Despite my best intentions, I am not winning the life game balance of managing phd and, well, everything else. I finally turned in the last paper of the semester, marking two years complete in the program. Now that I have a moment to breathe, I can catch up on some emails, blog posts and writing of my own direction.
The semesters seem to get more intense and meeting deadlines ever more difficult. I've had to ask for an extension twice, suffered through multiple bouts of self-doubt and battled thoughts of quitting. Thoughts of quitting don't really gain much ground, but I do spend time wondering why exactly I decided to do this and if the supposed pay-off is really worth the time and effort. I realize the pay off is the personal growth that occurs through the journey- always worth the time and effort right? The hardest experiences lead to the deepest change, or something like that.
It was in the midst of crisis, deep avoidance and an outright inability to put word to page that I set out for a writer's retreat to Kisantu, home of the botanical gardens and sweet tales of a little village hosting quaint hotels with beautiful views.
I'd done some web research and was seduced by this page, authored by teachers I used to work with during my round one phase of living in Congo. I figured I could take their word for it- coupled with a few other sites I browsed. I imagined passing one whole day sitting in the gardens, typing away, and evenings sipping strong coffee in dim lighting, writing, writing, writing. I may have romanced the possibility a bit, but that's necessary when trying to complete a doctoral preliminary literature review. I needed it to be romantic and intimate, focused and productive. All of the things it wasn't.
The first mistake was thinking I had time to pass by an art show at the marché de liberté in Masina. The show itself was ok. There was some pretty impressive music by a group of school kids- marching band drums, soulful horns, cymbals on time. They were good. Dancers included a traditional group with raffia skirts, a fire dancer complete with flaming torch down the pants (what does it say about me that this is old news by now? I am marginally impressed by watching a guy thrust a flaming stick down the front of his skirt. I am always more worried the raffia will catch on fire and wonder what the trick is for avoiding that.) There was also a performance artist covered in slick oil turning his body midnight black. He found me in the crowd and came over for some intense eye contact while he mimicked my stance. All in great fun.
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| Marionette dancing to drums |
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| Participants and collectif members |
I had a chance to meet the emcee, an enthusiastic woman who is known for covering traditional arts and who gave me a shout out goodbye over the mic when it was time to go. I also met a woman balafon player- which seems rare in itself, but especially so in Congo- who works with a center serving young kids. I am very interested in following through on that opportunity. The Minister of Culture made an appearance and I got a tour of the artwork, complete with symbolic analysis by the artist himself. It was a worthwhile experience.
But it put me behind. By the time I found a mini-bus heading in the direction of the central station it was early afternoon. A man in a few seats in front of me turned and said, "Ntongo" which proved to be a prophetic warning. "One should really leave first thing in the morning if you're going to Kisantu."
When I arrived at the terminal, I found one bus full and a taxi with one passenger. This meant waiting for others to appear. The driver planned 4 in the back and 2 in the front. It could be hours. It was hours. As deadlines came and went, I decided that if we weren't on the road by 4pm I would just cancel my trip. Go home and write in my room. I'd already spent the entire day in transit of one form or another, in limbo, waiting, not writing.
By 4 o'clock however, I'd already paid and getting my money back was impossible. The original taxi we'd been waiting in turned out to be 'en panne' and we had to switch over to another. (And just before leaving, we stopped, in the rain, to give the battery a boost...not sure if that was the only source of the breakdown. Things are always just slightly less than clear.)
We were finally on the road. The long, winding, mountainous road to Kisantu. Simply put, the ride was terrifying. The chauffeur drove way too fast for the wet, curvy roads. He passed other cars often, sending us into the oncoming lane, which is not unusual for Congo driving, but in the dark, around the turns- it was breath stopping. I do admit part of my terror stemmed from the fact that my eyesight is particularly bad at night and distance is hard to gauge. I was sitting in the front and cars appeared much closer than they actually were (maybe. I am sure some of the close calls were pretty darn close.) I also don't spend much time in the car over long distance. City traffic is slow and halting. I am now completely unaccustomed to high speeds and so motion sickness likely played a part as well.
The driver made several pitstops along the way- once to collect money from a debt owed, once to buy bread, once for an unclear reason. The bread scene, reminiscent of my very first bread scene, was even more hectic than the chauffeur's driving. Women were pushing and shoving each other, stuffing bread in the car, and calling out prices. One woman even threw a small bag at the young guy sitting next to me. The chauffeur had had enough by this time and was zooming off. The young man, who'd already bought his share of bread and hadn't really asked for the flying rolls, didn't know what to do. He threw 1000fc out the window, calling out, "Ehh, Mama..." The occupants exploded into laughter at the craziness of it all.
