I've been teaching and living here in Kinshasa long enough for certain things to become everyday, unnoticeable. I've made amends with the riches my students have and the kinds of poverty it brings to many of their lives. I am aware of the power many of them are surrounded by on a daily basis and the thoughts of entitlement it often leads to.
There are other things to become accustomed to as well. No mail service. Lack of reliable connections for phone and internet. These things often lead to frustration and miscommunication - or missed communication. People collect SIM cards and numbers from multiple phone service providers in hopes that at least one of them will be capable of catching a signal at any given time. Snail mail is a thing of luxury and a sign of status. (US Embassy kids can be easily spotted in the lunchroom by the ever sought after fruit roll ups and Rice Krispie treat snacks they have received through "the pouch.")
Our school is in the process of installing an intercom system that promises to be reliable and clear in communication. But our disaster preparedness drills still involve a messenger coming to the door with a hand held sign "Code Yellow" or walking around the parking lot hand cranking a siren. So it was not really surprising to me to hear, in the middle of math class one day, a knock on the door and a hand delivered message from one of our office assistants.
Things turned a bit bizarre however when I noticed the envelope. It was not the large, plain office envelope that tuition notices or school records come in that are to be sent home to parents through their child. This envelope was of the letter variety, the air mail letter with blue and red markings dotting the edge.
"The driver is waiting for a response." I was told. What? I am in the middle of teaching. I opened the letter, scanned it - becoming more and more incredulous- the parent wanted to arrange a meeting with me in two hours. I started explaining why it was impossible to meet in two hours (students, class, professional duty...) and then finally made a big decision. They'll have to wait.
"The answer is no and they'll have to wait. I can't respond to this now." The assistant was slightly aghast and unsure how to leave without the required response. From the corner of my eye, I saw the student in question surveying the scene. She had been attempting a power play- a coup perhaps. She'd started a bit of trouble the day before and was trying to call in the ranks to get her out of it. Leaving 25 students, especially these particular 25 students, to their own devices while I tried to check my schedule and arrange a meeting would have been deadly. No, no response. Our time was too powerful and luckily, in my classroom, I still get to be queen.
The assistant left unhappily, formulating some response about a phone call later- which would have been the very appropriate first response taken by the parent. And I was left to chuckle over my first air mail delivery---by hand.
1.4.12
Welcoming death
Moving to Africa has required a change in most areas of behavior and perception. There are new things to learn and old things to unlearn. Some habits simply cannot be continued (stopping at the corner gas station for a morning cup of coffee, which is then swallowed down in the car while listening to the latest American news on NPR or mindless morning DJ's spinning the most recent in American radio pop has morphed into brewing fresh ginger and clove tea in my own kitchen and then leisurely sipping from my back porch while my eyes take in the green lushness of the jungle and my ears delight in the cacophony of bird calls. And yes- somehow there is even time for this ritual on workdays.)
Sara Rich captures some other transitions one must make before becoming truly acclimated to the pace of life in Congo ( and the challenges of coming and going) on her blog Rice and Beans for the Soul. In the past four years, I have been grappling with many of these issues. Access to drinking water- and just water in general- getting used to dimmer lights - and often no lights at all- and the lack of consumer choices have all ranked near the top of my list. (I completely relate to splurging on a chocolate candy bar---and admit, in this last year, to becoming a bit confused about what constitutes an extravagant purchase. Is $8 for a box of cereal a bargain or a rip off? $10 strawberries....equaling out to $1 a piece....a snatch or a shrug? Of course, there was no doubt about the $4 head of broccoli- definitely a deal! and a one time purchase as such a great bargain could not be found twice, sadly.)
Beyond the material, there are other changes to adapt to in Congo. These differences are more philosophical and have to do with what we welcome into our lives. By welcome, I suppose I mean accept. Some ideas and concepts enter without choice or pleasure. But if I am choosing to stay in Africa, to live and work here, then there certain realities that must be accepted and in that sense, I am allowing them into my life. Many of these aspects- such as the lack of privacy surrounding nearly every moment of life- inspire opposing senses of intrigue and exasperation. Living in Africa also means infusing spirituality- in one form or another- into pretty much every corner of life. Taxi buses are adorned with "Travel in Christ" and "God's good hand." Stores along the roadside are named "Jehovah's Good Word Fashions" and "Jesus is Our Savior Boutique." It's not just in the naming of things, but also in the dialogue. Every conversation can be said to have two layers- the literal one and the one referring to past and present, seen and unseen, physical and spiritual. Trying to decipher which level we're on and which "reality" we are referring to can be another of those past times that is at once puzzling and slightly infuriating.
Welcoming death as a part of life has been one of the hardest things I have had to adjust to. In America, death is sequestered. It is an occasion revered and often resisted. There is surprise and anger. But here in Congo, death is something everyone seems to have experienced at least twice over. "What are you doing this evening?" is just as often answered, "Going to a funeral," as "Going to visit a friend for dinner." In all of my 33 years before coming to Africa, death had only touched my personal life twice- and both of those times were so much on the periphery they barely had the ability to touch me. Or should I say the first funeral was such a foreign and bizarre series of rituals that I couldn't even bring myself to go to the second, which quickly followed. I just don't have much experience with death and my first funeral, at the age of 20, seemed simply grotesque and bizarre. I had no foundation with which to understand the quiet, solemn staring at the body or the solitary tears choked back by the parents. None of it made sense to me. None of it touched me. A foreign affair.
