One truck and a bridge

I have no information about this situation. In the US, I would turn to the newspapers the next morning to find out the details. Here in Kin, there are newspapers but I don't read them much anymore. And I am unconvinced the answers to how this truck managed to be in that position would be found there. Better to strike up a conversation with passersby while taking the photo. Kin is known to be a city of rumors, but it is almost a necessity in a place where the most reliable news about what's going on inside the country comes from sources outside the country.

The biggest question, aside of course from what happened to the driver of this unfortunate vehicle (could he really still be stuck inside- a thought posed by a friend who reasoned nothing is unthinkable and with the cab smashed to such a degree, how could he possible have been extricated anyway?) the next biggest question is....how will this monstrous sculpture be removed....or perhaps will it be removed? I am remembering the hulking remains of crashed planes that line the airport runway.......supposing there is nowhere for them to go and no machine capable of removing or compacting the metal carcass. And so it remains, poised on the edge of the bridge like a giant child's gruesome toy haphazardly thrown off the edge of the road in an eerie game of Matchbox cars.

A small reminder

Goma is in the news again and it seems like nothing can be done to stop it. It is a recurring problem that captures little attention. The immediate repercussions in Kinshasa are small. Students in Kisangani have organized to demonstrate against the ongoing battle that has displaced thousands. This photo was posted on the LeCongolais FaceBook page with the following caption:

"PHOTO DU JOUR : Le siège du PPRD brûlé ce matin par les étudiants pour dénoncer la "complicité" de Kabila dans l'agression du Rwanda à travers leurs poulains du M23. (Students have burned the PPRD building to denounce the complicity of President Kabila in the attacks on Goma by the M23 who are supported by Rwanda)"

Students in Kinshasa from the teacher's college reportedly wanted to demonstrate but were prevented by police from gathering downtown. There may not be enough firepower in the east to control fighting, but in Kinshasa residents are caught in a stronghold. Anytime the possibility of organized and collaborating youth arises, the military come out in force.

As for those of us living comfortably on the grounds of TASOK, life continues much as usual. I sent Mohamed off to his dentist appointment with Souleymane. I finished up my schoolwork to the sounds of pouring rain and wondered if they would be able to find a taxi. Nabih played outside until he was soaking wet and we finally headed for home.

The rain continued and I had visions of Mohamed walking with an aching mouth and dampened shoes. I decided to check out a car and see if I could swoop out to offer them a ride home. As I approached the administration building where the cars are kept, I saw two blue Jeeps and the silver Everest out front. Luck, I thought. Oh then what a surprise when I went to grab a key and instead found this sign:

All the keys were missing and I was dumbfounded for a minute. The idea that I am living under the patronage of someone else is never far from me. My home is not my own, all my life changes must be reported, in a sense and approved (for contract purposes) and a loss of my job would mean a complete and total change of place. Sometimes it is easy to forget this interference in my independence and freedom. I have learned to adapt to reactions to life in the city and make my own careful way (just under the radar I hope.) I can never be far from the juxtaposition of being a foreigner (always a foreigner)  protected, secured, privileged and therefore not exactly free. Thoughts on freedom I'll reserve for another post. The refugees fleeing their homes in Goma are not exactly free either, nor are their neighbors waiting for the rebellion to move in and overtake their town. Just a small reminder that freedom is relative. Freedom is as much an attitude and mental state as a physical situation.

Secrets of Beauty

Pedicures, manicures, massages. All of these things belong to the world of pampering and indulgence that I know nothing about. However, wanting to seek out something special for the wedding celebration led me to investigate the art of henna. Henna has a solid history in use during weddings and other festive events. I was a bit surprised to learn about healing properties however, and especially love this quote:

"Ancient Egyptians and many indigenous and aboriginal people around the world believed that the naturally derived red substances of ochre, blood and henna had qualities that improved human awareness of the earth’s energies. It was therefore applied to help people keep in touch with their spirituality." 

