A list of real, recent Top Ten reasons to be late or absent from school.......they range in order from the most common to the most unique, but ALL have been offered up to me by fifth graders or their parents:
10. It rained and/or traffic.
9. I had malaria.
8. My nanny didn't wake me up on time.
7. I am still on extended vacation with my parents in South Africa.
6. I moved back to South Africa (or insert other African country here) permanently.
5. My plane got in too late/early and I had to sleep all day.
4. I had to go to the (insert foreign country here) embassy to get a visa.
3. I broke my (insert body part here)
--there have actually been 3 fifth graders who've broken an arm or wrist so far this year
2. My chauffeur got pulled over and didn't have the money for a fine, so I had to pay with my allowance.
1. We had an armed intruder in our yard last night and I was up all night talking to our security policemen
15.2.10
12.2.10
Trouble with travel.....part 2
With repetition comes experience and knowledge. I felt I knew what to expect for the ride back to Conakry, which, while not exactly comforting, at least put me in a slightly better position than when I was riding up to Kankan. I planned to leave at night, hoping most of our journey would be spent with the boys sleeping. Then we could arrive sometime mid-morning and be of less disturbance to whoever would be picking us up. It was New Year's Eve and I should have known that plans have a way of coming alive in Africa, like the wild dogs roaming the streets running every which way but the way you want. Somehow, I always forget this part. It is the deeply ingrained Western part of me that runs by clocks no matter how far removed from time and schedules I place myself. I wonder how long it takes to truly shed this last piece of constriction.
We were waiting in the Kankan gare central. Supposedly, the car would fill up in an hour or so. It was around 4:00 pm. This place looked more like a bus station, with covered waiting area (both inside and outside sections!) There were women selling fruit and cookies. Men walked around selling tea (strong African tea that is aerated between two cups with a flourish. The vendor carries about 3 or 4 thermoses of tea and a small bucket containing minature cups which are placed in water and reused.) We waited. The sun began to set, casting a red glow on everything. We kept hearing rumors that there were only 2 seats left to be filled (this rumor went on for hours, even as people approached, bought a ticket, and took up the wait with us.) Our things were shuffled from taxi top to taxi top as drivers discussed which car was filling up and who would make the journey.
I considered buying another seat as, in the interest of saving money once again, I'd only gotten two seats and one of the boys was riding on a lap. I considered it strongly as the time wore on. Six o'clock came and went. The boys snacked on watermelon and I bought some packages of cookies for the ride. The waiting was becoming painful. It turns out the driver was searching for a full taxi. When we finally loaded up, there were 2 people in the front passenger seat, 4 in the middle seat, 4 of us in the back seat AND one person behind us in the hatch back space. Of course, he had to lay down scrunched up or sit up halfway leaning on the seat back of our already crowded third row.
I can see us from a bird's eye view, all packed in there threatening to explode like a shaken up soda bottle. The boys were able to sleep a lot and were actually well behaved for both trips considering the tight quarters. I knew right away that this trip was going to be distinctly different from the last. If the ride to Kankan was with the conservative right, the ride back to Conakry was a rock and roll tour. There were two women traveling with us who did not have papers and the young driver took a direct approach at every checkpoint. Cash in hand. I, and my passport, were no longer the issue.
While this apporach made the road a bit faster to travel on, we seemed to stop a lot more frequently on this trip than the one going out. We had two people who needed to make prayer stops but also it seemed we stopped for eating and rest breaks. (Rest breaks? We just started!) At one of our first stops, which seemed to be near a gas station, perhaps a tiny gare central for whatever town this was.... I got out of the car to stretch and eat an orange. A bull cow walked by searching for scraps and nibbling my peels. Motos zoomed through town as I watched the nightlife carry out its rituals. Surely this would seem a sleepy town by sunlight, I thought.
We continued on and I dozed a bit as the countryside turned back into tall grass and mud huts. Eventually we came to a frosty stop and I thought I heard the driver get out. The entire car appeared to be sleeping and I wondered exactly what we were doing here. We waited in the still night. Finally I asked one of the men in front what was going on.
"The driver needs to rest," he said. "He couldn't go on." Rest? I still felt like we had just began, like we had finally begun making some ground. Of course, I wasn't driving. But I thought surely he must have known he was going to be driving all night. Foolishly, I thought he would have prepared for that. I made a bit of a grumble in the back prefering to get out of the car if we were waiting. My knees were screaming and my neck was throbbing. I thought the driver had left the car and I couldn't really believe he'd left us
"....in here like sardines.." I heard it come from the front and genuine laughter escaped from me. I wasn't the only one to be feeling this way. Turns out, the driver was actually in the car, slumped behind the steering wheel. One of the passengers up front tried vainly to awaken him. He could not be stirred. Some of the other passengers argued on his behalf. Once again, my eagle eyes kicked in and I saw us from above, a lonely taxi overflowing with people and bags parked on the side of a deserted road. We elected to get out.
