Wonderland- Alice's kind

I know I am supposed to be concentrating on things I love about Kinshasa, but sometimes, the lack of logic overwhelms me. I am a book person. A logic and reason person. A facts and research person. An observe and make conclusions type of gal.

None of which make living in Kinshasa any easier. I stopped at the bank today- unsure if it was open or not, I pulled into the spot just before the closed gates (usually open when the bank is open. Reasonable, right?) After noticing a few cars still in the parking lot, I decided to pull ahead and park just off the road, thinking maybe those cars would be exiting any second (haha.) Of course, the roadway was filled with traffic and I waited for an opportune moment to merge. The bank security saw me idling and came over. Yes, I knew I had to leave but of course, figured it was traffic permitting. After watching me wait and look behind me for several minutes at long lines of cars, he came over and tapped on my window. "Pull ahead," he said as he motioned forward, grinning hugely. Friendly even, the way you grin at the town idiot who talks to herself.

Which is kind of what I was doing. I have had that kind of week where it made perfect sense to me to roll down the window and tell him I was waiting for a break in traffic before pulling out onto the roadway. Logically. It wouldn't make sense to pull out into traffic. And therein lies the error. A bystander jumped off the car he was sitting on and stepped before me to motion exactly where it was I supposed to be. I didn't need guidance, I just needed some patience to let the cars pass. After visiting the ATM and getting ready to pull forward into an empty lane of traffic, the helpful (?) bystander again flew from his perch and landed in the roadway, ready to help me steer into the path of any oncoming (now nonexistent) traffic. I had now become the incompetent mondele who couldn't drive. It wasn't until much later (and maybe a beer) that  I realized they all thought it would be perfectly normal to pull right out in front of the 10 wheeler cement truck coming my way. Of course, the supreme logic didn't hit me until after I had already ranted about an entire country of backward thinkers (the exact words were less precise and a bit more cutting. I was in a state.) People pull out in front of cement trucks, speeding taxi buses and motorcycles carrying small children all the time. It's the way things work. Otherwise you would be sitting on the side of the road waiting forever, just hoping for a free space and a safe moment like an idjit.

But I do realize now that most of my woes stem from (still) trying to impose my order of thinking on people who think another way. If only I could understand, and even more so, accept, the logic of Wonderland, I would be in a much better space.

After months of storing up old glass mayonnaise bottles and tins of canned tomatoes, I finally asked Mama Vero to get rid of the garbage. She had a solid look of confusion on her face and I realized I needed to define "garbage." While I fully support recycling and reusing, I just couldn't think of a way to use 50 glass mayonnaise jars and 75 small tins of tomato paste. Artist though I might at times be, I was out of ideas. Yes, these are garbage in my world.

I know that many in Kinshasa reuse the glass bottles to fill with any variety of liquids from gasoline to cooking oil. We've designed recycling centers at the school to consist of large drums to hold glass, tin and paper garbage. The idea behind this was that any campus workers who found a need for the glass and tin could then help themselves to the barrels. A multi-service center. I can get rid of my glass and people who need can benefit from reusing old (and free) containers. A perfect system which does not necessitate me storing months and months of reusables in my kitchen. Sort of.

Other definitions of garbage include food that has gone bad (no, the refrigerator doesn't keep it good forever) and food that is still good (I know we haven't eaten all the bread in two days but we want to eat it, it's not bad yet.) And items that appear healthy ( I don't want these things, in this bag here, that came from the hospital-the plastic and other items that could keep germs) but maybe they aren't really (no, really, even though you washed them, I don't want the containers that came from the hospital where there are germs and other bacteria we can't see lurking in the small cracks and crevices that just can't get clean.) That was a week long affair - trying to explain that one. And maybe I am a bit paranoid, but if you have spent any time in  a Kinshasa hospital, you would probably agree old plastic containers should just go in the garbage.

These are just a few examples of things that need to be redefined or rethought in order to obtain peaceful synchronicity. It always seems to be the weird balance of people who think for themselves at the precise moment when you don't want them to, and yet, when it seems a clear moment of logical thinking is in order, there's nothing. I strive to find the balance and am continually missing it.