After having both hands liberally decorated, I can see the reason behind this statement. The woman who came to apply my henna was truly magical. She grasped my hand and began drawing with a pipette filled with henna. She gently squeezed out the dark brown mixture as she deftly drew designs. I was amazed that she used no reference, no pictures and no stencils. She seemed to draw quickly and effortlessly.
 Because I had my henna applied at a friend's house, I was left to awkwardly walk home with my hands held up, pointed out at elbows with palms spread wide to keep from accidentally touching anything.

Once arriving, I was faced with my immense hunger and unusable hands. I appealed to my eldest son to feed me yogurt as I imagined the plush and pampered women of India relaxing on huge soft cushions surrounded by aunties and sisters and cousins. I began to understand the value of living in a house full of women.  I do believe Mohamed's gentle yogurt feeding was a thousand times more sweet however. With each deliciously smooth spoonful I remembered feeding him in his infancy, orange sweet potatoes, green spinach and even creamy yogurt.

But forever practical (and the only female in a house full of men) I decided to forego eating more until I could feed myself. I went to lay down and "rest" feeling incredibly incapable and useless (but beautiful.....the exact combination of feelings I spent an entire lifetime trying to avoid.)

After several hours, the paste began to dry and crumble off. Every time I touched something, a shower of muddy brown flakes rained down onto the floor. I was completely appalled and traveled with dustpan and brush to sweep up the mess. I felt like a snake shedding her skin. Left behind was, admittedly, a beautiful pattern of floral lines and the all important darkened fingertips signifying a bride.  I was happy with the effect and tried my best to keep as much of the coverings in place so the color would be dark and strong in the morning, when I was told it would be ok to wash. I slept with my arms held off the bed and imagined how much  harder everything would be if I had been able to get my feet done the way I'd initially imagined. (Because I was at a friend's house and needed to walk home, getting my feet done proved impossible....my shoes and the walk through the damp grass would have ruined everything.)

In the morning, the bed was an ugly mess. Henna flakes were all over the pillow, the blankets and the floor. The real secret to beauty secrets is....there isn't much beautiful about them. I guess this is the "sacrifice" so many women make in the name of beauty. I swept everything up for a final time and happily went off to wash.

In the end, it was worth the waiting and helplessness. Many people remarked on my beautiful hands and I felt like a princess for a day. During a particularly hot drive to the store, a policeman pulled me over with the thought of "requesting" some "cash for a coke" but upon seeing my hands, the conversation changed dramatically and ended with an exchange of pleasantries rather than francs.

I continued searching for avocados and pineapples and began to lose patience. As a few words of mild anger passed my lips, I glanced at my hands gripping the steering wheel. "That's not very beautiful behavior," I thought and immediately searched to calm myself and match the graciousness of my palms. This seemed rather profound to me at the time and brings me back to my original quote about henna being applied to keep people in touch with their spirituality, their humanity towards others and the earth.

à distance

Many things happen from a distance....people blow kisses goodbye, keep up friendships through email and interview for jobs via Skype  Video calling allows far away grandparents to "meet" their newest grandbaby, lets military moms and dads tell goodnight stories to their little ones and permits couples on opposite coasts (or sometimes even separated by oceans) to maintain their relationships- or even the most extreme: experiencing childbirth together.

Marriage is something I hadn't really considered as a long distance endeavor however. Not the "staying- together-though-distance-separates-us" kind of long distance marriage. I mean the kind where a marriage ceremony takes place but you aren't actually present. Yeah. This was news to me.

Apparently it is a common occurrence (or at least more common than I had previously thought, which was not at all.) Efforts to look more into this have lead mostly to military accounts or, in plain language, marriage by proxy. Neither link mentions African countries but I have been assured by Souleymane that this process is known to occur often in Senegal. There are a variety of reasons one might conduct a marriage by proxy and I suppose our reason is as good as any. We're both far from home.

