He was on the beach, a place he particularly liked to go in the evenings. Looking out over the ocean off to the horizon inspired a kind of hope in him. Somehow the vastness of the water seemed to bring the rest of the world closer. Anything was possible, and it was possible out there in the world. Somewhere where dreams come true.
It was here on the beach that he met her. Not the woman of his dreams, not his future wife or mother of his children but suitable. Interesting enough for the moment. They shared laughter, a sunset and visions of their future. One of them reveling in vacation, the other struggling with the day to day.
When the inevitable time came for separation, they reached an agreement. He would meet her back in her country and she would find a place for him to stay. Had, in fact, a place in mind already. An old family hotel, abandoned after the time of Mobutu, raided by the new regime and left empty. The place had recently been returned to and was slowly in the stages of repair. It remained palatial and liveable.
He set up camp there, waiting patiently for a small cook stove and pots to prepare meals with, eating mangoes and bananas in the mean time, turned off of the bland foufou and wary of the unknown sauces simmering in streetside stalls. He told everyone he had arrived to work in the boating industry, having promised to keep his affair under wraps. She was the daughter of a general. A connected family, back in the time. She's a widow with three grown children scattered around the globe. She has power and influence in this new Kinshasa and she's promised to help this young African man get a step up in life.
Aside from the room in the empty palace and living in secret, their agreement includes the financing of his project- it really does involve a boat of some kind. He was in the fishing sector back home in Dakar. Maybe in a few years he will have enough to set off for Europe, search for a wife, find a small house and begin the next part of his African fairy tale.
2.1.13
A Communal Engagement
We'd stopped to inspect the eggplant when the woman behind the table said something to Souleymane. He turned to me and laughed. "She says she assisted at our marriage," he told me. "Assisted" is the French word. I guess it means something like "attended" but whenever I hear it, my American mind always thinks the speaker is giving more importance to his or her presence than was the reality. Or maybe it is apt. It is often the guests who add the ambiance and the memories.
We shook our heads as we walked away, remembering the bizarre event that was our civil union. That seemed to be the final proof. (I'm not completely positive, but I suspect only in Kinshasa could you be...) Walking down the street on a perfectly normal, sunny day, browsing for healthy purple eggplants when a complete stranger informs you that she witnessed your wedding.
We both imagined the civil union to be not much more than a problem of paperwork. Sign a few forms, present some I.D. bring a few witnesses. Nothing was ever clear and we struggled to understand various parts of the requirements (Do we really have to bring a white plastic chair? I've never seen anyone else bring a chair? None of the chairs in the place are white? What do they do with all those chairs? Whiskey? We need to bring a bottle of whiskey.....? Really?)
Finally, we'd managed to navigate the bizzare mandates, nail down a price, and secure all of the forms (or create our own) for a reasonable(-ish) fee. We debated how early to show up on the day of ceremony as we'd been given an 11:00 start time but figured it could begin hours earlier or later than anticipated.
The commune is always bustling with business on the weekends. Weddings abound. This particular Friday was no different. We arrived to find a traditional "band" playing in the "parking lot." I realize the need for quotes because neither of those words conjures up images of the reality. The parking lot is a dirt lane littered with rocks bordering on boulder size, trees with roots larger than my arm and potholes the size of small ponds - erosion effects from the recent rains. The band was under the tree, their belongings scattered behind the trunk and piled up next to the cars. They filled up the lane just in front of the building with their dancing and drumming. Their costumes were raffia, beads and bare skin. They had white painted faces and feathers sprouting from their heads.
A wedding had already begun....a "special" wedding. We'd seen this choice outlined on the fee sheet. $450 for a special wedding. We chose the "normal" affair for more than half off the price. Turns out the normal people have to wait for the special people to finish their ceremonies. Special= private, we learned. So we went over to a nearby stand and had a drink while deciding what to do. There were 7 private engagements scheduled before us normal folk. It could mean a 2-3 hour wait.
We decided to go home and wait, since the commune was only a 10 minute walk from our house. Souleymane talked with one of the commune employees and seemed convinced she would call us when it was time. The rest of us had no faith in that system. We debated about what time to return, having been isntructed the ceremony would begin "before 3:00." We walked home, prepared rice and continued with our day.
