recipients watched from their new, inside seats. We were now the entertainment. And I do have a role to fill on these Saturday's. While I continue to decipher what it means to me personally, the children have no doubt. "Madame, madame.." they call as I hand out supplies. They want refills, pencil sharpeners, more markers, markers that work,...etc. Occasionally, I feel they are too demanding and I try, in Lingala, to get them to say please. "Soko olingi," I prompt. Although I've learned a few useful phrases, their reaction never differs. They smile and laugh as general comments circulate the room. I can never be sure if they take me seriously. And with the extended audience, the chorus of "Madame" was ever growing, song like and clearly the subject of some discussion. We will have to work on my name and I on theirs.
There are moments of concentration and focus interspersed with chaos and confusion. Generally it is in the setting up and cleaning up that supplies tend to go missing. I have been aware of this and understand it is a risk of the trade. The lego building has remained on hiatus for this very reason. I imagine there is a bit of it that could be cured by relationship building. The more often I visit the center, the better we come to know one another, the more respect we might develop. But I am distinctly aware of a bridge I cannot cross. As I work there, I see myself through their eyes. I feel foreign and unknown to myself in this light. It makes the gaps between us seem all the more insurmountable. With my 12 pairs of scissors and 13 glue sticks, every week I show up with books and paper and crayons in bright pink pails. Just last week, I was badgered to rudeness by a girl who wanted one of the pails and felt I should be obligated to give it to her.
I begin to lose my patience. I want them to make the connection that I am bringing these supplies and materials for their benefit and if they filch them piece by piece, there will be nothing left to bring. I want it to be an even exchange of gifts. If I bring the the entertainment, they can respond by sending me off with all of my original pieces. But it cannot really work this way. No matter how many times I come, there is always the chance that I won't show up. They are awaiting the day when I fly off to some other locale, leaving them once again to dusty, dreary Saturdays sans l'art, sans l'jouie. Until some other mondele shows up with grand ideas and hopeful plans. I am not sure if I can transcend this image of the wealthy white. I still carry memories of my own dark time, peering into empty kitchen cupboards and wondering how the children will eat. I know that, in comparison, it is not really the same. But I also know that, while I do not necessarily want to be their 'madame mondele,' I have not comitted to Kinshsasa. It is very likely I am waiting for a plane to whisk me off to some other locale.....
20.9.09
what i could have written about but didn't
completely unsatisfied with my most recent entry but unsure of how to change it...i decided just to invite you to sample the random, swirling thoughts that fill my head each day from which i try to construct coherent, interesting and descriptive sentences. i could have written about
Instead, working to focus and present information (more photos pleeeze) on aspects of life as
an enfant du pays......sans le famille, sans les amies, sans l'amour, mais avec le main de dieu
raising two boys in africa, loving dance, and searching for adventure as found in everyday heroes
- a dancing pig
- the 23 year old who left it all to learn swahili and start a school
- how completely unimportant and meaningless my own personal life felt after reading that article
- oatmeal raisin cookies, homemade ice cream and teaching couple from sudan
- the 10 year old girl filled with emotion who thought her cousin was involved in congo's abusive tin mining practices
- chocolate banana cookies, homemade frozen yogurt and a neighbor
- malian women refusing their own right to speak for themselves and be educated
- the 4 year old who had an entire building of children repeating his sing song words (yes, that would be my four year old.....he's got a gift--- of some nature)
- the conservative right, as found everywhere here in drc and the vast approaches i've developed to respond and interact with them on a daily basis
- emotional uncertainty and psychological imbalance...as experienced here in drc on a daily basis (oh wait, i think my last post was about that...)
- the huge wedding? or other event held just around the corner, creating thrilling traffic scenes as drivers hauled their oversize camions into alternate lanes despite oncoming traffic (no worries, accident averted...i had at least 2 inches between my mirror and theirs)
- insects and the complete annoyance and final tolerance of finding them absolutely everywhere, surely i've eaten more than a few....am i still a vegetarian?
- the process of creative (or written!) art and how the end result often does not match our emotional journey nor our aesthetic preferences.........
Instead, working to focus and present information (more photos pleeeze) on aspects of life as
an enfant du pays......sans le famille, sans les amies, sans l'amour, mais avec le main de dieu
raising two boys in africa, loving dance, and searching for adventure as found in everyday heroes
19.9.09
the stories we tell
It all started with a song. A song and an energetic yet sensual video. Sometimes these things just have to catch you at the right moment. This one did. The basic premise of this love song, set to a rhythm and blues beat backed by a vocal quartet, was 'tell me what you want.' Presumably, the sexy young singer was ready to accomodate.
