Bankers: dancing

Recently I had the unusual opportunity to accompany my dance teacher to one of his more interesting classes. He's been working with a group of bankers- yeah, the money kind. They've been gearing up for a big conference at their headquarters in Nigeria. Apparently this conference will include representatives from all the Access branches around Africa. Naturally, they will hold a dance competition.

I've been back to the class, which takes place on a rooftop balcony, a few times since. I am tickled by the idea of a bunch of bankers dancing. Something about my American sensibilities finds humor in trying to merge the image of a stuffy US banker getting down with his colleagues- and what's more, preparing to strut his stuff in front of colleagues from all over the continent.

These bankers are anything but stuffy (I had the greatest pleasure in seeing the bank manager show off his sexiest cha-cha-cha while encouraging his underlings.) They have been taking their own time to practice for 2 hours a night twice a week for months. They're looking forward to the trip.

The choreography and song selection is meant to show the best of DRC, hence the Independence Cha Cha Cha selection. I've watched the dancing bankers grow from their first hesitant steps to really confident movements. They laugh, cajole, encourage each other and I have been witness to the power of dance to truly build community. I imagine their working relationship has improved because of it. Not to mention the magic of dancing on a rooftop in a cool Kinshasa evening.

I happened to be present one night when the manager informed the dancers that they wouldn't all be able to travel to Nigeria. The 3 couples- none of whom shined too brightly individually as dancers- made a picture perfect ensemble when dancing together. They each carried a certain joy and rhythm and seemed to be having genuine fun. I couldn't imagine only 2 of the couples dancing without the others. And what a weight for their teacher. He was told to pick the best of the 6 to represent their bank, their branch, their country. Oh the difficulty. He began that evening's practice a bit severe, serious. But in the end he has only managed to insist that they all travel. He can't make the cut. I agree that the 6 of them together carry the most ambiance.

It was this same evening that I overheard a conversation between the manager and another of his employees (apparently a rogue non-dancing banker.) The manager was criticizing a decision made by the employee during his handling of a money transfer between two different clients. I tried not to pay much attention, feeling distinctly like I shouldn't be present although I had been personally invited into the office for a seat. What caught my ears was another contradiction in terms. As a means of wrapping up the conversation, the manager began to advise his employee, "Search for the spirituality in your work. You really must. Find the spirituality." He sent him off with wishes of God blessings and other hopes for salvation.

I've been thinking a lot about finding the spirituality in one's work- how it struck me as odd and yet necessary all at the same time. Certainly not advice one hears in most American institutions. It coincides nicely with the emphasis on dance. What a better way to represent oneself, one's country, one's spirituality than through the language of dance. From the mouths of bankers....

UPDATE: All six dancers got to take the trip to Nigeria after all. Great news for them!

Magic chalk

Just when I had vowed to get back to some kind of regular writing, I was attacked. It was a big nasty Congo sickness attack that pulled me under for more than a week. In fact, just now, I feel it threatening to come back again.

In general, I am a pretty healthy person. I try to eat well, exercise often and think naturally. But it seems one can't really avoid sickness altogether in Congo and of course the problem lies in the fact that getting sick in Kin is not something you can just ignore. Because it could be malaria, a dangerous amoeba, or just the flu. Or an amoeba from last time that you never quite got rid of.

A malaria test is pretty simple to get here and you can even buy a test-yourself-at-home kit in the pharmacy. I elected to run down to the corner clinic and get a quick pinprick. A follow up telephone call a few hours later  informed me that I tested negative for malaria. But my body was screaming out all kinds of fever and pain and nausea. I wasn't really convinced.

Africa has some very intense shots. I have had the "fever shot" twice now and it is a wonderfully powerful thing, even with my aversion to doctors and medicines. A friend of mine called his doctor friend who actually made a house call to me in what felt like the middle of the night. Come to think of it, the last time I had this fever shot, it was also by house call. I was in Kankan, Guinea at the time and something about the red dust there seems to render all visitors ill as part of the welcome package.

The nurse- who arrived with the doctor and a little silver tray filled with new syringes, medicines and a blood pressure cuff- took my vitals and shot my backside with the marvelous elixir. While my fever dissipated and I spent a night of good, deep sleep I wasn't really better at all the next day. My stomach was in a terrible state of dry heaving and nausea.  It no longer felt like malaria but a dreaded stomach virus.