We were waiting in the Kankan gare central. Supposedly, the car would fill up in an hour or so. It was around 4:00 pm. This place looked more like a bus station, with covered waiting area (both inside and outside sections!) There were women selling fruit and cookies. Men walked around selling tea (strong African tea that is aerated between two cups with a flourish. The vendor carries about 3 or 4 thermoses of tea and a small bucket containing minature cups which are placed in water and reused.) We waited. The sun began to set, casting a red glow on everything. We kept hearing rumors that there were only 2 seats left to be filled (this rumor went on for hours, even as people approached, bought a ticket, and took up the wait with us.) Our things were shuffled from taxi top to taxi top as drivers discussed which car was filling up and who would make the journey.
I considered buying another seat as, in the interest of saving money once again, I'd only gotten two seats and one of the boys was riding on a lap. I considered it strongly as the time wore on. Six o'clock came and went. The boys snacked on watermelon and I bought some packages of cookies for the ride. The waiting was becoming painful. It turns out the driver was searching for a full taxi. When we finally loaded up, there were 2 people in the front passenger seat, 4 in the middle seat, 4 of us in the back seat AND one person behind us in the hatch back space. Of course, he had to lay down scrunched up or sit up halfway leaning on the seat back of our already crowded third row.
I can see us from a bird's eye view, all packed in there threatening to explode like a shaken up soda bottle. The boys were able to sleep a lot and were actually well behaved for both trips considering the tight quarters. I knew right away that this trip was going to be distinctly different from the last. If the ride to Kankan was with the conservative right, the ride back to Conakry was a rock and roll tour. There were two women traveling with us who did not have papers and the young driver took a direct approach at every checkpoint. Cash in hand. I, and my passport, were no longer the issue.
While this apporach made the road a bit faster to travel on, we seemed to stop a lot more frequently on this trip than the one going out. We had two people who needed to make prayer stops but also it seemed we stopped for eating and rest breaks. (Rest breaks? We just started!) At one of our first stops, which seemed to be near a gas station, perhaps a tiny gare central for whatever town this was.... I got out of the car to stretch and eat an orange. A bull cow walked by searching for scraps and nibbling my peels. Motos zoomed through town as I watched the nightlife carry out its rituals. Surely this would seem a sleepy town by sunlight, I thought.
We continued on and I dozed a bit as the countryside turned back into tall grass and mud huts. Eventually we came to a frosty stop and I thought I heard the driver get out. The entire car appeared to be sleeping and I wondered exactly what we were doing here. We waited in the still night. Finally I asked one of the men in front what was going on.
"The driver needs to rest," he said. "He couldn't go on." Rest? I still felt like we had just began, like we had finally begun making some ground. Of course, I wasn't driving. But I thought surely he must have known he was going to be driving all night. Foolishly, I thought he would have prepared for that. I made a bit of a grumble in the back prefering to get out of the car if we were waiting. My knees were screaming and my neck was throbbing. I thought the driver had left the car and I couldn't really believe he'd left us
"....in here like sardines.." I heard it come from the front and genuine laughter escaped from me. I wasn't the only one to be feeling this way. Turns out, the driver was actually in the car, slumped behind the steering wheel. One of the passengers up front tried vainly to awaken him. He could not be stirred. Some of the other passengers argued on his behalf. Once again, my eagle eyes kicked in and I saw us from above, a lonely taxi overflowing with people and bags parked on the side of a deserted road. We elected to get out.
The moon was bright and cast a blue white glow on everything. Just across the small street were a series of covered stalls with benches. We walked over and had a seat in the chilly night air. We sat there shivering and watched our taxi sleeping. It was 3 a.m. After thirty minutes, the driver still hadn't awakened. We began to discus show long a good chauffeur needed to nap. One of the men, the professor, as I came to know him (he taught at the University of Kankan) was even more indignant because he said he had friends at a small town just up the road. Had we continued a bit, he could have found lodging for everyone to rest comfortably. (Although I found this negated the entire purpose of traveling at night. If I wanted to rest comfortably, I would waited in Kankan until the next day.)
We decided to take action and strode back to the car with intention. The driver would awaken. The professor roused the slepeing chauffeur for a good ten minutes. He refused to get up. It turned out the boy in the trunk was also a driver and the passengers convinced chauffeur #1 to hand the car over to chauffeur #2. Pretty soon we were rumbling along at breakneck speed, hitting every pothole in sight. Chauffeur #1 now resided in the back back back and with every jump of the car he yelled out what sounded like critique and advice. I thought, since he surely wasn't getting any sleep back there, he would have been better off just taking the wheel.
