The hunters

Yay! One photo. After waiting so long, none of them seem particularly exciting. I've posted photos on Picassa web and invite all to see them there. Here are Mohamed and Nabih inside the 'jungle'- a short path to school surrounded by trees and shrubs and bugs. I guess they're hunting lions in the photo. There a million great sticks and pieces of bamboo to be found, no need to bring toys! I am working on taking some more photos of life and will hopefully will have luck again to post them here.

The dance

5 September 2008 10:30 pm

Last Saturday we went to see a dance show. I was a bit nervous because you can never be certain how an event will turn out and I can always be certain that one of the boys will have a major breakdown. (All the good stuff happens right in the middle of naptime. Perhaps there is some sense to the birthday party we have been invited to tomorrow which initially seemed odd, occurring from 10-12.)

We went to see the dance teacher, Jacques, perform with his group. It was a free show at the Cultural Center of Congo- fancy name, fancy-ish place. Either it could be more or it used to be more, probably a bit of both. Small audience, simple performance no costumes, few props. I had no idea what to expect and could never have anticipated anyway.

The show was, not being a dance critic, a ‘modern- interpretive’ style, I suppose, if such a thing exists. I found myself at once moved and uncomfortable by it. African art is generally filled with dramatic pauses that go on too long for Western senses and music that is too loud and overbearing. I brought so much of myself to this show that I couldn’t really be sure if what I was feeling truly came from the dance or from me. I spent a bit of time trying to determine if my background knowledge was the right ‘set’ to be using to evaluate the performance.

It was punctuated with moments of blaring horns and convulsive body movements. All that I’d ever read about torture and prisons filled my head. All the biographies I’d read about journalists and young women, college students, and small boys fleeing for their lives only to be captured and imprisoned for simply being, caught up with me. It went on for a long while.

The dance included some Western ballet, puppet- like and domineering (Belgian influence perhaps?), followed by a moment of African freedom with traditional drums and dancing. This moment of hope quickly led back to discussion and confusion, yelling and accusation accented again with convulsing and twitching, violence and intimacy interspersed with moments of searching, “Moi?, Moi?” the refrain.

Finally, there seemed to be death, as several dancers fell to the floor and their partners tried everything to support them, to raise them again to life, eventually succumbing themselves to grief. A child jumped down from his perch where he had remained throughout the entire show. He regarded his people and addressed the audience, “Moi?”

I could never tell if I liked the show. There was clearly some talented dancers and drummers. There was clearly a powerful message. I felt so overwhelmed by a country at war for more than a decade, a powerless people living with violence and despair. I saw poverty in a way I had not truly seen it before. I felt it. It was there with me, a living breathing thing in the room.

Like the show or not, it was art- authentic, expressive, effective. Impossible not to be disturbed.
After, we went to the river to walk behind the embassies. It was breezy and beautiful though hauntingly so. The war was just behind my eyes.

A word about Nabih

5 September 2008 9:30 pm

Nabih is on Nanny # 4. It has been a terrible wave of women trying to keep up with him. During the reign of Nanny #3 he became obsessed with the art teacher’s husband who is a soccer player from Nigeria. He’s young and friendly and willing to watch soccer or Scooby Doo with Nabih. Best of all, he doesn’t mind hanging out with Nabih as long as he brings his own food. Nanny #3 let this go a little too far I think when he began taking naps there and hanging out on the porch waiting for his “friend” to come back.

Actually, Nabih described him as his big brother, Chica. I knew it was serious when we walked home with Rhonda, his wife, one day. I was trying to get back home quickly, a case of walking and talking together, when Nabih asked to see Chica. “I just want to see his face,” he said sounding like a school girl with a crush.