It might have been around 2:00 or so when we decided to call the woman and see how things were progressing. Turns out the ceremonies had already begun and we were late for our own wedding. We quickly changed, gathered our things and made our way back down to the commune. We began to wonder if they would make us pay more for missing the regular ceremony.
It was crowded, hot and stuffy. We climbed up some stairs and started across a metal bridge that seemed certain to collapse under the weight of the witnesses. "Follow me," the woman said as she disappeared into a mass of people. I didn't really see how I could possibly follow. People turned to look at me and motion with their hands. She said to follow her, what are you waiting for? they seemed to be saying. I felt like Alice in Wonderland as I took a magic step into a seemingly impassable crowd.
Inside, two women were asked to give up their seats to us and we melted into a small rectangular room impossibly full of people.
And then the comedy began. Strangers stood before us, giving vows, sharing a kiss, presenting their union before a room full of .......? Friends? Family? Neighbors? I couldn't tell if the loudest cheers were from family members or just a show of popularity. It seemed like a reality T.V show. We shook our heads in amazement that we would have to get up there. Our witnesses, along with the kids, were lost in the crowd outside the door, leaving us virtually alone.
When it was finally our turn (having arrived late, we were the last couple) the crowd was so loud that the official was forced to ask them to quiet down. Only he said, " This is not a market place. Quiet down or you'll be asked to leave." I'm still not sure what all the noise was about, or why such a stern response. People had been yelling, blowing whistles and making a general ear deafening racket since the beginning of the ceremonies. After our acceptance of each other as husband and wife, we returned to our seats where we were instructed to take the opposite seating from before. A symbolic gesture of......? It reminded me of graduates who flip their tassle to the right after they receive their diploma.
The ceremony was not finished. One of the officials began reading a long and personal sounding document. I didn't catch every word but I heard birth dates, addressess, family lineagae. What could they possibly be doing? I wondered. Were they going to read out such personal information for each of us?
Luckily after her 10 minute declaration, she simply began to call the couples up with their witnesses to sign the big book, a perfect addition to my Alice in Wonderland adventure. Souleymane signed first and I was instructed to stand next him with my hand on his shoulder. Oh the pomp and decorum of Africa. We all signed and posed for pictures. After leaving the commune, they wanted us to pose for more pictures in three or four different places (all presumably with various aspects of the official communal building in the background.)
We decided we had enough marriage photos (feeling our real ceremony had been officiated in Dakar and our celebration was already behind us, complete with beautiful photo memories.) We clearly disappointed the burgemeister and company as we left on foot, sans photo ops.
We shook our heads as we walked away, remembering the bizarre event that was our civil union. That seemed to be the final proof. (I'm not completely positive, but I suspect only in Kinshasa could you be...) Walking down the street on a perfectly normal, sunny day, browsing for healthy purple eggplants when a complete stranger informs you that she witnessed your wedding.
We both imagined the civil union to be not much more than a problem of paperwork. Sign a few forms, present some I.D. bring a few witnesses. Nothing was ever clear and we struggled to understand various parts of the requirements (Do we really have to bring a white plastic chair? I've never seen anyone else bring a chair? None of the chairs in the place are white? What do they do with all those chairs? Whiskey? We need to bring a bottle of whiskey.....? Really?)
Finally, we'd managed to navigate the bizzare mandates, nail down a price, and secure all of the forms (or create our own) for a reasonable(-ish) fee. We debated how early to show up on the day of ceremony as we'd been given an 11:00 start time but figured it could begin hours earlier or later than anticipated.
The commune is always bustling with business on the weekends. Weddings abound. This particular Friday was no different. We arrived to find a traditional "band" playing in the "parking lot." I realize the need for quotes because neither of those words conjures up images of the reality. The parking lot is a dirt lane littered with rocks bordering on boulder size, trees with roots larger than my arm and potholes the size of small ponds - erosion effects from the recent rains. The band was under the tree, their belongings scattered behind the trunk and piled up next to the cars. They filled up the lane just in front of the building with their dancing and drumming. Their costumes were raffia, beads and bare skin. They had white painted faces and feathers sprouting from their heads.