We hadn't gone very far (or so it seemed. This trip was turning into a fragment series of small starts and stops) when we really hit something that threw the car into a swerve. A tire had exploded. We coasted, yet again, to the side of a deserted road. Dawn was just breaking. There was a comic attempt to put the spare tire on but it turned out that the spare tire was not really fitted for this car. There was a second spare in the space below the hatchback but that tire was also flat. The road stretched out behind us.
And a similar sight greeted us from the front. Chauffeur #2 hailed a ride (amazingly with another passing taxi!) A few people built a fire along the roadside and the rest of us settled in to sleep in the taxi until the sun truly rose. When the light filtered over the grass and the birds called us awake, we climbed from our slumbering places.
The road was empty save for a few women walking by occasionally. One of the passengers asked a question and was directed to some small shrubs nearby. Everyone started pulling stems and chewing and spitting.....toothbrush au natural. The oldest woman, a passenger without papers, managed to flag a ride and ran off in a lopsided way, clutching her bags and waving. The professor returned from an early morning walk triumphant. He had brought a young boy with a thermos of kankiliba tea and fried cakes.He'd arranged everything, free tea, buy your own sugar and cakes--good cakes made with good flour, he'd watched the whole process himself.
Personalities were starting to emerge. The chauffeur climbed from behind the wheel where he'd been resting. His only concern seemed to be a smoke. I couldn't really be sure since this group spoke mostly in Malinke, but it appeared he was getting the brush off. He was not acting like a good captain but rather seemed to be deserting the ship, passengers and all. Some discussion broke out.
Soon enough, however, things settled down. There wasn't much to do but wait. We took turns taking walks up the road, sitting in the shade of the taxi and waving down passing cars. The same questions were always asked as we tried to determine how far driver #2 actually had to travel to get the tire fixed. It was New Year's Day.
Sometime in the mid morning, a band of children walked by carrying scythes. They made a slow, solemn apporach and for Stephen King fans, there's no need to draw out the comparison. It was actually difficult for me to determine an emotion emanating from the boys with their serious faces---curiosity perhaps, in a muted way. They headed off into the tall grass to begin their day's cutting and collecting. Soon after they disappeared, a strange figure shrouded in his own bundle of flowing grass steadily made his way down the road. I thought of snapping a photo. From a distance, he appeared to be a spirit from the bush. I never did see a face buried as it was beneath the load. The figure passed by 2 more times and left me wondering if it was the same person and how he managed to always be walking in the same direction without ever returning down the way he had come. Perhaps it truly was a spirit from the bush.
There was really little else to contemplate onn the dry, dusty road. The sun rose above and we began to discuss whether or not driver #2 would ever return. I had no faith in him. A huge truck passed by, stopped to chat and passed water bags out the window to us. I tried to convince the others that we it was time for plan B. Surely we could take some kind of action rather than just sit ....indefinitely. At the very least, I wanted to impose a time limit whereby we would take action if he hadn't returned. I could see us sitting here until 6:00 when the sun would turn the sky rose red for a brief moment before leaving us, once again, in the dark with the cows.
Everyone else, however, held fast to the conviction that the driver would return. They had such faith and patience. I tried to get some it to rub off on me, but mostly I just tried to keep the crabby restlessness at bay and took walks up around the bend. Cars stopped every so often and broke the silence. A particularly fancy car passed by and offered a space to me and the boys for some 45000GF. I didn't really have it to spare and I was also wary of hopping into a car with three men in flashy clothes and dark sunglasses. I hesitated
and finally refused. The professor gladly paid for the spot. I was happy to remain among the rest of the passengers watching our slow drama unfold. Another taxi passed by and the driver offered me an entire bag of peanut cornmeal paste. I've forgotten exactly what they called this snack but it was so delicious and reminded me of the Power Bars I used to love. I passed out gooey squares to everyone and wondered who would be next to go.
Driver #2 did eventually return with the tire. He told a tale of riding from town to town, searching for a mechanic. The closest town that could offer services was not an option because the mechanic had gone off to visit his family for a New Year's celebration. The driver had been forced to continue retracing our path back to where we'd originally stopped and I'd shared my orange with the bull cow. It seemed to take only minutes to put the tire on, push the car into a running start (driver #1 had left the lights on all night) and get us on our way once again. It was the only part of the trip when time moved quickly.
The journey to Conakry felt as though it were taking place in another dimension. We made stops too frequently for me. I became tired of climbing in and out of the cramped back quarters (losing passengers somehow did not equal more space for us in the back back AND the driver incredibly appeared to be looking for more passengers.)
We passed through small towns and check points with ease. I kept my passport in my bag the whole time. We snacked endlessly on oranges. We stopped at a gas station, got another tire changed and picked up two more passengers. Driver #2 was once again relegated to the hatch back space. He jumped out at each check point and melted into sidelines. He merged with vendors and buyers and made his way around the check point where he would jog up to us and jump into the back once we had put a bit of distance bewtween us and the militiary. It seemed so simple and obvious I couldn't really believe he was fooling anyone.