The results are terrifying. I become enraged, disgusted, disappointed, discouraged and disoriented. It's not just Congolese. I think there is something in the air that affects us all. I ask the sub to have kids complete pages 2 & 3 and she replies, "No problem I'll do my best to make sure they complete pgs. 1-5." Wayside Stories at it's best.

I am mystified. It transcends language, country of origin and educational experience. It's the air we breathe and it requires us to accept the boundaries of Wonderland as our new frontier. Alice seems to have fun and gets only mildly agitated in her new world, but she is a visitor and the story doesn't last long enough for us to see how truly crazy she becomes. I have tried shirking my link to logic and reason, crossing over to the land of no expectations and complete surprises. It's challenging.

I've developed a few strategies for this. One is to make observations rather than emotional comments. "Look, there's a taxi who has decided to stop in the middle of the road and look for passengers. We are waiting behind him (for 20 minutes, maybe we should sing along to this great song on the radio, kids.) " or "Look, children, it's a classic T-jam" - my new phrase for when a car comes across the lane and stops dead in front of you. You are unable to move forward- though the road may be clear ahead- and neither can they- because they have inevitably crossed into a major traffic back up but thought it more logical to block your path so you could both converse through the windows and keep each other company. (Making friends is an important social skill and can even be fun.)

Other strategies include making lists, repeating, repeating and maybe even try repeating if that doesn't work. Pictures and explanations are mildly helpful. I have noticed that lengthy explanations only serve to muddy up the real issue. I am pretty terrible at making things black and white, but in Alice's world, gray is only yellow and so it doesn't help at all.

It leaves me just plain crabby. I end up thinking things like, "No, I don't want to practice English with you just because you think it will be fun and expect me to try and understand all the mangled words you say. I have no idea what you are talking about. No, I don't want my children to reveal all of their personal information to a complete stranger just because we both happen to be waiting in the same line..."  Days like these I envy the Chesire Cat....just a big smile....ability to vanish.....no need to form any sort of logic. I aspire to that.

Labels

Shopping has always been something of a long and arduous task for me. Not only can I be overwhelmed by the numerous choices, but I am a label reader. It usually begins with checking prices. Once I've narrowed down the cheapest options, I then try to find the healthiest (unfortunately the two qualities rarely seem to go together.) In Kinshasa, choices are limited which is usually helpful, but I still spend time reading ingredients and trying to figure out which buy is going to be the best for our family. Surprisingly, Kinshasa does offer a few whole wheat pastas and some other natural-ingredients-only type items (soaps and creams- yes, I read the labels on those, too.)

Of course, there are those foods which I don't even bother reading the label. Bags of chips, Vital-O and other small snack items- known as treats for the boys- that come in a single serving portion. I figure everyone has to splurge right? At times, the boys prefer their splurge item to be a bottle of body spray or shower gel. They always choose their favorite brand "AXE." Being the only woman in a house full of boys, I try to indulge their sense of manhood whenever possible. AXE mostly smells pretty good (except when they go overboard) so it's a fairly painless indulgence. I've never looked at the ingredients and try not to look at the price.

Until the other day when a bottle of AXE shower gel was hanging out by the sink and I happened to read the label as I was brushing my teeth. "Lendemain difficile" it said. Wait, hard morning? Can that be right? I thought surely there was something wrong with my French. Just under the title was a suspicious subtitle "Anti-hangover." I was certain there was definitely something wrong with my French and my English as I picked the bottle up to look it over.

Stimulant Mg+O2???Maybe I should have read the label....
Interesting conversation by some others with the same questions

I guess after briefly visiting the website, I shouldn't really be surprised. But when I was having my first close inspection of an AXE label, I hadn't yet thought to check out the website of my sons deodorant. The picture, more importantly the caption, on the back was absolutely hilarious. I remembered being 10 and wondering how the advertisers could get away with making claims that were so obviously not true- did people really believe that stuff?!

