It was, perhaps, ambitious to think I would be sharing my trip to Muanda in three parts. What I'd really like to do, if this were paper, is draw three bold lines and separate the whole blog into two parts. Or maybe it's not really two parts- I just want to continue telling short stories. I lost my footing for a minute and was trying to find my direction again. But for the moment, while the doctorate research continues and time is ever scarce, probably just telling a few short stories now and then is all I can manage.
The story I want to tell today is about a ride home. Kinshasa always offers up the best transportation stories. I love public transport here- not the wait or the struggle to find it, but the solidarity that comes from being together in a bus. Because the roads are so filled with adventure, a bus ride normally results in some kind of shared experience.
On this particular evening, I was returning home from the new center in Bandal- surely there will be some stories to come from there. It is already a magical place, evoking memories of early Guinea experiences, a creative, timeless place. The kind of place where life passes sweetly, slowly, but full of energy. The kind of place I do not want to leave. But as darkness falls and the curfew- still in place here in Kinshasa- draws ever nearer- the commute begins. I found easy transport all the way to Kintambo. We were together in a mini-bus traveling through the rush-hour traffic. A group of boisterious young boys in the back added ambiance. As we pulled over on the main road to allow a passenger to board, a taxi collided with us. The driver had seen the taxi coming and they'd even exchanged some words but, obviously, that was not enough to get the message across. Somehow, we collided anyway. Or rather, plainly put, the taxi drove into us.
The passengers all erupted into laughter and commentary on the capabilities of the taxi driver. Everyone agreed he was at fault. Our chauffeur didn't seem too upset. He exchanged a few more words with the taxi driver before we drove off. It was really the calmest and quickest exchange after an accident that I have ever seen. No one even got out of their vehicle.
However, as the next passenger got on, and the recevoir attempted to close the sliding door, the real problem became apparent. The door fell off. He tried everything to return it to it's position- and with some help from the chauffeur they were able to, but every time we stopped to let someone on or off, it fell off the track again, out onto the curb. A huge hunk of rusting yellow metal. Each time, the back of the bus erupted in laughter and commentary. I couldn't help but think about how this situation could have been viewed from a completely different lens- normally from one of frustration, anger, stress. It's not that it wasn't a problem. It's not that it wasn't going to cost money to repair- money the driver likley doesn't have. It was more about not wasting energy on this problem which, having already happened, has only one solution. Keep driving.
Well, the recevoir did try a few solutions- reattaching it at every stop. He was hanging off the edge of the open doorway with his arm looped through when we picked up speed and the door fell off. Lucky for his strength that he didn't drop the door, drop himself or lose the one of the parts altogther (arm or door.) The crowd erupted again at that- some had already cautioned him to be more careful. It is during adventures like these that I wish my Lingala was fluent, fluid, so I could hear the nuances in the details. The amtosphere was clear, the jokes about air conditioning were in full force, but I look forward to the day when I just know what everyone is saying without having to try so hard to understand.
After the final near catastrophe, they decided to just hoist the door onto the roof. They did not secure the door in anyway which left me super distracted about stability. Surely the recevoir could not hold the door on the roof. If that piece of metal fell off or went flying off it was bound to connect with a motorcycle or a pedestrian. I kept imagining myself drivig along in a car and having a chunk of metal slam into the windshield. There is no anticipating how someone else's decision might affect you. We are truly all connected.
In the end, the door stayed snugly on the rooftop. I do not know my physics well enough to guess why or determine how weight affects slippage. All I know is Newton's law about objects in motion and applying that to my mental image resulted in a terrifying- and completely avoidable- disaster. I tend err on the side of common knowledge and give more credit than is warranted about their decision making processes. It's the trap of African mysticism- assigning some greater meaning to what was clearly a poor- and dangerous- decision. The lesson I choose to draw is that we must keep driving. When times are hard and situations present little options, we must keep driving forward- and not just to persevere- but to persevere with laughter and good humor and positivity.