At the gas station, the other passengers bought some kind of meatballs and offered to share them with the boys. Nabih indulged but Mohamed declined. A passenger, whose name I never got, went into the store and returned with some cake bread. He had been so friendly toward the boys while we were waiting, playing games and amusing them. He spoke the most French and also translated the Malinke for me so I knew what was going on.
After many hours, long past sunset, we arrived in Conakry. The road into town was crowded and covered with soldiers. It was here that I had my one and only problem with my passport. I had to go in search of it, aqnd argue for its return. The taxi driver and a few of the passengers followed me. Despite the soldiers repeated, gruff orders and threats towards them, they did not leave. Later they told me that the soldiers wanted them to leave so they could extract a high price for the return of my passport. They'd elected to remain as witnesses. I listened to several soldiers arguing about the correct way to handle my passport. Being back in Conakry, they spoke a mixture of Sousou and French. I knew exactly what they saying and waited for the moment to present itself when I could slip a discreet "tip." Its a delicate process and needs to be timed just right, or so I believe. Unexplicably, one soldier (a red beret) ordered the other (a mere green beret) to return my papers, no tax imposed. Once again, we were on our way.
It was near midnight when we arrived at our destination, a hazy, dusty crossroads teeming with people vending by candlelight. I got out of the taxi with a suitcase and two sleeping children. The passenger who had been so kind to the boys hailed another taxi for us. The woman we'd picked up at the gas station negotiated the price and I felt like we might actually be nearing the end of this epoch adventure. I was filled with a sense of gratefulness. It seems you're never truly alone in Africa, someone is always willing to help. I'd been keenly aware of this every step of the way. Turns out the trouble with travel isn't really so troublesome after all. Its just a matter of interesting company, an open spirit and the ability to see with eagle eyes.
8.2.10
a week of congo.....or something like that
Pounding pondu, weaving Bas Luba welcome arbs and singing the Congolese national anthem. I've just spent an hour or so of 'professional collaboration' time trying to plan a week of Congo-related activies for our elementary students. I found aspects of it deeply disturbing. Being a transplant comes with certain built -in quirks. Before moving to Africa, I was fairly addicted to reading about people who chose to live their lives in other countries. It seemed, in each novel or short story that I read, the main characters were always grappling, not only with the inner issues that drove them to search for a home in a foreign land, but also with a precarious balance of interactions and relationships between other ex-patriates. It's a curious bunch. And not homogenous. Finding a kindred spirit is not a given, even (or especially?) among compatriots.
I find myself in this predicament quite often. I can't seem to relate to the foreigners I am living and working amongst. We seem to have such opposing views of how to function in someone else's country. (Though I harbour the fantasy of living abroad long enough to feel I have adopted and been adopted by a country, I've yet to find the place and invest the years...I accept my status as temporary visitor/drifter.) Though it may be a tie that binds, too often it appears to be the only strand. It all becomes clear in the perspective.
Our ideas ranged from charitable to condescending to downright misinformed. I felt it was inherently wrong sitting in a room filled with a majority of white women trying to plan a Congo week to celebrate and appreciate a culture which most of the participants seemed to know nothing about. Perhaps the problem began because we'd failed to define 'culture.' I wanted desperately to move past food and clothing. I wanted to delve into something positive and beautiful and authentic.
We were stuck discussing nature walks and bird calls. While I tried to see the geographical value in this, I sulked like a petulant child. All I could see was a disappointing walk through the woods slapping mosquitoes and searching for hidden birds among dense treetops. No binoculars, no bird call references (I had no doubt we would hear birds....) We kicked around ideas about making some sweet potato snack and getting clothes made for the kids to dress up in. I wanted something dynamic, daring and most of all, something that might actually introduce the children to a new perspective of the culture they weave in and out of on a daily basis. I wanted something eye opening. Awe inspiring.
As the women discussed the traditional pagnes for the girls (complete with head wrap? here?) and cloth print "pajama style" (did someone really describe it that way?!) outfits for the boys, I was becoming discouraged. I hardly ever see men in African cloth here and women tend to favor straightened hair or the traditional standing braids over head wraps. Were we trying to present Congolese culture or an archtypal image of African culture? Because I had just spent three weeks in Guinea (complete with complicated folds of fabric twisting and turning from the heads of Guinean women and the flowing, regal cloth draped in traditional style for Muslim men) I was distinctly aware of the differences. Kinshasa has a very strong Parisian influence that has molded the image on the street.
The US embassy releases a weekly newsletter..The Congo Bongo...and, coincidently, the most recent edition featured a story about the Sapeurs..a subculture of young men infatuated with fashion, style and finding the right suit. The article included a brief, though fairly fascinating, history of the movement which began in the 1950's. Since it seemed inevitable that a dress up area would be included, I was hoping to at least infuse some fashion and style. (While I admit that I haven't really seen too many men dressed in such outlandish costume, one is more likely to see a suit than African print cloth.)