"Miracle shower gel saves your morning and brings back energy even after a long  and difficult night"
And under that a promise of "Unlimited Female Attention" after just one washing, presumably. 

I thought immediately of the Metamorphosis class in our middle school that teaches kids how to evaluate media. What a great conversation piece (especially since there's a pretty could chance that on any given day more than half the boys in the class would be wearing AXE.)

Mohamed assures me he is not seeking 'unlimited female attention', and, in fact, says he hasn't noticed any extra girls hanging around him. "It's just a smell to attract people," he says in his media-savvy voice, laughing a bit at me for believing what I read. Happy to hear he knows better.

Another hospital story- for my nursing friends

There are two kinds of stories you can never tell enough of in Kinshasa. Because if you're not suffering some weird ailment, you're probably stuck in a traffic jam of one kind or another. My Western mind will never get used to seeing a car come barreling down the road with it's lights on and aiming right for me. In my lane. I'm ready; years of defensive driving courses have prepared me to respond to anything in the road but I'm never really expecting it. Something about a car in the wrong lane is always surprising.

Just as, while I am aware of the medical situation (or lack thereof) in Kinshasa, my Western mind remains stubbornly surprised at the way things work. A friend of mine recently made the trip across the river and back again to his hometown of Brazzaville. Apparently, the trip can be made at night, under cover of darkness, by way of pirogue. A canoe, basically. This version of the trip requires no documents but a $10 pay-off to the military on this side, again on the other side and maybe $10 to the canoe driver. One must also be prepared for battle. It's a rough trip.

He came back the roundabout way by Matadi to pick up a car and drive several hours to Kinshasa. That's where he ran into trouble. Thieves, bandits and military check points all along the way. Some guys mugged him (to use a New York term) and stole his watch and some clothes just after arriving at "port." Of course, he fought back a bit and somewhere in the scuffle managed to bang up his leg pretty good. He had a small cut there and paid little attention to it- more worried about the cold (after losing some of his clothes to the muggers) and getting the car back in one piece (the police confiscated the backseats in return for payment of some kind of "tax." We're still waiting to get the seats back. He has faith, I remain in doubt and have since suggested installing some wooden benches and making a taxi bus out of the whole thing.)

A few days later, the bruised up leg started turning red and swelling to unbelievable proportions. The pain was unbearable and the coloring terrifying. He went off to the hospital, only to be returned, only to search out another. I did some research online and came up with my own diagnosis. The hospital found a blood infection and began administering a variety of antibiotics. There wasn't much improvement.

After a few days, when talk of finding a traditional doctor began, I decided to speak to the doctor myself. I was quite relieved to hear her name the infection that I'd found on the web and have her answer most of my questions. I went home, did further research and found that healing often took time and the swelling might be a come and go thing. I was comforted by cold, hard facts but also slightly alarmed. Cellulitis has the potential to be dangerous- resulting in amputation or death. The doctor and I had spoken of signs to watch for that would signal a turn for the worse. I was mostly worried about amputation. Things always seem to happen too fast and too slow at the same time, resulting in grave situations that could likely have been avoided in a better equipped country.

But my friend, and his friend, and the patient in the next bed, and even one of the doctors all insisted that this was something you cure traditionally. I could do nothing but examine my own beliefs. I don't discount traditional medicine altogether. I do believe concentrated, bad energy can result in tragic consequences. I just wasn't sure someone had intentionally cursed him, although speculations about who it might have been began immediately.

When you arrive in Africa- well, the hot and humid countries- you can feel the heaviness in the air.  The first time I had an open cut I remember thinking 'Cover it up, things are living in the air.' You can practically feel them moving around. Personally, I think it was something in the dustiness of the port town, maybe coming off the river that got into his skin. And while the traditional wash may help the swelling and redness, I'm not convinced it can get into the blood and tackle the infection there.