I wanted all the details about how this magical day would take place with neither bride nor groom in attendance. Souleymane's uncle will be standing in for me and his father will be standing in for him. After arrival at the mosque there will naturally be some pleasantries. The family will exchange good greetings and news. There will be praying and more talking. Souleymane's uncle, Tonton Sao, will receive many words of advice about what it means to be a woman entering into marriage. He is expected to share this advice with me and remind me of passages from the Qu'ran that will guide me in my new role as wife. In a similar fashion, Souleymane's father will receive words of advice about what it means to be a good husband. His job is to make sure Souleymane is aware of the responsibilities of his new role. Afterward, there will be more praying and the formalizing of the contract. The family will move on to a small celebration. And just when I thought the whole thing couldn't get any more delightfully foreign, Souleymane mentioned that he hoped they would take photos.  Photos? I wondered. Of what?

But of course it will be wonderful to have photos of his family and the mosque to represent the prayers and ceremony held on our behalf. What we will be doing that day? Much of the same. We will spend quiet family time together, praying, celebrating, being thankful for our union. And if we have friends around the globe, know that all are invited to raise a toast and celebrate with us.

We do plan a civil ceremony here in Kinshasa, a small party with friends in Congo and a larger affair once we can travel to Senegal this summer. But for now, we will enjoy the powerful thoughts and prayers of friends and family being sent out with intention and positivity which I imagine will meet in the cosmos and, once united, will rain back down on us in Kinshasa. We'll all be looking at the same stars and gazing at the same moon. This seems rather perfect too.
 

État Civil

Paperwork is always a pain. There is nothing pleasurable about filling out forms and trying to find the supporting documents. Filling out forms in a foreign language is even more stupefying.  Add in the foreign country/African culture factor and the usual doldrums of completing paperwork become a mysterious walk through a baffling land.

Preparing for marriage begins with paperwork. Frankly speaking, the US Embassy is hard to get to. Not physically- they have several locations around town and all are quite accessible. The problem is communication. They never seem to respond to email....or if they do, it could be months later. Remembering my advice to Souleymane about other contacts he had been trying to make, I decided to hop in the car and go downtown to ask for an appointment in person. Kinshasa does not run by phone or by internet but by face to face contact.

Passport in hand to prove my American-ness, I approached the security guard to inquire about making an appointment. He pointed out a flyer on the wall and indicated a phone number. I spoke with the man who answered and informed him that I was actually outside the door. He promised to talk with a guard and ask them to let me in. Wow. Appointment confirmed in less than a minute.

Once inside, I found the man behind the counter to be very helpful and pleasant. This is only my second experience at the embassy, in need of documents, and both times (once the appointment has been secured) have proven to be full of efficiency and politeness. Although he wasn't exactly sure what document I needed, he felt certain he could draw up a form and have it ready for me by the next morning, maybe even later that same day. He took my number and promised to call.

A mere two hours later, I received his confirmation call and made my way back to the embassy to retrieve the paper. It turned out to be exactly what I needed. A notice of non-empechement de marriage, meaning the embassy has no problems with me getting married as long as I follow the local rules.

This led to a trip to the maison de commune in Ngaliema to verify, again, the exact procedures and paperwork needed. The woman we spoke with was very friendly and remembered Souleymane right away. She invited us into the office to look at some more forms. The office had window shutters and door open with no screens. Every so often a breeze would waft past, blessing us with a moment of cool air.  There were four desks crowded in there and the one we were beckoned to was actually a table stuck behind the door.
There was only one chair left and Mama Lily offered it to me. She began to explain some of the papers we needed. She even began to fill one out for us. We happily went along with this procedure until she informed us each of those papers would be $36. It hardly seemed possible. The Attestation de Residence was a badly copied form that asked merely for our name and address. Mama Lily didn't even ask for any ID, although we offered it to her at certain points for ease of spelling.

We decided to get the project du marriage paper instead as it was only $5. It has been interesting to me to hear this "project of marriage" mentioned several times. I suppose the undertaking of marriage is something like a project, but I simply never considered it quite that way. This paper outlined all of the things we would need and Mama Lily suggested we fill it out at home and bring it back when we had decided on a date. We tried to foresee all the of the questions we might have about the form before leaving the bureau and made many inquiries in hopes of achieving clarity and understanding. We never arrived at the reasoning behind buying a case of sucre, beer and whisky. Who would be drinking that and why should they benefit from our special occasion?