I slept the entire day, being washed over with wave upon wave of dizziness every time I opened my eyes. I made a trip to the see the doctor at his clinic this time, and was promptly given an IV. Every sickness in Congo seems to require an IV and of course, its always malaria. Even when it's not. I tried to insist that I'd had the test and it was negative. I tried to insist that it just didn't feel like malaria, but I made little progress. Its always malaria. The tests themselves are often considered unreliable or uninformative- or so I've heard. I've always had good faith in the lab I go to.

However, I was given some quinine (by IV drip of course) which only increased my dry heaving. My friend who accompanied me fell into further shock and panic at watching my efforts to heave the empty contents of my stomach, and perhaps parts of my stomach itself, steadily increase. Eventually he convinced the nurse to take out the drip- the bag had nearly but not quite finished- and we made a hasty retreat back home.

The next morning I was feeling better- slowly better. I had resorted to eating small snacks like potato chips and crackers every hour to calm my stomach. As long as I did that, I was able to walk around and even go to work again. It went on that way for days- each day slowly improving while I munched my way through the entire junk snack section of the corner store.

But then the itching started. Perhaps a side effect of the quinine. There are always side effects. And the itching was so intense it woke me up one night at 1 am. I spent a delightful hour scratching my legs, my abdomen, my back, my arms. Just clawing like a cat and swept up in the pleasure, pain and surrealism of it all. I woke in the morning wondering if it hadn't been part of some bizarre dream. I could almost feel my tail twitching and the taste of fur in my mouth.

The itchiness went on for a few days, becoming more and more inconvenient. I'd begun to self medicate (another must for sickness in Congo) and had taken Zentel (in case of worms or bacteria) and a few antibiotics (in case of other stomach parasites or the dreaded amoeba). I stopped the antibiotics after only a few days because of other unpleasant side effects. (There's always side effects.) I'm not actually sure if the itchiness was related to the quinine, the amoxicillin, or something else altogether. My friend noticed the scratching and suggested a local medicine. (There's always a hidden local medicine that's bound to do the trick.)

It looked like this, but it's not this.....yeah. 

It came in the form of a yellow rock (I've searched everywhere for the name of this magic chalk, but I simply cannot find it.) The rock is crushed into a powder (it's only 300FC so you have to do your own crushing) and is safe enough to eat. "You can even eat this, super safe, super strong but wouldn't harm a baby," I'm told as he takes a nibble off the rock. I am immediately in love with all the paradoxes of this material, which is said to come directly from the Congo River itself.

The powder is mixed with oil- my friend insisted on the oil "that you cook with" but I eventually talked him into using some almond oil I have for mixing essential oils with. Seemed better for my skin. This chalky oil mixture is then rubbed all over the body, leaving, well, a chalky oily glaze on the skin. "Don't wash that off," he implored. The smell of this substance, not altogether pleasant, only slightly unpleasant was- of course- one side effect. The other was the satisfying sensation of rubbing oneself with a rough, course substance (which in itself might be related to any relief of the itchiness one is already feeling.)

I was then instructed to take a teaspoonful of the powder, swallowed with water and repeat the next day. I've been assured all itchy sensations will disappear. I have noticed a distinct reduction in my discomfort and feeling a lot more human like and less cat like for certain. Right now, I'm just waiting for some other side effect to show itself....or maybe the amoeba to wake up back up....

Rebelle..times 10

I began watching Hotel Rwanda again...just to remind me. Sometimes a good film can transport you from the everyday into reality. Sometimes I need to remember what reality is for others. And as the film began, I thought of the need for films like that about Congo. Films, novels, children's stories. Anything and everything to make the people remember. And not even remember, but to know. The reality that continues today. Right now. Because I've been here for five years already and it remains the same. I see myself become complacent. I know that story- about the women in the east, about the children too young to see the things they do.  I know that story but what am I doing about it?

People have heard about Rwanda. They've heard about Darfur. But I'm not really sure they've heard about Congo. As I am watching the film, I remember Rebelle....War Witch, in the English title I believe. An amazing film. A Congolese actress from the streets of Kin who won an award even. But I'm still not sure people know about Congo.

The group I have been dancing with would like to celebrate their first anniversary by holding a fundraiser for the women and children in the east. A noble jest, as it is explained in French. It makes good sense- our group of women who come together to find strength, courage and community in dance. We want to show our support for women who need strength, who need courage and who have been let down and abandoned by their communities.