A wedding had already begun....a "special" wedding. We'd seen this choice outlined on the fee sheet. $450 for a special wedding. We chose the "normal" affair for more than half off the price. Turns out the normal people have to wait for the special people to finish their ceremonies. Special= private, we learned. So we went over to a nearby stand and had a drink while deciding what to do. There were 7 private engagements scheduled before us normal folk. It could mean a 2-3 hour wait.
 |
| Showing off her nails while we wait for the marriage |
It might have been around 2:00 or so when we decided to call the woman and see how things were progressing. Turns out the ceremonies had already begun and we were late for our own wedding. We quickly changed, gathered our things and made our way back down to the commune. We began to wonder if they would make us pay more for missing the regular ceremony.
It was crowded, hot and stuffy. We climbed up some stairs and started across a metal bridge that seemed certain to collapse under the weight of the witnesses. "Follow me," the woman said as she disappeared into a mass of people. I didn't really see how I could possibly follow. People turned to look at me and motion with their hands. She said to follow her, what are you waiting for? they seemed to be saying. I felt like Alice in Wonderland as I took a magic step into a seemingly impassable crowd.
Inside, two women were asked to give up their seats to us and we melted into a small rectangular room impossibly full of people.
 |
| All the couples in front of us are waiting to be married as well After the marriage, the women sit to the right of the husband |
And then the comedy began. Strangers stood before us, giving vows, sharing a kiss, presenting their union before a room full of .......? Friends? Family? Neighbors? I couldn't tell if the loudest cheers were from family members or just a show of popularity. It seemed like a reality T.V show. We shook our heads in amazement that we would have to get up there. Our witnesses, along with the kids, were lost in the crowd outside the door, leaving us virtually alone.
When it was finally our turn (having arrived late, we were the last couple) the crowd was so loud that the official was forced to ask them to quiet down. Only he said, " This is not a market place. Quiet down or you'll be asked to leave." I'm still not sure what all the noise was about, or why such a stern response. People had been yelling, blowing whistles and making a general ear deafening racket since the beginning of the ceremonies. After our acceptance of each other as husband and wife, we returned to our seats where we were instructed to take the opposite seating from before. A symbolic gesture of......? It reminded me of graduates who flip their tassle to the right after they receive their diploma.
The ceremony was not finished. One of the officials began reading a long and personal sounding document. I didn't catch every word but I heard birth dates, addressess, family lineagae. What could they possibly be doing? I wondered. Were they going to read out such personal information for each of us?
Luckily after her 10 minute declaration, she simply began to call the couples up with their witnesses to sign the big book, a perfect addition to my Alice in Wonderland adventure. Souleymane signed first and I was instructed to stand next him with my hand on his shoulder. Oh the pomp and decorum of Africa. We all signed and posed for pictures. After leaving the commune, they wanted us to pose for more pictures in three or four different places (all presumably with various aspects of the official communal building in the background.)
We decided we had enough marriage photos (feeling our real ceremony had been officiated in Dakar and our celebration was already behind us, complete with beautiful photo memories.) We clearly disappointed the burgemeister and company as we left on foot, sans photo ops.
 |
| No limo needed, happy to walk home in the Kinshasa sunshine |
25.12.12
Power of a Word
"You, you and you." I transformed them all into doctors with a wave of my hand. "Go out and find an office." I indicated the desks and tables arranged around the classroom. My English students were studying words for the body and sickness. Half of them were to be the doctors who would set up shop and wait for their patients to arrive. The pairs were then instructed to practice lessons from the past by introducing themselves and giving some background information before explaining their symptoms.
As I circulated the room overhearing conversations and stopping to answer questions and make small corrections, I saw creativity and humor- colored in Congolese culture of course. One woman assured me her doctor was a witch. He had prescribed 5 different medicines along with some suspicious herbs to drink in a tea. All she had asked for was something to stop her diarrhea. I was impressed with the level of questioning about symptoms from her "doctor," though agreed the final recommendations seemed like overkill. She could always get a second opinion- an opportune moment to introduce this phrase. As they began to discuss the price, I moved on to another couple.