Filling out that form later in the evening became a project of its own. We had many questions about the parental consent part of the form (really?) and neither of us had full information about our dads. (Where did they work and when was their exact birth date? Ah yes....children of divorce.) I was stumped by the very first question which had a place to fill in your name followed by etat civil_______________.  I thought the only answer here could be single (after all, if I were already married I wouldn't be filling out this form, would I?) Only later it occurred to me that in some cultures, I might actually already be married and still be filling out this form. Wow. That certainly opened my eyes a bit. I asked Souleymane what the procedure for plural marriage was in Dakar. Apparently when you get married there, you are requested to sign either monogamy or polygamy and then, if you sign monogamy, you must stick with that decision.

There was not a place to make such a decision on our form but we'd already had that conversation. We continued filling out the marriage contract to the best of our ability. The last page was completely confusing to me. None of the French words were ones I knew and I simply couldn't make any sense of it. Finally, after reading a few times, Souleymane was able to explain. It was the part of the contract referring to the DOT - wikipedia describes the dot as a gift to the family of the bride from the husband, also known as the bride price. In some countries, the future bride can make demands of her hoped-for husband about what this dot should actually be. We laughed as Souleymane and Ousmane traded dot stories from Guinea and Senegal. Most often, this is not discussed beforehand but is something the husband offers at the ceremony to the father of the bride. Depending on the offer, father reactions can be quite comical.

Ousmane was ready to jump in and accept my dot....whatever it might be.....but cannot stand in to be my witness. This is the last complication I seem to be having. According to the rules, my witness must be someone older than me. This has turned out to be an oddly difficult requirement to fulfill. Most of my friends and acquaintances here in Kin are younger than me, something I have once been criticized for but mostly pay no attention to.  Added to that is the fact that it is difficult to actually know a person's age here. Age seems so fluid and relative in Africa. It most often appears a matter of convenience and choice, not stark reality.

So I am left to consider....finding a witness and pondering a dot.....

Franco-creativity

Symphonie des arts is a beautiful garden filled with art and sculpture and peacocks tucked down the side streets of Kintambo magasin. It's on the list of sites to visit during the new teacher tour and I don't think I have been back since...maybe just once.

Searching for capoeira spots lead me to investigate the dance studio located within. And of course, I could not help but be distracted by the art. The path into the Symphonie is lined with plants and trees and hidden birds. The entrance hints at a taste of the magic that awaits inside.

Paintings and sculptures line the walkways. Visitors are lead into a store that is overflowing with more paintings and crafts such as pillowcases, napkin sets and table sculptures. There could never be enough Sundays to view everything on display.

A back exit leads into yet another exquisite garden area. The only thing I was allowed to photograph was this natural beauty.

The artists exhibit area was simply breathtaking. The amount of work created for the Francophonie was astonishing. Many artists incorporated the official logo and there plenty of roosters and okapis dancing, shaking hands and enjoying meals or games together. (Apparently the rooster represents France and the okapi...well, that one seems more obvious to me.) Presidential portraits were also popular as well as other important players in the francophonie game.

My favorite artist incorporated bits of fabric and magazine pictures into energetic forms of women dancing, carrying vegetables and other daily activities. He had two larger than life paintings at the end of the exhibit area, just by a small stage, that were mesmerizing in their expression and size. I felt like I could melt into the tableau and be lost in paradise.

Each artist was afforded a small, individual exhibit area and standing before each space one could be completely immersed in their particular style and message. Oil paintings with broad strokes of bold color filled one area, while careful pen and ink drawings of Congolese masks completed another.