Big names can dot it. Eve Ensler held a dance in the streets for women. One Billion Rising. Even Kinshasa had a chapter.  Angelina Jolie has been traveling. And the word is- people need to take her seriously, although I find the picture of the woman sleeping next her really explains it all. Can any American female imagine taking a nap while sitting next to Angelina? Really? But were we to walk a day or two in the steps of that woman, filled with her memories, her struggles, her impossible view of the future, we might find Angelina a bit irrelevant as well.

But big names do draw publicity. They bring news and public interest and hopefully a bit of awareness. Perhaps I was a bit naive to think a small group of women here in Kinshasa could do the same. We've been trying to organize a dance event with our instructor since January. Myself, I was inspired by the youth in Kisangani who rallied together to present a concert for peace as well as the Eves and Angelinas of the world. We are women, and we want to support our sisters.

Organizing a concert in Kinshasa is not as easy as one might think. There is the problem of space, of parking, of inviting the people who are wealthy enough to donate but not so wealthy that they've already closed their eyes to situations they know too well. It's about attracting the people who need to know more and the people who care. Its about inviting the artists who can send a message and presenting an image of strength, solidarity and compassion. And its also about finding a way to do this on a shoe string. Because, franchement, we're not Angelina Jolie. We are a group of women led by a Congolese artist- from Brazzaville, a refugee of war with bullet scars to prove it- who wants to use his talent to support the women of his sister country.
 
To be sure, the women who attend weekly classes belong to the middle class. They have contacts. And we've been trying to exploit this- true Kinshasa style. True to business anywhere. It's all about the networking. Our efforts have led us down many many roads - many expensive roads- before arriving at a real possibility in negotiating with the Grand Hotel.  This appeared to be a lucky break. A soirée at the Grand Hotel could bring the kind of people who can really donate, who would think nothing of parting with a hundred dollars or so for the sake of an elegant evening and a good cause.

The hotel asked for a paper of confirmation from the Hospital Panzi, where we planned to donate the money. The hospital has made recent news concerning Doctor Denis Mukwege and his assassination attempt. Perhaps we aimed too high, because, although the doctor has returned home,  the hospital has yet to get back us. About whether or not they'd like to accept our donation. Which complicates things when searching for donors.

It's not the first time I've had this experience in Kinshasa.  The experience of trying to give money to people who may not actually be ready to accept it. In this case, however, I was doubly surprised. I guess you can never really get used to the way things work in Congo. Often without logic or reason, but with some kind of synchronicity that can't be counted on or determined. A charity that may or may not accept your gift.

The paper of acceptance is important because, as one hotel worker responded, "So many people talk of the women being raped in the east. But how can it really be possible? All those soldiers....acting like that all of the time. How can it be? It's probably just another scam to get money...."

This was one perspective I'd never really considered. That the Kinois themselves would consider it all a ploy for others to hold fundraisers and pocket the money. But of course, suspicion and connery abound in Kin's "every man for himself" atmosphere. Making it ever easier to believe the cry for the women and children of eastern Congo is but one more scam in the effort to line personal pockets with gold.

While our plans have not yet been realized and the evening of dance and art remains, as yet, uncertain, perhaps any money we raise would be more productively spent on films, children's books, pamphlets, and photos to be distributed on the streets. Because awareness starts at home. And the Kinois need to be the first to rise up for their compatriots, their sisters and children who are living the unimaginable. We need Rebelle times 10. So people remember. 

Dancing with Yourself

Although Kinshasa is known for its nightspots, I admit to not being well acquainted with this side of the city. But it is not completely foreign to me either. I had been feeling like I'd seen enough to think its pretty much all the same.

Last weekend, however, I had a chance to check out a new spot- well, new to me. The music was loud and the globe lights were spinning. I was immersed in visions of a similar club I'd entered and immediately turned around and left. This time I figured I'd give it a try, though any hopes of conversation seemed dashed by pulsing rhythms. I settled back, as much as one can do in a bar stool, and watched the dancers through the mist spewing from the smoke machine.

Their movements were not the crisp, clean kind I am accustomed to seeing in dance classes. They lacked energy and abandon, though one woman on the floor had an admirable style and seemed to emminate joy. The steps were slow and subtle in that way that Congolese dances sometimes have. But what struck me most was that all of the dancers were facing the wall. They were lined up on the small, wooden dance floor staring into the full length mirrors that filled one entire side of the dance area. Even the those who were clearly there with partners. They didn't look each other in the face but watched their movements and shared laughter with reflections.