This doctor had suggested the patient see an ear, nose and throat specialist (oh, the English words I could never imagine bringing into the conversation. It's always so much more rich when they get to role play naturally.) However, the patient had only been experiencing nasal congestion for one day. I recommended a second opinion again, before paying such an enormous sum to an ENT. I'm not sure if the patients had insurance.
We moved to the round table to end our session with a final whole group discussion. I also wanted to take this time to introduce some idioms and phrases. We had decided we would look at one each session- particularly to improve the more advanced students English. I had found a few phrases relating to health. The particular page I had printed was full of color idioms ("in the pink" "feeling blue" "green with envy" etc.) I'd only intended to look at the few phrases dealing with health, but with their usual enthusiasm and insistence we ended up discussing all of the phrases.
This brought us to "black and white" as in certain issues are said to be black and white. Or more precisely, I counseled, most often this phrase is used to suggest an issue is not just black and white. I searched for an appropriate example.
"Stealing. Wrong or right?" I queried. Everyone seemed to readily agree that stealing was unacceptable. "But what if you are only 6 years old and live on the street with no one to help you. You're hungry and have no possibility to eat. Would it be ok to steal....?" I'd meant to add 'some bread or some small fruit' just to distinguish between mugging someone, but I was interrupted.
"Shegue," one of the women said. And with that word she seemed to close the subject. She wasn't seeing a child, her child, alone, cold, hungry, scared. That one word descended like a mask covering any sweet innocence with malicious intention. I simply don't believe it is there, even when they are giving me the finger and rocking my car until I think it might turn over. I don't yet have fear of them. Because I sense it is frustration and desperation that drive them. The shegue. What are they to do? How long can they endure the suffering of trying to survive every moment of every day?
"But if you had a family, hungry children at home and no way to feed them..." I tried to continue. Some others began to enter the debate and things got sticky. This is an excellent group for riling up. Our exchange is based on the fact that they are members of La Jeunesse pour Une Nouvelle Societe but they certainly seem to have a variety of views about how that society might function.
"So you see," I concluded trying to end the session, always a challenging task at best, " it's not black and white. It's a complicated issue...." They continued to discuss and murmur as they made their way into the night.
As I circulated the room overhearing conversations and stopping to answer questions and make small corrections, I saw creativity and humor- colored in Congolese culture of course. One woman assured me her doctor was a witch. He had prescribed 5 different medicines along with some suspicious herbs to drink in a tea. All she had asked for was something to stop her diarrhea. I was impressed with the level of questioning about symptoms from her "doctor," though agreed the final recommendations seemed like overkill. She could always get a second opinion- an opportune moment to introduce this phrase. As they began to discuss the price, I moved on to another couple.
This doctor had suggested the patient see an ear, nose and throat specialist (oh, the English words I could never imagine bringing into the conversation. It's always so much more rich when they get to role play naturally.) However, the patient had only been experiencing nasal congestion for one day. I recommended a second opinion again, before paying such an enormous sum to an ENT. I'm not sure if the patients had insurance.
We moved to the round table to end our session with a final whole group discussion. I also wanted to take this time to introduce some idioms and phrases. We had decided we would look at one each session- particularly to improve the more advanced students English. I had found a few phrases relating to health. The particular page I had printed was full of color idioms ("in the pink" "feeling blue" "green with envy" etc.) I'd only intended to look at the few phrases dealing with health, but with their usual enthusiasm and insistence we ended up discussing all of the phrases.
This brought us to "black and white" as in certain issues are said to be black and white. Or more precisely, I counseled, most often this phrase is used to suggest an issue is not just black and white. I searched for an appropriate example.
"Stealing. Wrong or right?" I queried. Everyone seemed to readily agree that stealing was unacceptable. "But what if you are only 6 years old and live on the street with no one to help you. You're hungry and have no possibility to eat. Would it be ok to steal....?" I'd meant to add 'some bread or some small fruit' just to distinguish between mugging someone, but I was interrupted.