I know that it is many parts of many things- missing his dad, too many nannies, not enough little friends to play with, the opportunity to watch TV, and just some friendly, funny company.
Which is why I am supremely happy we have found Nanny #4- Mama Vero. She has a wonderful disposition- laughing all the time- and exudes patience. I’m not sure how great this really is because when I would have become stern long before, it seems certain she never will. But Nabih is mostly happy with her and frequently pretends like he is going home with her when she leaves. He has invited her to bring her children to play with him and she laughs at this.

While I think he is now visiting Chica less (and napping more at home) he has developed another peculiar habit. He comes to school. He wants badly to go to school and I am wanting to work this out for him but (well, cereal is going for 22 bucks) so its on hold for now. He comes to the school yard (accompanied by Mama Vero) and hangs around for most of the day. We have a morning recess and an afternoon recess so during those times he plays with the kids. My fifth graders are amazing and some of the boys have taken to playing soccer or catch with him. Even Mohamed and his friends were having races with him today. When the children go back to their classes, Nabih sidles up to the maintenance guys. He helps rake leaves or just practices sweeping with his stick (they are using large palm leaves so its not that much of a stretch.) They tell me everyday how friendly and intelligent he is. He’s become everyone’s problem. Sometimes, you just have to go home. He never wants to. Everyday it is a contest to see who can talk him into it. Sometimes one of them will walk with him halfway, sometimes they will promise candy, and sometimes they just tell him to go home and eat lunch- come back later. He always does.

He is a presence. And when I get home, he tells me again how he wants to go to school. So I tell him I will be his teacher and while Mohamed is out prowling with his friends, Nabih and I do some work on letters and colors and counting. Gardner by day, student extraordinaire by night.

Food and things

5 September 2008 9:00 pm

In retrospect, the Western Union experience did not really merit a whole paragraph but truthfully it was exhilarating. I’ve been out a few times since then, each one unique and worth mentioning, though probably in less detail. The problem is I am, by nature, a homebody (and by pocketbook) and with no one to visit, it becomes even more pronounced. In addition (work-a-holics) it is just too easy to go to my classroom and get things done. Plus, I am really enjoying the time with my boys!

I realize I could be a bit more specific about the shopping experiences, as I wanted more details when I was on the other side of the ocean. And there is much to say because groceries have a variety of ways of arrival.

“The Bus” - Most times I take the Saturday shopping trip downtown and buy canned goods, cheese, small snacks, paper goods and soap. I’m trying to establish a better system so I don’t have to go every Saturday but things like cheese are hard to keep on hand. They are very expensive and because the power goes out so frequently (every day this week from 9:30 am to 6:00 pm) refrigeration is unreliable. Don’t want to stock up on too much cold stuff. Shopping in the stores downtown is…..exhausting. There are a few small stores that price in dollars or francs and are fairly reasonable. 

However, it is almost never possible to get everything you need in one store. SO, we usually start with the most reasonable and least expensive. As you move up in price the whole system itself becomes more complicated. Items are priced with a letter and a number (for example, A34.) You must then look on a chart posted somewhere nearby and find A34 and the corresponding francs. Then, if you’re me, you have to do a mental conversion to dollars. And then, if you’re still me, you stand there looking dumbfounded at the item you thought you wanted to buy. Which is how I found myself staring at a $22 box of cereal. Yes, dollars. Twenty-two of them. I just kept shaking my head and walking around the aisle looking at all the cereal. I couldn’t seem to accept the prices (range $16-$22) and thought if I circled enough something previously missing would suddenly become clear. It did not. We settled on an $8 box of yogurt/oatmeal containing 6 packets (just add hot water) that the boys LOVED. It didn’t last long but was bug-free.

Because, while considering price, one must also consider quality and determine if there will be bugs inside the (previously) desired item. I have found several brands that I feel are fairly safe but always there is a close inspection and cleaning of everything. Yay for downtown shopping.

“Home delivery”- the most convenient and comes in a variety of ways. There is the vegetable woman, Mama , who comes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. She usually has an assortment of good looking carrots, green peppers, cucumbers and bananas. She sells tomatoes, onions and even peanuts (yum!) Her prices are reasonable enough considering she is at your door and her things usually look better than anything in the store. As you know, she has saved me on more than one occasion. (Watermelons!)