So I was relieved when he was easily convinced to continue his rounds of antibiotics. At this intense stage, he requires several different kinds - one of which is an injection. Money issues- and personal comfort- required that he leave the hospital. Not to mention, the staff there weren't too pleased that he kept leaving and coming back. He wouldn't be able to continue the traditional course of medicine if he stayed in the hospital.

However, leaving means he needs someone to inject him. Not just a jab in the backside but into the vein. Yeah- that's not a skill I have. Last night we took the medicines and needles and went in search of a hospital with electricity (our first stop was too dark and he had a bit of fear that they wouldn't be able to see well enough by candlelight to inject him without too much rooting around and pain.) It wasn't too hard to find a clinic with lights and we went in, presented the items and he was given a shot. Very few questions asked. Which is when I really began to understand the differences in circumstance and even see some similarities.

I had found comfort in arming myself with facts, added to my basic knowledge of the workings of the human body. I even printed off some pages in French for my friend to read. While he doesn't have the background knowledge that Americans seem to gain through school and public service announcements ( and trips to the doctor where we ask endless questions and expect clear answers) he was able to get enough information to know what he needs and to self manage those needs. Out patient care. It could turn out to be quite efficient, allowing him to access medical care that he can afford. Apparently the traditional healer is not asking for payment (I'm sure they'll set up a barter system or some kind of gift giving) and the doctor charged a mere 1500FC for performing the injection. A system that has sprung up in the absence of a universal medical care program that ensures the sick will receive attention (money is always one of the first questions to come up before any kind of treatment is begun- no money, no treatment.) 

I'm still trying to merge the Western and traditional schools of thought, exploring how I really feel about each one and examining the different values, beliefs and skepticisms that spring up- part of  intercultural living I suppose - merging the best of both worlds. Maintaining one's own beliefs and understandings of the world while not discounting another perspective. I'm sure I'll have plenty of time to develop my thoughts when I next find myself stuck in one of those crazy traffic jams.

What I really saw in the market- dispelling myths about Africa #24 & #37

Our summer vacation fumble has meant spending our down time in Kinshasa. We've managed to fill the days riding bikes, painting the walls, baking pretzels and basically driving each other crazy. Now that it's time for school again, stocking up for supplies has meant trips to the market downtown to load up on sneakers, soccer gear and at least one respectable pair of jeans.

Shopping in the big market has usually been an excursion reserved for buying vegetables- a slightly better quality, more selection and somewhat cheaper prices (but oh what you pay with the heat, the crowded streets and the bargaining.) I have, occasionally, looked over some clothes and shoes and purchased a few things in moments of need. (One year the boys were especially hard on their feet, which required a few unplanned trips for sneakers.)

This year we had the pleasure of being escorted to a different area of the market, one I hadn't seen before as it required walking down a long street and turning off into one of those secret hidden alley ways- the kind that are fronted by a few clothing stalls and umbrellas and perhaps skirted by a vegetable or fruit stand. They appear to be nothing more. But once you make your way behind them and turn onto a little footpath you are bombarded with......orange.

There is no experience of color explosion quite like what happens when you turn off the black, gritty street filled with the gray smoke from taxi buses and the muddy browns and washed out whites of dirt and garbage piles and step inside the walkway of the clothing market. Brand new clothes- not the American hand-me-downs that myth #24 suggests all Africans are always wearing. Nope. Strong, bold oranges, blues and greens shouted at me from every direction.

So this is where all those incredibly chic, impossibly svelte Kinshasa beauties find their wear. Skinny jeans, beaded tops, star studded tanks, denim skirts faded in just the right places- all hanging from the rafters. Each stall sported a line of clothing hung one under another and covering every inch of the allotted space. Some stalls barely had room for the vendor and others could comfortably fit two or more browsers. Around some corners you could even find a boutique- a little store with a step up and real walls, a real floor, even shelves to show off the merchandise. Most of the stalls are constructed of wooden rafters nailed together. The clothing makes up the wall space and sometimes a tarp is draped over the top to form a ceiling. Vendors spend their days calling out to shoppers, enticing them to come in and start bargaining. Some were eating, some were napping, but all were surrounded by newness.