In many ways, I understood the difficulty. I, too, had spent my intial months here searching for my image of Congo. I've since concluded that it simply doesn't exist. Congo has evolved under its own distinct set of circumstances and influences. It has morphed and merged its traditional beliefs with an influx of Euro-Christian ideas and practices. The result is something uniquely Congolese. It can be heard in the music, seen in the videos and felt in the nightlife. Caught up in the excitement of my newfound acceptance, I wanted others to embrace these same ideas. I wanted to present a Congo to the students that was modern, bright, interesting and intelligent. A culture that could be valued and learned from. As we battered around ideas about giving rides in a taxi bus around the central campus circle, I felt like we were miles away from anything close to sharing a culture. It felt more like a zoo.
We were stuck on aspects of daily life that didn't really reflect culture but rather circumstances of being. It seems a stretch to say Congolesse value their cramped buses and the scarcity with which they are available. They don't enjoy fighting for a seat any more than you or I would and certainly everyone would prefer orderly, clean city buses or carpooling with a neighbor. We were stuck pointing out differences in class rather than celebrating the precious messages parents pass on to their children about being part of a family, respecting their elders and caring for siblings.
I managed to get these ideas tossed into the conversation and we briefly entertained some kind of experiential room where children would try out being in a large family with responsibilites and rules. They might move from station to station completing chores, sharing meals, and greeting elders.
Of course, the taxi bus ride presented a more immediate thrill and had the added value of reflecting Western sensationalism and oversimplification.
I find myself in this predicament quite often. I can't seem to relate to the foreigners I am living and working amongst. We seem to have such opposing views of how to function in someone else's country. (Though I harbour the fantasy of living abroad long enough to feel I have adopted and been adopted by a country, I've yet to find the place and invest the years...I accept my status as temporary visitor/drifter.) Though it may be a tie that binds, too often it appears to be the only strand. It all becomes clear in the perspective.
Our ideas ranged from charitable to condescending to downright misinformed. I felt it was inherently wrong sitting in a room filled with a majority of white women trying to plan a Congo week to celebrate and appreciate a culture which most of the participants seemed to know nothing about. Perhaps the problem began because we'd failed to define 'culture.' I wanted desperately to move past food and clothing. I wanted to delve into something positive and beautiful and authentic.
We were stuck discussing nature walks and bird calls. While I tried to see the geographical value in this, I sulked like a petulant child. All I could see was a disappointing walk through the woods slapping mosquitoes and searching for hidden birds among dense treetops. No binoculars, no bird call references (I had no doubt we would hear birds....) We kicked around ideas about making some sweet potato snack and getting clothes made for the kids to dress up in. I wanted something dynamic, daring and most of all, something that might actually introduce the children to a new perspective of the culture they weave in and out of on a daily basis. I wanted something eye opening. Awe inspiring.
As the women discussed the traditional pagnes for the girls (complete with head wrap? here?) and cloth print "pajama style" (did someone really describe it that way?!) outfits for the boys, I was becoming discouraged. I hardly ever see men in African cloth here and women tend to favor straightened hair or the traditional standing braids over head wraps. Were we trying to present Congolese culture or an archtypal image of African culture? Because I had just spent three weeks in Guinea (complete with complicated folds of fabric twisting and turning from the heads of Guinean women and the flowing, regal cloth draped in traditional style for Muslim men) I was distinctly aware of the differences. Kinshasa has a very strong Parisian influence that has molded the image on the street.
The US embassy releases a weekly newsletter..The Congo Bongo...and, coincidently, the most recent edition featured a story about the Sapeurs..a subculture of young men infatuated with fashion, style and finding the right suit. The article included a brief, though fairly fascinating, history of the movement which began in the 1950's. Since it seemed inevitable that a dress up area would be included, I was hoping to at least infuse some fashion and style. (While I admit that I haven't really seen too many men dressed in such outlandish costume, one is more likely to see a suit than African print cloth.)
In many ways, I understood the difficulty. I, too, had spent my intial months here searching for my image of Congo. I've since concluded that it simply doesn't exist. Congo has evolved under its own distinct set of circumstances and influences. It has morphed and merged its traditional beliefs with an influx of Euro-Christian ideas and practices. The result is something uniquely Congolese. It can be heard in the music, seen in the videos and felt in the nightlife. Caught up in the excitement of my newfound acceptance, I wanted others to embrace these same ideas. I wanted to present a Congo to the students that was modern, bright, interesting and intelligent. A culture that could be valued and learned from. As we battered around ideas about giving rides in a taxi bus around the central campus circle, I felt like we were miles away from anything close to sharing a culture. It felt more like a zoo.