The other delivery option is a woman who bakes things and sells eggs. I think she is part of the missionary connection here. Her baked goods are really healthy (whole wheat often) and really good! She has saved us a few times as well. There was a cold evening (really, it was quite brisk, I know you don’t believe me but I could have used a sweater) in August when someone delivered fresh baked bread and rolls to our door. The night before it had been eggs and a bag of muffins. It was really amazing, especially so because our cupboards were bare. We had a most delicious breakfast that truly seemed to be a gift from God and tasted as heavenly.

I’m told the campus food service (school lunch) will also deliver bread but haven’t yet tried this service. I’m hoping it will help to cut out the Saturday morning excursion. The last delivery comes in the way of gifts or requests from people coming and going. The most interesting was a jar of honey I received from Nanny #1, Mama Helene. She was very happy to offer and assured me the last occupants of 58A used this honey all the time for sweetening and for stomach aches. I was glad to accept and simply wondered what to do with all of the little bee bodies and wings floating on top. Really, it appeared more full of insect parts than honey. However, after a few days most of this had formed a thick top layer which I scooped off and then spent a good Sunday straining honey. Yeah, quality time with the family. It does make a good cup of tea though, and even sweetens a cup of Nescafe pretty nicely.

“Marche”- Finally, there is the outdoor market. I took the walk with another couple, thankfully!- because it was quite far and Nabih insisted on being carried all the way. (He is a good 50 pounds now, and while a bit taller, he’s still fairly stout. Yes, it was a back ride because there is no other way to carry him.) The streets were dusty and even in some places showing signs of the rainy season mud to come. Clearly the “bus” would never travel down these parts, mud or not. After 20 minutes or so we arrived at a typical African food market. The streets were narrow, packed with people and paved with mud and garbage. Vendors were lining both sides of the alley way we turned up. Some women were braiding children’s hair, some were sleeping, some were chatting with neighbors. A busy, dusty place full of waiting and life. The further into the market and the more food displayed the hotter and buggier it became- flies, bees, gnats swarming fish, flour and plantains. Some vegetables looked ok, the manioc I’d been searching for finally found and sweet potatoes, all at livable prices. Peanut butter here ground right before your eyes. I don’t understand the allure, wincing at the conditions, wishing better for everyone but certain I’d be back.

Maybe it was the woman who cracked open a coconut after witnessing our discussion about how to do it (intuitively she must have known what we were saying.) Mohamed really wanted the nut and we bought one after the live demo. Or maybe it was the woman who was selling roasted peanuts saying “Give me…” I gave her a quick English lesson to say “Buy my peanuts” which ended in laughter and head shaking. Or maybe it was the boy selling oranges who seemed far too serious to be just a boy. It’s the energy of the market which fills more than just the need for food. It’s the exact opposite of the sterile environment housing the $8 oatmeal.

American football

28.08.08 8:08 pm

Recess here is an adventure onto itself. The playground is immense and really could be broken into four major sections. There is the lower soccer field, the upper playground with monkey bars and swings, the basketball court, and the other play area with slides, 2 tether balls and a wooden climbing structure (you know, wooden bridge, fireman’s poles, that sort of thing.) Because the area is so large I find it challenging to be out there for my weekly duty. It is a duty that involves walking the various play yards (helpful for deterring the black flies) and monitoring the many ways children play. Lunch and recess is a whole school affair (elementary anyway. )

It is a good time to get to know some of the younger kids and also figure out the relationships between them Its multi-age and that can work…or not. Mohamed has pestered one of my students until they are now ‘friendly.’ Mohamed tags after him in basketball and soccer and they have developed something of an agreement. ( I think its something like Mohamed can play as long as he’s not annoying and doesn’t hog the ball.)