Despite the death defying feats and unexplained stops, our ride was punctuated by heated exchanges ending in laughter. Most of the time it was quiet, or the chauffeur went on and on about some tale or another. It became apparent he'd been drinking and was full of that over-confidence that comes with being in one's territory and feeling like a king. I closed my eyes, put my head down, and gave over control. There was nothing more to be done. I understood a lot about the sense of resignation that Congolese must feel on an everyday basis. I also understood a lot about bad decisions and how to avoid them in the future.
I was torn at times between engaging the chauffeur in conversation and keeping quiet. I'd been stuffed into a carnival ride against my best interests and simply wanted it to be over. At one point, I glanced up to find he was shuffling through CDs, looking for the next great hit to play. He'd been alternating between singing and telling us about his life story- "I only have 3 kids, madame, like you Europeans. Can you believe that? It is not enough..." Keeping my mouth shut proved impossible and I asked if he could watch the road and not the music. This resulted in a huge monologue about his competence as a driver, his familiarity with the road, and his desire that I, a mundele, not be scared in his taxi. Exactly the reaction I'd wanted to avoid. The kind of response that leads to actually speeding up, just to show how competent he really is and swerving with even more zeal, just to show how in control of the car he is. I prayed a tire wouldn't give out.
Nearing our destination, we stopped to let one of the women drop off a printer she'd been charged with delivering. It had caused her a lot of grief at departure, where they wanted to charge her more for transporting an obviously high cost, precious item. She spent a little too long (not longer than the bread stop, surely not longer than the 30 minute debt collection stop) and the taxi driver actually sped off without her. I was amazed even as the other ladies exploded into laughter. I have to assume she was close to her final destination.
I got out on a dark street in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. A taxi moto pulled up and offered to take me somewhere. My stomach was racing with the anxiety of the trip and thoughts of having to go through it all over again to get home. I asked the driver to take me directly to the hotel, which turned out to be a few kilometers up the road.
And not exactly like website promised. Of course, my former colleagues had published their site a few years before and all information on the internet is subject to change. I felt like a gap-year backpacker walking up the steps to the hotel, pulling open the creaky iron gate and peeking around for hotel staff. Luckily, I found someone at the desk, though it seemed like a chance meeting. There was a room available, sparse but clean with mosquito net. No restaurant.
My dreams of sipping an endless cup of tea and typing away to the chatter of birds instantly evaporated. He offered to send someone to find some bread and sardines for me, if I wanted. I didn't. I had traveled with a few small items and enough water to get me to morning. I sat down to work, exhausted, stomach still rolling with anxiety. I fell asleep to the lull of big trucks barreling down the roadway and some drunken neighbors fighting.
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| Beautiful grounds, beautiful exteriors: appeared to be mostly home to long term renters now with an occasional room or apartment suite available |
I needed a plan for the morning. I'd wasted nearly an entire day and the deadline remained. I woke early, wrote for about 2 hours and went in search of transportation. The hotel clerk was friendly, smiling and gracious. Excellent service. He hailed me a moto, negotiated the price and sent me on my way. The return car filled quickly in the morning hour, with merely a small dispute about price before we were on our way.
The drive began with horn honking and trail blazing zeal. I was in the second row this time and ready to just close my eyes and will a positive outcome. Not long outside of the village center, we passed an overturned tractor truck. A crowd was gathered on the opposite side of the road around a motorcycle and rider. There was no ambulance on the way. That is really the stressful part of reckless riding. I had been able to give my destiny over to the universe, but I was still afraid of suffering. There is no rapid response team (or even a slow response team) to arrive on scene. The thought of being thrown out of a car and laying a ditch for hours or even days is downright disturbing.
The chauffeur was smartly influenced by the scene and the rest of the ride passed calmly. I was able to gaze out the window at the passing countryside, enjoying the beauty of the green earth and blue sky. While my retreat was not one of the writing kind, it did offer the opportunity to see life in a new way.
My kitchen never seemed sweeter, my tea never tasted creamier, and my desk never felt cozier. Despite the retreat that wasn't, I met all my deadlines and am another year closer to PhinisheD. A preview of next semester tells me the most interesting part is yet to come.