But its all about timing and this particular evening, I saw much more in the lyrics. I was reminded how we all search for someone to listen to us and show interest. It is how we fall in love, by creating a story around someone and elevating them above the others. Something unique and special has made this person stand above the rest. It is easy to be seduced by the stories people tell us of ourselves and even to begin to see some truth in there. I have been struck with fascination at our human need to be validated by others. And I have been struck by our human tendancy to follow the stories. We surround ourselves with people who mirror back an image that is similar to the one we hold. Occasionally, it is possible to break free from that, to change the image of oneself and find some liberation in a new story.
This is where the song left me, questioning whether or not I am ready to believe in a different kind of reality. It is a precarious state.
With the school year back into full swing, I am feeling full of the complex and often conflicting emotions that come with teaching, and even more, teaching in an international school. I still struggle with the balance of communities...the inner, ex-pat community and the outer Congolese community. Here, there is very little mixing. I have attributed this to my often timid nature and slow pace, (it takes me forever to adjust to change and venture forward...) but I am beginning to suspect it is so much more than me. And it leaves me longing for the west, where I feel the vibrant music and strong culture could reach out to encase me.
But what do I really know of the culture here? Or even there...? I have made the on-line acquaintance of a Congolese student studying in the United States. He is intelligent, passionate, and full of hope for his country. He is an eloquent speaker and has inspired me (among so many others) to take up the cause of Congo, teaching, educating and speaking out. I am excited about what I am able to teach my students and the discussions that result. Last year, I spent a lot of time understanding the history of this country- a history that moved me to tears and inspired horror at both the abuses and my own ignorance of the facts. It is fitting then that this year I spend some time acquainting myself with the present- understanding current events, their relationship to the past and speaking out, if nothing else, with some hope for the future.
But it is easy for me to lose my focus. I am quick to fall from grace and abandon the hope inspired by this student whose passions run so deep. At times, I feel so far removed from anything useful. There is a disconnect between the enthusiasm and value I feel when teaching about Congo and any actual relationships I have been able to form. It is a strong and distant separation that has been difficult to cross. I wonder what I am doing here after all.
In my isolation, I frequently find myself contemplating this imbalance of community. What doesn't change is that I am most content when surrounded by large groups of people- who often happen to be speaking a language I cannot comprehend. It is the African house that tempts me, with its jumble of occupants coming and going, finding a way to live bound together in their desperation. Its a desperation that is visible and yet, irrelevant somehow. It soothes me to be so surrounded. Always I am left feeling content just to remain, with an odd sense that I could simply begin, right here, where I am and make up a new life.
At Stand Proud today, I was able to restore my focus. It only takes a week or so for me to come unraveled and I was in a terrible state this morning, wondering why I even go there and what was the point? Weren't there bigger things I could be doing? Or nothing at all? Nothing at all was tempting me, as desperation and uselessness sought to find a nesting ground.
I had made up some salt dough so we could try our hand at sculptures, thinking of possibly painting them the following week. No one was disappointed by the lack of legos, instead showing intense curiosity about the product I brought.
"Not foufou," I told them. "Faux pas mange." It only took one sniff to convince them not to eat the dough. With some Lingala translation help from those more versed in French, I got my point across about what they were supposed to do. Eagerly, they took up the task of creating boats, little soliders and an occasional animal.
A man was present this day that I had not seen or spoken with before. He was one of the therapists that come to work with the kids. He remarked how beneficial it was for them to be working with the dough and with their hands in general- drawing, coloring, kneading. Focus restored. Thats all it took to remind of why I go there. Small help, but help nonetheless.
I think it is in being there and feeling so at ease that I can begin to imagine my story changing. Even as I reflect on the concrete, positive effects of working physically with the material, I hold a strong belief in the development of imagination and expression. It is important for those children to be able to imagine a different life. Although I feel the steps we're taking are minute in that regard, we are taking steps. It's the hard part to remember. And I as well.
I am taking ever small steps in changing my own personal story. While I may be tempted to see this perspective from another and enticed to respond to the call to 'tell me what you want,' I know it is not sustainable. They are simply words of a story that will soon enough be tarnished, changed and forever altered. Once again I begin the solitary task of painting my own images and quieting the desire to feel relief in the words of another.