We were stuck on aspects of daily life that didn't really reflect culture but rather circumstances of being. It seems a stretch to say Congolesse value their cramped buses and the scarcity with which they are available. They don't enjoy fighting for a seat any more than you or I would and certainly everyone would prefer orderly, clean city buses or carpooling with a neighbor. We were stuck pointing out differences in class rather than celebrating the precious messages parents pass on to their children about being part of a family, respecting their elders and caring for siblings.
I managed to get these ideas tossed into the conversation and we briefly entertained some kind of experiential room where children would try out being in a large family with responsibilites and rules. They might move from station to station completing chores, sharing meals, and greeting elders.
Of course, the taxi bus ride presented a more immediate thrill and had the added value of reflecting Western sensationalism and oversimplification.
29.1.10
The trouble with travel...part 1?
The real trouble with travel is that you must return. Things happen during travel that have the potential to change your entire perspective. You return home with new eyes and new expectations. Inevitably, when returning to Kinshasa especially, there is a period of readjustment and reacclimation. And so its been upon return from Guinee. I am left questioning many facts of life here as I find my patience and compassionate understanding have vanished. Guinee is not any better placed in terms of economic situation or government stability, but the histories of these two countries are vastly different and have resulted in populations that seem polar opposites.
One example, owing mostly to the terrain, is the road that I was able to take from Conakry, in southern Guinee, to Kankan in the upper region. This was a (theoretical) 12 hour drive across the country. A similar drive connecting the two major cities of DRC is simply not possible. There are many factors at play and I'm not really here to discuss those. Mostly, I'm here to tell another story- a story about that (theoretical) 12 hour trip between Guinee's two major 'cities.'
Conakry to Kankan. Long, cramped and cold upon arrival. So cold that I had to pull out some of my pagnes for the boys to wrap up in. I think we could even see our breath as we shivered on the sidewalk waiting for our ride....but that part might be more of an addition to my memory and less a fact of the morning.
And the real adventure, the adventure of travel itself? First there was the waiting. Everything in Africa seems to begin with waiting. When you arrive at the gare central....the bus/taxi station- you inquire about a taxi, get a price, purchase a ticket and then wait for others to do the same. The gare central in Conakry happened to also be located by the big market- Medina- and so there was a lot to see as we waited for other passengers to appear and fill up the taxi. It was a long, hot wait on narrow, hard benches.
After several hours, we were given the signal to board the taxi. We were placed in the back back-- a place for women with children, children riding on laps I should say. Apparently the protocol is 3 in the back, 4 in the middle, and 1 in the front (this can be loosely interpreted as I found out later.) The taxi was a Renault station wagon and if you are familiar with them, I know you are thinking....back? there is no back. And you would be quite right. Our seat was a board put in place to create a third area. I climbed in and, as the driver pushed back the seat in front (the real seat...) with a click and latched an iron bar, I felt as though I had just boarded an amusement park ride. I swallowed a wave of panic and claustophobia. It got stuck in my throat as I sat back and realized I could not fully sit up right. My head was tilted to one side and I had one of my children on my lap. I really wasn't clear how long the trip would be but it seemed likely we might have to sleep this way. Incredibly, the three of us found fairly comfortable sleeping arrangements and I did not suffer from any neck or back pain.
Leaving Conakry was a series of exploits. Most involved watching my passport leave first my hand, then my sight and finally engaging in the dance of retrieval. The first checkpoint that presented difficulty was a rowdy town that was marked by a series of tin roofed shops lining the main road. The air was busy as people gathered, conducted business and moved on. Several military manned the rope that served as a barrier crossing the road. All passengers were asked for their identification and of course, my American passport stood out. A burly soldier wearing a red beret walked away with my passport telling me to present myself to the senior officer. I quickly grabbed 10,000FG as I climbed over people and packages trying to get out of the car. I followed him to an off road location in front of a dusty building where he proceeded to stand and observe the streets, as though I were not there. He wore dark sunglasses and did not look at me.
He began with a steep request of 20,000FG. A love of power and authority poured from the bulging biceps he crossed in front of him. His shiny black boots planted firmly in the earth screamed out rank and importance (or was that pretense?) I tried to appeal to his ego with a measure of respect and deference. It didn't really seem to be working despite the fact that 2 locals were also arguing on my behalf. "Mon pere..." I began, using a discreet voice and term I hope conveyed something like respect. He looked at me and asked if I were crying. A smirk played around his lips and he struck me then as a man who would enjoy making a woman cry. I wasn't willing (or able, I've never been able to cry on demand) to go that far. Surely a few franc guinee would suffice. Later, I realized we were discussing a matter of $4. I found it comical to envision him in his proud peacock stance arguing for $4. This illustrated and reinforced the need to be 'fluent' in local currency. It would never do to be making mental money conversions. One could not then maintain the proper emotional and mental strength to bargain correctly (or reliably keep a straight face. It's hard to show respect and deference on top of a crooked smile.) 20,000 FG was way too much. Even the 10,000FG we finally settled on (after much confusion and delay) was way too much.