Today, however, a group of five children came stumbling up the hill carrying a kindergartener. When I asked them to put him down they explained that he kept hitting them. One of the boys, a second or third grader, looked at me earnestly and said, ”We’re playing a rough game and he could get hurt.”
When I asked what they were playing I heard a chorus of, “American football.” I had to laugh. American football. “ But you’re not tackling each other, right?” A bunch of head nods, of course they were.

So I introduced them to two-hand touch. As I’m pointing out how to touch someone with two hands, the sweet and earnest kid looks at me and says, “Yeah, then we push them down.”
“No, in two hand touch, two hands on someone means they’re down. You don’t push anyone over.”
They were not thrilled with this idea. They shake their heads and walk away. I hear them say, “Let’s play soccer.” So much for American football.

A Slice of Home

28.08.08 8:08 pm

Yesterday I finally met the dance and drum teacher. I saw him walking across campus from my classroom window and knew immediately it was him. I had to work to remain focused on the student presentations going on. As school was letting out, I found him outside my door talking to Justin and the library teacher. I sprinted over to ensure an introduction.

Initially I had thought to play it cool. I wanted to show up at the dance class just to watch, evaluate, hopefully catch an earful of music. But he was there and I found myself gushing, blubbering and rambling all over. There was nothing cool or reserved about it. There I was being overwhelmed by a feeling of home from a complete stranger, an African stranger at that, reminding me of my little slice of America. It was a bit like meeting the radio personality you listen to every morning. You hear their voice so intimately in the car on the morning commute and you begin to think you know them, that you are forming some kind of relationship. Its natural, you’re listening every day, laughing at their jokes, agreeing with their commentary or sometimes even arguing against it, there in your car driving to work. But when you actually meet the person to accompany the voice it is a strange experience of sensory dislocation. Your ears recognize a familiar and friendly sound, your eyes witness a complete stranger and worst of all, that person has no idea who you are. Its over as quickly as it began, all the intimate mornings exposed for what they truly were- shams, false, one-sided attempts at friendship and camaraderie.

Meeting the drummer was a bit like that. I was so anxious to be surrounded by the sound of drums and the rhythms that bring me comfort I was spilling all of my history and inviting Mohamed and Nabih to rehearsals. The more he tried to explain that he could give a drum class to the boys but that drumming generally occurred off campus, the more I was envisioning the familiar. And when he brought up his own ‘ballet traditional’ I had to concentrate on breathing to prevent babbling. Here was finally someone talking a language I understood.

So I’m flowing with this feeling of familiarity and understanding and it takes me a minute (or 10) to realize that he is really not flowing with me. There’s actually no reason he should reciprocate this feeling of brotherhood and let us come to ‘repetitions’ (as opposed to shows, which are great but the boys need the informality of a rehearsal. I suppose he would like the formality of a paying ticket.)

It wasn’t really until the next day that I had the good sense to be embarrassed. It seems a bit of home sickness crept up on me. Nabih has been bugging me for weeks to take him to ‘the drumming’ and I guess I got carried away. Of course, Mohamed says he doesn’t want to drum (he already knows how) but I understand his reservation as well as his style of observation. He may not want to drum with a teacher, but watching a few practices will send him home to try out all the new moves he saw.

And me? I would love to dance, really dance. The classes on campus will not have live drumming and that will only leave me feeling hugely unsatisfied. So my quest remains, because it has truly become one. It is a search to find someone to give me lessons, or at least a place to visit where we can feel the energy and life of Africa. Completely. I’ll try to be a little more reserved next time, but with such a vital quest, I doubt I’ll manage subtle. I guess I can always blame it on being American.

Kabila's Car

Our day was going well, some more students had arrived (it seems the first week is a bit like that) but those of us who have been present were starting to feel the routine. The class had just left for PE and as Justin came in he asked if I’d heard anything.