We went to the market three different times- first, just the adults, then with each kid. We figured it would be less overwhelming if their was just one to concentrate on. We wanted to leave them out of it altogether but then decided in order to ensure fit and meet finicky tastes, they'd be better off picking their own things.  By the end of those trips, our trusty guide was feeling as overwhelmed and exhausted as the boys.

Myth #37 says Africa is cheap. The fact is 3 African cities make the Top 20 list for expats (Kinsahsa hits a lofty number 19) and 2 African cities make the Top 10 for most expensive cities in the world. This includes the marketplaces, especially mondeles in the marketplace. It means twice as many people calling out (or even grabbing-ugh!) and trying to lure us into their stall and most providing prices twice as high as normal. The bargaining is intense and sometimes, it just doesn't happen. We left a few nice shirts behind with vendors who were unwilling to come down since we were unwilling to go up. No middle ground was found. On average though, we were able to buy a few decent shirts for about $6-$10 and jeans for $12-$15. A similar bargain to what can be found in some Western department stores. Shoes ranged from $10-$20 and we have yet to see how long they'll last. I have a little bit less faith in their durability.

While the clothes are crisp and bright and bold, the selection is limited. Searching for your size can be a bit challenging. Finding something in your size and color choice even more so. The popular style for men in Kinshasa is the button up shirt. The popular style for my boys is the polo. So, finding something in their size, their color choice and their style was triply challenging. But in the end, we did manage to walk away with enough to make them happy, feel sporty and new for those important first days of school and learn a little bit about how the other half live.

I add that last part mostly in reference to our guide, who had a chance to experience what it's like to be white in Africa. Emotionally exhausting is the verdict. He learned to suck up the provocations and maintain calm (the first day- when it was just us adults, he did get into a few arguments but took it as a lesson learned and proceeded with quiet dignity on the next few trips.) He learned which vendors would give a fair price, which could be bargained with and which were stubbornly unreasonable. He also learned what it's like to have people talk to you, stare at you and state out loud whatever comments pass through their minds because they assume you can't understand the language. Or maybe they are just expressing themselves and don't really care if you can understand or not.

The boys, of course, got a chance to see that there are plenty of hip, crisp clothes available in Kinshasa and everyone is not wearing their brother's cast offs or sporting imported clothes from Dubai (Of course, the market duds came imported from somewhere... I'm referring to the other kind of importing that happens when their friends travel for vacation- or for the weekend!- and bring back suitcases filled with clothes and shoes and other goodies.)

The last little thing I saw in the market place that filled me with glee was the tea guy. I had images of home (West Africa home) when I saw him making his way down the crowded walkway carrying a small bag of plastic cups and two thermoses. I suppose, hygienically speaking, the plastic cups are improvement to the glass tea shot cups supplied by West African tea carriers,  and I am not entirely certain he will do the aerating - now that I am writing this, I am wondering if he even had tea. Plastic cups and hot beverages don't mix. But in the moment, in those few seconds that I glanced at him before he disappeared, I recognized him as the tea guy. And it made my heart happy.

I guess there will always be another myth left to uncover.

Time for another Things I Like...

It's Thursday, which means this post is just in time for the weekend- not that you can't be grateful any day of the week. This weekend also happens to be the last before returning back to school. I'd like to be happy and celebrate but am fearful the festivities may begin to warp into "Where has the 'summer' gone?" pity party rather than a futuristic, optimistic outlook on another year of educating young minds. There's a fine line there.

For now, I will try to concentrate on things I do like about Kinshasa, wet or dry season, vacation or school season not dependent.