I went back a second day simply because it is an exhibit that deserves to be enjoyed. I was the only visitor on both occasions and continue to marvel at the melancholy of having so much art in such an exotic location void of crowds and spectators. Souleymane, who had accompanied me both times and eventually (of course) struck up a conversation with the owner, suggested that the presidents in attendance would be interested to see the homage presented here and I don't doubt he is right. While I found the work to be overwhelmingly beautiful and inspiring, I wonder what will become of it. Such an outpouring of creativity.....sequestered it seems.

Other artists, such as those selling at the Marche de Valeur, experienced a different kind of sequestration. Their entire area of stalls and exhibitions was moved back several meters and then surrounded by a large blue opaque fence. Every time an event of importance happens in Kinshasa, this particular group of artists seems to get pushed into the shadows. I continue to wonder why they aren't seen as a source of pride and a bit of culture to be capitalized on.  Other "ugly" areas around town were more aesthetically hidden away with large banners covering up normally exposed crumbling buildings and other areas of disrepair.

Art has so many purposes it seems and that is never more evident than in Africa.

franco-flop

The Francophonie summit has apparently been around for awhile. Its main page states the organization was created in 1970. The mission: "...to embody the active solidarity between its 75 member states and governments (56 members and 19 observers), which together represent over one-third of the United Nations’ member states and account for a population of over 890 million people, including 220 million French speakers."

Active solidarity strikes me as one of those vague phrases that could mean any of a number of things. And so, while Kinshasa has been submerged in preparation and anticipation of the summit, I have been wondering what the exact purpose and proposed outcomes will be. I admit to not keeping up politically as much as perhaps I should and so remain in the dark a bit. My observations are completely personal. I have no sense of the meetings between dignitaries or any possible benefits this might actually bring to Kinshasa. Maybe it is enough to consider it just as another festival come to town, closing eyes to the problems and poverty and providing a chance for some to revel in frivolity and joy, if only for a weekend.

The streets have been cleared and cleaned, creating a ghost town reminiscent of the election period. Robocops line the streets and intersections. I dream of a photo with these police decked out in their fullest battle gear and sympathize with the heavy hotness they wear all day.  Taxis, pedestrians and any other rituals of daily life have been sequestered to the side streets. Roads to school are blocked off ("for your security" one officer tried to convince me. I argued a bit that separating me form my home hardly seemed to be in my best, secure interests but he was having none of my questions. "Can't you leave me with all of these questions?" he kept saying, when all I reasonably wanted to know was how to gain access to my house.)

I was attracted by events at the Botanical garden/Zoo area and tried to make my way downtown. It began with a small melt down from the kids- who did not want to travel by taxi or by foot. I had envisioned a day of walking and sight-seeing and possibly life size marionettes. The kids stayed home and I continued on the journey- though I never actually arrived at the gardens. I was still feeling positive as there were a few more days left to the celebrations and I had hoped to enjoy a film en plein air.....an advertisement I had received in my inbox promised movies on the lawn and made me reminiscent of summer nights at home.

We all packed into a small green car with no power steering and made our way through the nighttime streets of Kin in search of the zoo. It was a lot farther than I had remembered (good thing the walking journey from the day before never worked out because it would have been miles and miles of heat and complaining.) After a few wrong turns and several inquiries from pedestrians and police, we finally arrived at the zoo. It was dark and empty. Though a few other cars pulled in at the same, there was no clear direction about the location of the film. We found some vendors left over from their daytime exhibitions and after more roundabout conversations eventually determined that the promised movie en plein air would not actually be showing. It seemed too great a disappointment to simply return home so we made our way over to N'ice Cream for cold cone relief. I had been looking forward to a different kind of event to fill the Kinshasa night.

The National Ballet performance has been rescheduled three times, each time to a different location. I would love to go in search of this performance, and had also been eager to check out the promise of a marionette show at 9 am. But knowing Kinshasa, I remain doubtful about whether these events will actually happen. Patience and flexibility are needed, for certain. But the possible disappointment makes it all seem less worth it. Better to devise our own version of Francophonie...... fête a la maison. And just enjoy the extra day off from school, the quiet, easy to navigate streets and the colorful flags floating in the wind.