The confusion resulted from lack of cultural hand signal crossover (I seem to have this problem a lot.) Apparently, what I took to be a wave off of denial was actually a wave off of acceptance. The taxi driver (who had joined in late) and I were returning to the car, without my passport, when somehow in our muffled conversation it all became clear to me. My offer of 10,000FG had been accepted. The chauffeur grabbed my cash and ran off to make the exchange. He returned triumphant if a bit put out. And so it continued at every checkpoint. I could feel the whole car hold their breath as we waited to see what would be the fate of my passport and how much trouble or delay it might cause.
The next engaging spot came at a place where everyone was expected to get out of the car and walk through the check point on the side of the road. Soldiers were everywhere. My seat companion, another woman with a small infant on her lap, and I did not get out of the car...hoping to roll unnoticed through the barrier. Of course, we were called on it and once again I watched my passport sail through the window into yet again unchartered waters.
I could sense the double weight my passport carried with it. I certainly felt a measure of protection travelling as an American. Whatever I begrudge her, America does have a way of protecting her citizens, even the less than patriotic ones. However, it also screamed affluence and money in ways that may or may not necessarily have been true (depending on the comparitive factor) and this in turn caused a bit of calculation to occur. How much could one obtain and was this really a bit of a wind fall?
I went in search of my missing document and was led into a small hut made of sticks and a thatched grass roof. I had to duck to enter. I felt like I was leaving one world, one time period and stepping into another. Inside, however, a large number of people congregated. On the immediate left were two wooden slated cots stacked on top of each other like bunk beds with a soldier napping on the bottom one. Next to that was a "kitchen" station. Two more soldiers stood over bowls, eating and washing. Following the circle around, next was a table hosting a stack of passports and two soldiers were seated here, one in deep discussion with a man in a turban and long gown. The one who held my passport was seated behind the man in the turban and so we held a conversation that seemed to flow over and under the other one almost visibly. I answered a few questions about where I was going and where I had come from. I eyed the weapons hanging from pegs on the stick walls. I was fascinated by the contrast in technology and evolution. The simple, organic walls supporting the complex, deadly machinery. Nature versus man. In this environment, I couldn't really tell who was winning.
The soldier took a final look at my passport, at me and asked, "So, you are a Soumah...eh?" He smiled at my yes and handed my papers over. I hadn't really considered before what effect, if any, having a Guinean surname would have. A fote is a fote, I figured. American American. While it may be possible to overcome nationality and skin color in some circles of close friends and even be "adopted" by those who know and love you, it seemed a safe presumption amongst strangers...white is white...no changing that. But just in that smile of his, I saw perhaps for some I could be a 'Soumah'.....for the good or the bad.
I spent a long time in the back of the cramped taxi eyeing myself from above. I saw one white woman trekking across guinee with two children in tow. I wondered why....and then again, I wondered why not?
Ocassionally it also crossed my mind that this was just the outgoing trip...we still had to get back.
One example, owing mostly to the terrain, is the road that I was able to take from Conakry, in southern Guinee, to Kankan in the upper region. This was a (theoretical) 12 hour drive across the country. A similar drive connecting the two major cities of DRC is simply not possible. There are many factors at play and I'm not really here to discuss those. Mostly, I'm here to tell another story- a story about that (theoretical) 12 hour trip between Guinee's two major 'cities.'
Conakry to Kankan. Long, cramped and cold upon arrival. So cold that I had to pull out some of my pagnes for the boys to wrap up in. I think we could even see our breath as we shivered on the sidewalk waiting for our ride....but that part might be more of an addition to my memory and less a fact of the morning.
And the real adventure, the adventure of travel itself? First there was the waiting. Everything in Africa seems to begin with waiting. When you arrive at the gare central....the bus/taxi station- you inquire about a taxi, get a price, purchase a ticket and then wait for others to do the same. The gare central in Conakry happened to also be located by the big market- Medina- and so there was a lot to see as we waited for other passengers to appear and fill up the taxi. It was a long, hot wait on narrow, hard benches.
After several hours, we were given the signal to board the taxi. We were placed in the back back-- a place for women with children, children riding on laps I should say. Apparently the protocol is 3 in the back, 4 in the middle, and 1 in the front (this can be loosely interpreted as I found out later.) The taxi was a Renault station wagon and if you are familiar with them, I know you are thinking....back? there is no back. And you would be quite right. Our seat was a board put in place to create a third area. I climbed in and, as the driver pushed back the seat in front (the real seat...) with a click and latched an iron bar, I felt as though I had just boarded an amusement park ride. I swallowed a wave of panic and claustophobia. It got stuck in my throat as I sat back and realized I could not fully sit up right. My head was tilted to one side and I had one of my children on my lap. I really wasn't clear how long the trip would be but it seemed likely we might have to sleep this way. Incredibly, the three of us found fairly comfortable sleeping arrangements and I did not suffer from any neck or back pain.