Just when I thought I had finally conquered my fear of dancing in public (yes, I have danced in public!) "There is really no way I could dance with myself in public," I immediately thought. One of the ways to get over my fear of dancing in front of others is to simply forget whatever I might look like and simply try to feel the music. Ha. Try doing that when everyone is facing an imposing panel of mirrors. Mostly they were staring at themselves but occasionally having eye conversations with others as well. I laughed at bizarre-ness of it all.

Then I realized that perhaps it wasn't so odd. You would never be without a partner, dancing with yourself. You would forever be copying your own movements. Gone is the idea that you would be the only one doing that somewhat complicated and risque movement on the floor. No, you would always have a partner- whatever your dance style- the perfect cavalier, completely in sync with you, perfectly complimenting whatever you do. "Maybe there is something to it after all," I began to think, safely, singly, from my bar stool.

african dreams

What's the scariest thing you've ever seen? As a mother some of my most terrifying images are not of things that have actually happened, but of those moments of potential. That breathtaking, heart stopping moment before something happens. As of yet, luck has held us in the potential, and events have turned in such a way that we have managed to avoid calamity. But even now, more than ten years removed from some of those incidents, the imagined vision of what might have been still holds the power to quicken my pulse and cause a sharp intake of breath.

I write "as a mother" but I could easily write "as a woman." Because women are in the unfortunate position of being witness to some of the scariest things. I write that with the idea of war in my mind. I know. Men are most often the ones who go to war, who witness killings and death up close and personal. But if you have lived in the scariest things part of the world, you know what's most often horrifying doesn't come with the chaos of battle. It comes in bright sunlight, when you are least expecting it. It creeps in stealthily with a slow motion that gives you  enough time to imagine the most frightening outcome and all the ways you are powerless to stop it. The scariest things freeze you in that dream state where screams are never voiced and moving with any sense of speed or control becomes a futile effort. The scariest things leave you lingering in that haze long after the day has dawned and dreams have been put to bed.

Sometimes the scariest thing you've seen hasn't really happened. You just wait in anticipation of it. Every moment rigid, every second tense, caught in a perpetual 'flight' mode. Because everyone knows you never escape the monsters in a dream. The only thing you can do is just wake up. And if you're already awake?

Truth?

The kids are fond of posting this on FaceBook. Truth. One word- a question, an invitation. This post is often followed with what's meant to be real sentiment. A private emotion. Vulnerability. They label it truth almost as a disclaimer or warning of sorts. "Don't blame me (judge me, hate me, love me) for what I am about to say, it's just the truth."

When this post takes the form of a question it becomes an invitation not only for feedback, but a request to share your real self. Who are you? And what do you think of me? I am mid-decision about whether this is a viable way to get real feedback from your friends and acquaintances. I remain stuck in the middle because I wonder which truth the writer or the requester is referring to. The truth of this moment or the truth in place that existed before? Or perhaps it is the truth of tomorrow? I resist the urge to take part in these exchanges of truth because I doubt the existence of a real truth but see ever changing versions of a momentary reality.
 

The truth about this house? At one time it was palatial, grand, full of elite. At one time it was home to gatherings and parties of the most important, influential and prominent people in power. Move forward slightly in time and we can witness the truth of its destruction and pillage. Military and police swooped in, grabbing whatever was seen as valuable and plenty that was not. From furniture to fixtures the house was reduced to a mere shell of the opulence and beauty that had been its reality only months and weeks and days before. In the present? The house is filled with a sparse collection of renters, each in their own rooms with their own cook stoves and their own systems for washing, cleaning and preparing for the day. It is slowly being repaired, dreamed about, built up perhaps not quite to its former glory but to something respectable.

The inner foyer (yes, we'd already entered the main front door)

I imagine another truth standing beside the story of this house. And that is that its not alone. There are many of these houses, once a symbol of a burgeoning wealth destroyed by the frustrations of the common people and now cautiously being returned with hope and optimism for the future. I imagine many of these houses, standing empty, neglected and barren, their owners having fled to comfortable European safety.

Neglected swimming pool- a science experiment of its own

The truth I don't have to imagine? The homeless of Kinshasa, wandering streets in darkness and rain, searching for shelter.

View of the city from the backyard

An African Fairy Tale

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.