"Shegue," one of the women said. And with that word she seemed to close the subject. She wasn't seeing a child, her child, alone, cold, hungry, scared. That one word descended like a mask covering any sweet innocence with malicious intention. I simply don't believe it is there, even when they are giving me the finger and rocking my car until I think it might turn over. I don't yet have fear of them. Because I sense it is frustration and desperation that drive them. The shegue. What are they to do? How long can they endure the suffering of trying to survive every moment of every day?
"But if you had a family, hungry children at home and no way to feed them..." I tried to continue. Some others began to enter the debate and things got sticky. This is an excellent group for riling up. Our exchange is based on the fact that they are members of La Jeunesse pour Une Nouvelle Societe but they certainly seem to have a variety of views about how that society might function.
"So you see," I concluded trying to end the session, always a challenging task at best, " it's not black and white. It's a complicated issue...." They continued to discuss and murmur as they made their way into the night.
4.12.12
Dancing & Diving
At first glance, my two topics don't seem to have much in common. The events and even the main characters of each story are as different as I am from the citizens of my host country. But after some reflection, I've come to see the similarities between the two situations.
The first involves a concert at my favorite place, L'Halle de Gombe. They guys were psyched about seeing one of their favorite Guineen reggae stars. Elie Kamano was singing along with a Congolese singer- well, they shared the stage and at this point I can't really recall them singing a song together, but they did trade off the spotlight to each other. The music was quite lively from Elie and he had a clear message. Revolution. Apparently Elie is also know as "the general" and he made some jokes about out ranking his father, a bona-fide member of the Guineen military. But the jokes came later, in more private circumstances. On stage, he sang beautifully about the need for African consciousness and action. He said things many Congolese would be scared to say in public. In fact, while the audience clapped and screamed appreciation, very few were moved to dance.
Ousmane couldn't contain himself and made his way to the stage area within minutes. He was clearly caught up in reminiscence for his home country and over the top about hearing his language bursting from the speakers. He lost himself in wild dance movements and enthusiastic air guitar (complete with empty plastic soda bottle reminding me of the time we went to see Staff Bindi Billi.) Souleymane joined him within minutes also lost in his own reverie. Both of them were clearly in tune with the singer's message and punctuated each verse with a raised, pumping fist. Viva la revolution.
Kazadi couldn't resist joining his brothers up front for some all out dance expression, but he made sure to keep his back to the cameras. After the first few songs he moved his show off to the side and even to the back by the bleachers. "Too much filming," he told me as he continued to sway and sing and shout out encouragement. He also expressed disappointment in the lyrics by the woman singer. Apparently her message was shrouded in vague questions and disguised as a love song. "What kind of message is that?" His eyes filled with dismay. Later discussion revealed even more facts. No Congolese could actually get away with singing those words in public, and in fact, Elie has had a bit of a hard time singing those words in his own country. It seemed pure poetry to me to have him here singing on behalf of the Congolese and only fitting that other Africans would travel to Conakry to express what they could not on their own land. I was reminded of this story where
I came to see it as desperation. Which is the connection to my next story of the diving boys. It may have been on our way to the concert or another trip altogether (there have been several occurrences) when we first encountered the diving boys. They have replaced my little guys that used to sit along the median that divides the boulevard. I still recognize two of them, and they do know me. They are the two that hold their arms out trying to keep the others at a "polite" distance from the car as they ask for money.
"Mama American," they always begin while trying to hold off the pack. It's not an easy task but they do seem to have some control. Just as they seem to realize I am more likely to give over a few francs when I feel like it is my own decision and not by cohersion. Of course, there are often too many to hand out to individually and I am usually left imploring them to share. If they could find a way to live on the streets together, it would result in so much more. But that's a deep philosophy for kids who are just living minute by minute. They've developed a better tactic.
Diving in front of the car. The strategy is to crouch low in front of the wheel or even right in the middle of the car so the driver is unsure if it is safe to move forward. Cars behind don't really care for this strategy and begin honking, shouting and driving around. It definitely puts a damper on the giving spirit. But it is a sign of the level of their desperation. And so it is I came to conclude that the silent, sitting Congolese out for an evening on the town to listen to some reggae were not actually so far removed from the street kids of Kinshasa willing to do anything to gain a little bit of nothing.