1. Traffic lights- It definitely took me awhile to get used to the new traffic lights (something about seeing both a red and a green at the same time was initially mind boggling.) However, I have come to appreciate, not just the colored arrows which indicate which lanes of traffic have the go- ahead, but, more importantly, the countdown timer located in the middle. It lets all impatient drivers and their passengers see just how much time they have to wait before they can fly off down the next block.  It always makes me think of the queue theory- which I only just found out had such a respectable name. It's the stories of how the lines at Disney World and other theme parks were rearranged to to make people happier while waiting in line (and, perceptually, to make them feel as though the line were less long than it really is.) James Robert Watson explores some of the most efficient ways to lay out lines all the while trying to make us feel less like sheep (which we apparently hate.) Johnny Holland gives a nice summary of the psychology behind waiting in lines and Donald Norman's 8 principles of designing waiting lines. I am a little confused about the double 1's but right in the first principle (or maybe it's the second) the question of time comes up. How long do I have to wait? I firmly believe the success (mostly) of the Kinshasa traffic lights (that is to say, most of the time people actually follow the rules- during the day and during periods of high traffic) is due to the fact that everyone knows exactly how long they have to wait.  While 90 secs may seem long (had to suppress a smile when one of the boys was obviously having a bad day and said, "Really? A minute and a half? Why do we have to wait so long?!") it is completely do-able.

2. Street noise- At times, the street noise can be alarming and disorienting, particularly in the more crowded sections near markets and down small roads but in general I really appreciate the street noise of Kinshasa. There is always singing, whether it is someone calling out whatever they happen to be selling, calling out taxi destinations or just someone inspired to sing their favorite song. To accompany this, there is the wooden clacking of shoe shiners, the metallic clink of bread sellers and thwumping of rubber bands on boxes by those wandering guys who travel with a small convenience store on their heads, selling everything from cigarettes to chewing gum to cookies.  I recently read We Need New Names by NoViolet Bulawayo. There is an apt description at one moment in the story when the main character, Darling, has moved to the US. She is in her Michigan apartment in the middle of winter and happens to be talking to her friend back home in Zimbabwe. Conversation is hard to come by as it is more than miles that separates them now and Darling's friend asks her, "What do you see outside?"  She responds only in silence as a glance out the window reveals nothing more than dreary, snowy sidewalks barren of life. Her friend begins to recount all the little movements going on in her African street and the two worlds suddenly seem even more disconnected. Just another thing to miss. I spend a lot of time being seduced by the street noise of Kinshasa.

3. Busy signals- One last funny thing I like is the female voice recording that let's you know the party you are trying to call is busy. She says, "La correspondent vous voulais rejoinde est occupe, eh?" The number you are calling is busy...but it's the last little "eh" that gives her such a human touch. Just like a real speaking person might inflect at the end of a statement.  I hear a bit of condolence and consideration-"Sorry, they're busy, ok? Try back later...." is communicated in that little 'eh'. Maybe it's just me but I feel a little better even though the person I am trying to reach is obviously busy with someone else. No hard feelings, eh?

New Toys in the Backseat

Kinshasa police have a new toy. I have spotted the simple yet sleek design at various traffic crossings throughout the city. I've even tried capturing a photo (it's another of those needs to be seen to really be believed items) but no luck so far.

The device appears to be an alternative to the chunky traffic boot. It is long and slim, can be applied in seconds and requires no bending under the car or near the tire. The handle looks like a black rubber strap or bungee cord but is straight- kind of like an invisible dog leash.

Invisible dog walker

Instead of sporting an invisible dog at the end of the leash, however, the policemen and women of Kinshasa have something much more lethal. A piece of wood or iron is found at the end of the rubber strap and it hosts a mob of spiky nails an inch thick or more. It is a portable, handheld version of the tire spike strip.

     Kin strips require no bending and appear much hardier than this traffic spike. Photo found at this all-in-one supply site

I've been noticing them around and hoping fervently not to be stopped by one while at the same time wondering why my heart races just a little faster at the thought of it.  I did manage a narrow escape while rounding a turn out by the large bakery (known locally as Mama Poto I think)  on the way to Victoire.  The policeman knocked on my passenger side window and showed me what he was going to do, which allowed me just enough time (and luckily there was space) to speed up and maneuver away from him.