But here in Africa, cemeteries meet the roadway. Traveling just outside the city center reveals graves springing up mere feet from houses, becoming part of the yard itself. Marker stones can be seen just across narrow paths that barely qualify as roads. And people perch on the edges, seek shade under the stone canopies and rest their tired, living bodies on the graves of those in peaceful slumber.
My first African funeral came as a shock. I found out about the passing in the middle of teaching my class. I was confused and troubled. My thoughts rotated from wondering what and how it could happen to dismay at the child left behind, along with her cousins who had now lost a second mother.
The wake itself was held in the hollowed theater of National Ballet. Asina Kititwa had been a long time member of the ballet and my teacher. Her casket sat adorned with wreaths and flowers while mourners made their way down the packed theater seats to give their respects. A group of women sat nearby the casket and every so often would jump up and begin wailing and caressing Asina's body. People shared stories of a life lived and celebrated together, though none made it through entirely before breaking down into tears and being helped off stage. Others sang and performed several beautiful dances in honor of Asina. The dancers resembled willow trees, fragile branches swaying in the breeze supported by strong and capable trunks as they danced and wept and poured their love and energy into their memories of performing together.
This ritual of celebrating and affirming and releasing seemed to make a bit more sense to me. The loud and unrestrained wailing made it possible for silent tears to fall and comfort to be found in any touch. The joy of dance and song validated the talent and artistry that Asina brought to this world and had clearly touched so many lives with. Nearly 300 people were in that auditorium, grieving together, supporting each other, singing and swaying and sharing memories of a life well lived.
Sara Rich captures some other transitions one must make before becoming truly acclimated to the pace of life in Congo ( and the challenges of coming and going) on her blog Rice and Beans for the Soul. In the past four years, I have been grappling with many of these issues. Access to drinking water- and just water in general- getting used to dimmer lights - and often no lights at all- and the lack of consumer choices have all ranked near the top of my list. (I completely relate to splurging on a chocolate candy bar---and admit, in this last year, to becoming a bit confused about what constitutes an extravagant purchase. Is $8 for a box of cereal a bargain or a rip off? $10 strawberries....equaling out to $1 a piece....a snatch or a shrug? Of course, there was no doubt about the $4 head of broccoli- definitely a deal! and a one time purchase as such a great bargain could not be found twice, sadly.)
Beyond the material, there are other changes to adapt to in Congo. These differences are more philosophical and have to do with what we welcome into our lives. By welcome, I suppose I mean accept. Some ideas and concepts enter without choice or pleasure. But if I am choosing to stay in Africa, to live and work here, then there certain realities that must be accepted and in that sense, I am allowing them into my life. Many of these aspects- such as the lack of privacy surrounding nearly every moment of life- inspire opposing senses of intrigue and exasperation. Living in Africa also means infusing spirituality- in one form or another- into pretty much every corner of life. Taxi buses are adorned with "Travel in Christ" and "God's good hand." Stores along the roadside are named "Jehovah's Good Word Fashions" and "Jesus is Our Savior Boutique." It's not just in the naming of things, but also in the dialogue. Every conversation can be said to have two layers- the literal one and the one referring to past and present, seen and unseen, physical and spiritual. Trying to decipher which level we're on and which "reality" we are referring to can be another of those past times that is at once puzzling and slightly infuriating.
Welcoming death as a part of life has been one of the hardest things I have had to adjust to. In America, death is sequestered. It is an occasion revered and often resisted. There is surprise and anger. But here in Congo, death is something everyone seems to have experienced at least twice over. "What are you doing this evening?" is just as often answered, "Going to a funeral," as "Going to visit a friend for dinner." In all of my 33 years before coming to Africa, death had only touched my personal life twice- and both of those times were so much on the periphery they barely had the ability to touch me. Or should I say the first funeral was such a foreign and bizarre series of rituals that I couldn't even bring myself to go to the second, which quickly followed. I just don't have much experience with death and my first funeral, at the age of 20, seemed simply grotesque and bizarre. I had no foundation with which to understand the quiet, solemn staring at the body or the solitary tears choked back by the parents. None of it made sense to me. None of it touched me. A foreign affair.
But here in Africa, cemeteries meet the roadway. Traveling just outside the city center reveals graves springing up mere feet from houses, becoming part of the yard itself. Marker stones can be seen just across narrow paths that barely qualify as roads. And people perch on the edges, seek shade under the stone canopies and rest their tired, living bodies on the graves of those in peaceful slumber.
My first African funeral came as a shock. I found out about the passing in the middle of teaching my class. I was confused and troubled. My thoughts rotated from wondering what and how it could happen to dismay at the child left behind, along with her cousins who had now lost a second mother.
The wake itself was held in the hollowed theater of National Ballet. Asina Kititwa had been a long time member of the ballet and my teacher. Her casket sat adorned with wreaths and flowers while mourners made their way down the packed theater seats to give their respects. A group of women sat nearby the casket and every so often would jump up and begin wailing and caressing Asina's body. People shared stories of a life lived and celebrated together, though none made it through entirely before breaking down into tears and being helped off stage. Others sang and performed several beautiful dances in honor of Asina. The dancers resembled willow trees, fragile branches swaying in the breeze supported by strong and capable trunks as they danced and wept and poured their love and energy into their memories of performing together.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)