The first involves a concert at my favorite place, L'Halle de Gombe. They guys were psyched about seeing one of their favorite Guineen reggae stars. Elie Kamano was singing along with a Congolese singer- well, they shared the stage and at this point I can't really recall them singing a song together, but they did trade off the spotlight to each other. The music was quite lively from Elie and he had a clear message. Revolution. Apparently Elie is also know as "the general" and he made some jokes about out ranking his father, a bona-fide member of the Guineen military. But the jokes came later, in more private circumstances. On stage, he sang beautifully about the need for African consciousness and action. He said things many Congolese would be scared to say in public. In fact, while the audience clapped and screamed appreciation, very few were moved to dance.
Ousmane couldn't contain himself and made his way to the stage area within minutes. He was clearly caught up in reminiscence for his home country and over the top about hearing his language bursting from the speakers. He lost himself in wild dance movements and enthusiastic air guitar (complete with empty plastic soda bottle reminding me of the time we went to see Staff Bindi Billi.) Souleymane joined him within minutes also lost in his own reverie. Both of them were clearly in tune with the singer's message and punctuated each verse with a raised, pumping fist. Viva la revolution.
Kazadi couldn't resist joining his brothers up front for some all out dance expression, but he made sure to keep his back to the cameras. After the first few songs he moved his show off to the side and even to the back by the bleachers. "Too much filming," he told me as he continued to sway and sing and shout out encouragement. He also expressed disappointment in the lyrics by the woman singer. Apparently her message was shrouded in vague questions and disguised as a love song. "What kind of message is that?" His eyes filled with dismay. Later discussion revealed even more facts. No Congolese could actually get away with singing those words in public, and in fact, Elie has had a bit of a hard time singing those words in his own country. It seemed pure poetry to me to have him here singing on behalf of the Congolese and only fitting that other Africans would travel to Conakry to express what they could not on their own land. I was reminded of this story where
"Young people in the eastern city of Goma took to the streets after popular folk musician Fabrice Mumpfiritsa was kidnapped after he refused to sing songs supporting Kabila. He was found three days later, legs and eyes bound and so badly beaten he had to be hospitalized."Ousmane and Kazadi spent a lot of backstage time with the group and eventually Elie and his crew were invited to our house for dinner the next night. I admired Elie for his persistence and dedication in spreading his message to other African countries (apparently DRC was one of 17 African countries on his tour) but remained caught in the idea of the power behind art. And the struggles of the Congolese to such an extent that they refused to dance.
I came to see it as desperation. Which is the connection to my next story of the diving boys. It may have been on our way to the concert or another trip altogether (there have been several occurrences) when we first encountered the diving boys. They have replaced my little guys that used to sit along the median that divides the boulevard. I still recognize two of them, and they do know me. They are the two that hold their arms out trying to keep the others at a "polite" distance from the car as they ask for money.
"Mama American," they always begin while trying to hold off the pack. It's not an easy task but they do seem to have some control. Just as they seem to realize I am more likely to give over a few francs when I feel like it is my own decision and not by cohersion. Of course, there are often too many to hand out to individually and I am usually left imploring them to share. If they could find a way to live on the streets together, it would result in so much more. But that's a deep philosophy for kids who are just living minute by minute. They've developed a better tactic.
Diving in front of the car. The strategy is to crouch low in front of the wheel or even right in the middle of the car so the driver is unsure if it is safe to move forward. Cars behind don't really care for this strategy and begin honking, shouting and driving around. It definitely puts a damper on the giving spirit. But it is a sign of the level of their desperation. And so it is I came to conclude that the silent, sitting Congolese out for an evening on the town to listen to some reggae were not actually so far removed from the street kids of Kinshasa willing to do anything to gain a little bit of nothing.
 |
| Elie at our house |
20.11.12
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.
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:
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.
"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:
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.
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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.
"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.
.jpg)
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.
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