We weren't so lucky yesterday afternoon, however, on our way to meet some friends. I had made a right turn on red (as did the car in front of me) just by the Safricas intersection (Mercedes circle if you are from that generation of Kinois) when one of the police stepped in front of me (as they did with the car who had just passed. They usually never go for two cars in a row but somehow he wasn't stopped for very long.)  I thought maybe the problem was my right on red (really not sure if that is legal here in Kin even if it is necessary at times) but our conversation didn't get very far. Soon enough,  a cop appeared with the portable tire strip and placed it just behind my front wheel.  So I turned off the car, getting ready to dig in my heels and wait things out. My car was in the middle of the road, completely blocking all traffic, which I took to be a great advantage on my part.

As the cars honked and made lanes around either side us, we tried to figure out our traffic infraction. Mohamed thought they were telling him to sit in the back so he undid his seat belt and climbed over the seat. I couldn't really imagine that to be the problem and just as I was telling him to sit back down, so did one of the police from outside (no get back in front, he gestured, that's not it.) Around this time, they removed the strip and motioned for me to pull over- out from the middle of the road.

Of course, this was my only advantage so I advanced slowly with one policeman in front of me and the other motioning me to pull over, which I absolutely refused to do. It seemed, even if we advanced at this slow rate, I could eventually make my way to my destination with the policeman walking backwards in front of me the whole time. Just when I had this cheery thought, a beige jeep pulled up from the side cutting me off. I turned off the car again, now two cars deep cutting off traffic in the middle of the road and began to wait. All requests for an explanation about what the problem was were ignored. The man in the jeep got out, off duty if he was an officer,  it's completely unclear who he was or why he was there, and walked up to the car.

"Tell the kid to get in the back and it's finished. That easy," he said. Except of course we'd already tried that and it hadn't finished nor been that easy. I couldn't really understand the logic of this anyway. "He's too little," the man said. Too little? He's eleven years old, I thought, out of car seats for ages. Is he really too little for the front seat? In my five years of Kinshasa life and driving, I have never heard this.

A little research does suggest backseat placement for ages 8-12. Especially in a car with front air bags- though I have been thinking our school cars do not have airbags. Booster seats or car seats for ages up to 8, in the back of course. I have never seen any child in a car seat in Kinshasa except those of ex-pats and usually they are toddlers or infants. When I asked a friend (after finally arriving) he said 18 was the age in Kinshasa for riding in the front. 18? Really? I found this hard to believe and after some intense questioning he backed down a bit. He said  the kid had to "be big." I guess determining big is dependent upon the viewer. I am ready to comply with this new law (oh the fights and "I call shotgun-dibs-blended-locked-it-and-googled-it" I have just been saved from) but I am mostly incredulous that it's taken 5 years to figure this one out.

In the end, Mohamed jumped over the seat into the back and this time it worked. They shooed us on our way. I'm guessing it was a combination of the helpful stranger and me refusing to get out of the line of traffic but in reality, you can never actually tell why you've been pulled over or why you've been let go.  And I would love to see the car seat rules take effect here. Happy to do my part in spiking tires and stopping traffic to make that happen.

Missing

Things go missing when you live in a house with people. Things get misplaced, moved around, stashed away and forgotten about. Things fall in the cracks between the sofa cushions and behind bookcases. Sometimes they are little things that have not even been missed until they are found. Other times they are bigger things, more important in the daily rituals of life and their absence becomes an inconvenience.

Occasionally it's hard to tell what is missing. The rice goes faster than you thought it should or the milk is consumed at an impossible rate. You may have small ideas about what is happening in these cases, but it's not nice to think so and the suspicions get pushed to the back of mind where they mingle with doubt and no proof and remain an uncertainty.

Too many hands. It's a saying I employ often when searching for my missing things. Too many little kid hands that like to pick up small objects and fiddle with them absentmindedly while doing something else. Too many hands sharing the same electronics and chargers and forgetting to return them to a communal place. Too many hands cleaning and moving and touching objects that might appear to be out of use or unimportant.

It's part of learning to live in a full house, or a halfway full house or even just with one other. It's one of those small perks of living alone- everything is exactly where you put it the night before. Or the week before.