Leaving Conakry was a series of exploits. Most involved watching my passport leave first my hand, then my sight and finally engaging in the dance of retrieval. The first checkpoint that presented difficulty was a rowdy town that was marked by a series of tin roofed shops lining the main road. The air was busy as people gathered, conducted business and moved on. Several military manned the rope that served as a barrier crossing the road. All passengers were asked for their identification and of course, my American passport stood out. A burly soldier wearing a red beret walked away with my passport telling me to present myself to the senior officer. I quickly grabbed 10,000FG as I climbed over people and packages trying to get out of the car. I followed him to an off road location in front of a dusty building where he proceeded to stand and observe the streets, as though I were not there. He wore dark sunglasses and did not look at me.
He began with a steep request of 20,000FG. A love of power and authority poured from the bulging biceps he crossed in front of him. His shiny black boots planted firmly in the earth screamed out rank and importance (or was that pretense?) I tried to appeal to his ego with a measure of respect and deference. It didn't really seem to be working despite the fact that 2 locals were also arguing on my behalf. "Mon pere..." I began, using a discreet voice and term I hope conveyed something like respect. He looked at me and asked if I were crying. A smirk played around his lips and he struck me then as a man who would enjoy making a woman cry. I wasn't willing (or able, I've never been able to cry on demand) to go that far. Surely a few franc guinee would suffice. Later, I realized we were discussing a matter of $4. I found it comical to envision him in his proud peacock stance arguing for $4. This illustrated and reinforced the need to be 'fluent' in local currency. It would never do to be making mental money conversions. One could not then maintain the proper emotional and mental strength to bargain correctly (or reliably keep a straight face. It's hard to show respect and deference on top of a crooked smile.) 20,000 FG was way too much. Even the 10,000FG we finally settled on (after much confusion and delay) was way too much.
The confusion resulted from lack of cultural hand signal crossover (I seem to have this problem a lot.) Apparently, what I took to be a wave off of denial was actually a wave off of acceptance. The taxi driver (who had joined in late) and I were returning to the car, without my passport, when somehow in our muffled conversation it all became clear to me. My offer of 10,000FG had been accepted. The chauffeur grabbed my cash and ran off to make the exchange. He returned triumphant if a bit put out. And so it continued at every checkpoint. I could feel the whole car hold their breath as we waited to see what would be the fate of my passport and how much trouble or delay it might cause.
The next engaging spot came at a place where everyone was expected to get out of the car and walk through the check point on the side of the road. Soldiers were everywhere. My seat companion, another woman with a small infant on her lap, and I did not get out of the car...hoping to roll unnoticed through the barrier. Of course, we were called on it and once again I watched my passport sail through the window into yet again unchartered waters.
I could sense the double weight my passport carried with it. I certainly felt a measure of protection travelling as an American. Whatever I begrudge her, America does have a way of protecting her citizens, even the less than patriotic ones. However, it also screamed affluence and money in ways that may or may not necessarily have been true (depending on the comparitive factor) and this in turn caused a bit of calculation to occur. How much could one obtain and was this really a bit of a wind fall?
I went in search of my missing document and was led into a small hut made of sticks and a thatched grass roof. I had to duck to enter. I felt like I was leaving one world, one time period and stepping into another. Inside, however, a large number of people congregated. On the immediate left were two wooden slated cots stacked on top of each other like bunk beds with a soldier napping on the bottom one. Next to that was a "kitchen" station. Two more soldiers stood over bowls, eating and washing. Following the circle around, next was a table hosting a stack of passports and two soldiers were seated here, one in deep discussion with a man in a turban and long gown. The one who held my passport was seated behind the man in the turban and so we held a conversation that seemed to flow over and under the other one almost visibly. I answered a few questions about where I was going and where I had come from. I eyed the weapons hanging from pegs on the stick walls. I was fascinated by the contrast in technology and evolution. The simple, organic walls supporting the complex, deadly machinery. Nature versus man. In this environment, I couldn't really tell who was winning.
The soldier took a final look at my passport, at me and asked, "So, you are a Soumah...eh?" He smiled at my yes and handed my papers over. I hadn't really considered before what effect, if any, having a Guinean surname would have. A fote is a fote, I figured. American American. While it may be possible to overcome nationality and skin color in some circles of close friends and even be "adopted" by those who know and love you, it seemed a safe presumption amongst strangers...white is white...no changing that. But just in that smile of his, I saw perhaps for some I could be a 'Soumah'.....for the good or the bad.
I spent a long time in the back of the cramped taxi eyeing myself from above. I saw one white woman trekking across guinee with two children in tow. I wondered why....and then again, I wondered why not?
Ocassionally it also crossed my mind that this was just the outgoing trip...we still had to get back.
29.11.09
Refugee in Reverse
"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.
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.
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.
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