But its all about timing and this particular evening, I saw much more in the lyrics. I was reminded how we all search for someone to listen to us and show interest. It is how we fall in love, by creating a story around someone and elevating them above the others. Something unique and special has made this person stand above the rest. It is easy to be seduced by the stories people tell us of ourselves and even to begin to see some truth in there. I have been struck with fascination at our human need to be validated by others. And I have been struck by our human tendancy to follow the stories. We surround ourselves with people who mirror back an image that is similar to the one we hold. Occasionally, it is possible to break free from that, to change the image of oneself and find some liberation in a new story.
This is where the song left me, questioning whether or not I am ready to believe in a different kind of reality. It is a precarious state.
With the school year back into full swing, I am feeling full of the complex and often conflicting emotions that come with teaching, and even more, teaching in an international school. I still struggle with the balance of communities...the inner, ex-pat community and the outer Congolese community. Here, there is very little mixing. I have attributed this to my often timid nature and slow pace, (it takes me forever to adjust to change and venture forward...) but I am beginning to suspect it is so much more than me. And it leaves me longing for the west, where I feel the vibrant music and strong culture could reach out to encase me.
But what do I really know of the culture here? Or even there...? I have made the on-line acquaintance of a Congolese student studying in the United States. He is intelligent, passionate, and full of hope for his country. He is an eloquent speaker and has inspired me (among so many others) to take up the cause of Congo, teaching, educating and speaking out. I am excited about what I am able to teach my students and the discussions that result. Last year, I spent a lot of time understanding the history of this country- a history that moved me to tears and inspired horror at both the abuses and my own ignorance of the facts. It is fitting then that this year I spend some time acquainting myself with the present- understanding current events, their relationship to the past and speaking out, if nothing else, with some hope for the future.
But it is easy for me to lose my focus. I am quick to fall from grace and abandon the hope inspired by this student whose passions run so deep. At times, I feel so far removed from anything useful. There is a disconnect between the enthusiasm and value I feel when teaching about Congo and any actual relationships I have been able to form. It is a strong and distant separation that has been difficult to cross. I wonder what I am doing here after all.
In my isolation, I frequently find myself contemplating this imbalance of community. What doesn't change is that I am most content when surrounded by large groups of people- who often happen to be speaking a language I cannot comprehend. It is the African house that tempts me, with its jumble of occupants coming and going, finding a way to live bound together in their desperation. Its a desperation that is visible and yet, irrelevant somehow. It soothes me to be so surrounded. Always I am left feeling content just to remain, with an odd sense that I could simply begin, right here, where I am and make up a new life.
At Stand Proud today, I was able to restore my focus. It only takes a week or so for me to come unraveled and I was in a terrible state this morning, wondering why I even go there and what was the point? Weren't there bigger things I could be doing? Or nothing at all? Nothing at all was tempting me, as desperation and uselessness sought to find a nesting ground.
I had made up some salt dough so we could try our hand at sculptures, thinking of possibly painting them the following week. No one was disappointed by the lack of legos, instead showing intense curiosity about the product I brought.
"Not foufou," I told them. "Faux pas mange." It only took one sniff to convince them not to eat the dough. With some Lingala translation help from those more versed in French, I got my point across about what they were supposed to do. Eagerly, they took up the task of creating boats, little soliders and an occasional animal.
A man was present this day that I had not seen or spoken with before. He was one of the therapists that come to work with the kids. He remarked how beneficial it was for them to be working with the dough and with their hands in general- drawing, coloring, kneading. Focus restored. Thats all it took to remind of why I go there. Small help, but help nonetheless.
I think it is in being there and feeling so at ease that I can begin to imagine my story changing. Even as I reflect on the concrete, positive effects of working physically with the material, I hold a strong belief in the development of imagination and expression. It is important for those children to be able to imagine a different life. Although I feel the steps we're taking are minute in that regard, we are taking steps. It's the hard part to remember. And I as well.
I am taking ever small steps in changing my own personal story. While I may be tempted to see this perspective from another and enticed to respond to the call to 'tell me what you want,' I know it is not sustainable. They are simply words of a story that will soon enough be tarnished, changed and forever altered. Once again I begin the solitary task of painting my own images and quieting the desire to feel relief in the words of another.
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