Ex-pats in Kinshasa tend to have cleaning help, however, so even living alone doesn't ensure you will find things where you left them.  We have someone who comes in everyday to clean up and wash clothes, though I have tried many times to help her find other work. We simply don't need someone everyday. And I am intensely private. I have not quite found a way to feel comfortable going about my daily affairs, or even worse, sitting doing nothing but breathing in the fresh jungle air, while someone cleans around me. Perhaps it is due to the fact that I hate cleaning around people who are enjoying their leisure time. I want them to get up and help me so we can finish faster and we can all relax.  Sometimes I think having household help is something you need to grow up with in order to be truly comfortable with. Sometimes I think it is just me.

But then I talk to friends and colleagues and hear that they also have odd feeling moments. One friend shared with me a moment when she was sitting down to eat a taco lunch. A meal that requires small mounds of food from different dishes to be piled high upon the plate. A meal that could look lavish to someone struggling to feed their family every night. And that's where the real discomfort comes in. Conducting a rich and bountiful life in front of someone who just doesn't have.

I have been in this service position most of my life, working in restaurants, watching weddings and parties and gala affairs from the sidelines. In a job, you tend to understand the boundaries and stick to them. You know exactly what your role is and it is easy enough to maneuver about within it, marveling at the extravaganza of those you are serving.

But when it is brought into the home, it seems ever more personal. I tend to have a much harder time with the boundaries when I am on the other side. A lot of it also has to do with African cultures and the strict roles of age, gender, and economic status that command respect. I am constantly wavering between my ideas and crossing the boundaries and not enforcing the rules based on my American ideals and half-formed thoughts about how things should be.

It just leads to trouble. The rules are in place to ensure that everyone is on the same page. If I try working from my American page, it doesn't seem to translate well. I have been learning this lesson for awhile now and yet, still can't quite absorb it. I see how it goes wrong, but I don't have the mannerisms to work on that other field, even if I am slowly coming to appreciate it.

It's the one where the youth do whatever their elders ask, even if elder only means a few years. And the employee completes all the required tasks. Perhaps I am just not a good employer. I hate asking for "extra" things and constantly feel bad if I think I am creating too much work (while at the same time realizing that there is barely enough work in my house to employ someone for an entire day, every day. Oh, I am complicated.)

Because of my complications, I have been with the same woman for 5 years. I have gone to her house, met her family and bought them extra food occasionally. I give her all of the clothes the kids have outgrown and all of the things I no longer wear. I've made small loans and gifts of money even when it was a hardship for my family.  It's never really enough because lifting someone out of poverty is no easy task. But I have kept her employed, at times employed her sister and in general tried to make life a little less stressful.

The fact is, I am not really one of those ex-pats that lives an easy carefree life full of travel to exotic places and lavish luxuries (well, compared to the normal Westerner. I understand my life is probably lavish to the average Congolese houseworker.)

It's a distortion which can never truly be understood. Even if my cupboards are frequently bare and nothing I own here is really mine (a perk of working for an international school, all the basics are provided from housing to furniture to car rental.) She will never see the struggles I feel. She cannot see.

All that to say, things are missing and this time I can't quite push it back to the dusty corner of doubt and uncertainty. I know where they've gone. What I don't know is what to do about it.

There is the nagging thought that, well, we weren't using that, or I would have given it to her anyway, or even more preposterous, Mobutu himself proclaimed it was ok to take a little bit from those who have if you happen to be one of those who have not.

These all seem like excuses to me when I really want to demand complete honesty and total trust. Not to mention the feelings of hurt and betrayal, the sense of loss of respect that comes when someone has taken from you.

I know that in any other house, immediate dismissal would be the response. But we have spent five years together. Five years erasing the boundaries that are supposed to prevent this from happening.  And there is always the family to consider. Small children who depend on me paying someone to come in and do things for me that I am entirely capable of doing for myself.

Except the one thing I seem to have the most trouble doing- maintaining the boundaries and keeping things from going missing.