“Anything like what,” I asked. He made a booming sound. This morning there had been several. I had also heard something like that yesterday afternoon. I’d asked Gloria what she thought (ever smiling Gloria, nanny #2) and she’d told me it was training. No, I had not heard “training” any of the time I’d been here. I did not believe Gloria. I explained all this to Justin and he agreed. They don’t do that kind of training at the camp.

“See that black car. That’s Kabila’s car. When you see that car, if something is going on they send it to pick her up.” President Kabila’s daughter is in third grade (no pressure on the new third grade teacher from Atlanta.) There were three or four people standing around the car on their cell phones. Justin went off to find out what was going on.

I never did find out. The day continued to pass. I resumed teaching, feeling like I was waiting for the early snow dismissal we used to get in RV. Eventually the car left, I’m not sure if the daughter was even actually picked up or if they were all just on alert. I’m just happy to be in on the system. There are so many little things that could really mean something, if you only knew what you were looking at.

That was Wednesday and I haven’t heard any ’training’ since then. I have become increasingly upset, however, by my isolation. A radio would do a lot to ease that sense of being secluded, though I wonder how much ’news’ would accurately flow. I’m realizing that is less the point for me, being an information hound- I‘m a former NPR junkie and this would definitely be withdrawal. It‘s been 22 days with no news.

The other thing I’ve really got to do is just go out. I realized that I have some fear surrounding this issue. I blame it on the kids but I’m not sure if that’s entirely true, although it would be a heck of a lot easier to take a walk up the street alone. The boys can be surprisingly well behaved at times (its just a matter of which times?) These last few days the helplessness and lack of independence have really got to me. I just want to jump in the car and go to the store (I’m sure I could reference this to an earlier post, I knew it was coming.)

I did take a step to remedy the situation today however and feel ever better for it. I navigated the Western Union on my own- sounds simple? I was dropped off in front of a store with a sign that said Western Union. Inside however, there was no service for that. I was directed down, not several doors but to the next shopping plaza. (I asked 2 people to get this information and I’m pretty sure one of them said it was clearly marked. I was slightly distracted by his gun lying on the floor behind him though and perhaps he said something else entirely.) In the adjacent shopping plaza there was no sign for Western Union but a bank with 2 doors. I asked again (third person) and somehow still managed to choose the wrong door.( I don’t think my French is really that bad, I just didn’t follow the directions and assumed both doors went into the same place.) I ended up inside an office building and asked again. Next door, ok. I went. It is here that I finally found clearly marked W.U signs along with a million people standing in a long line and all of the waiting chairs full. I notice the waiting chairs always seem to be full and can’t really tell if they are waiting to conduct business or just, well, waiting. SO, I ask again (person number 5, I believe.) He is happy to help and I join the smallest line (no line actually. I am the only one on it. Does one person make a line?) My transaction passes well (and quick!) and I sail out into the sunny morning.

I’m ready to go walking. I did try especially hard to pay attention today because really, I want to be driving. I think maybe this is how it feels to be such a stranger. But then……

We’re in the grocery store browsing through the mayonnaise. She mentions to me that she really likes the mayo with olives. Its really good. “Oh, is that what you got?” We all received a gift basket in our apartments and I assumed they were basically the same. I did not have olive mayonnaise. I’m having a hard time making decisions about the rice (placed right below the mayonnaise, of course) and she is gone. It was a passing comment really but I’m intrigued. I look at the mayo. One says ’citron’ interesting but I don’t think so. The others say, …ouefs… I guess the picture does show them to be a little dark, not green exactly but a brownish color. The eggs here are brown. I just look after her. Olive mayonnaise? Maybe that’s how it feels to be such a stranger. I guess there are degrees.

The rest of the trip is fine, I almost buy a newspaper but it’s really impossible to buy anything from the ‘tour’ bus. I had really been hoping to travel this morning in a smaller car. Somehow it didn’t workout. Systems. I’m hopeful for next week. For now, I guess I’ll just have to settle for being creative and making up my own news.

Maybe Kabila just got the word on the olive mayo…..needed a jar himself.