beautiful like this

People were staring at the market today. Everywhere I went, it seemed people were eyeing me.  I’ve learned to find some humor in it and simply laugh at the odd feeling it evokes in me.  Most often, it seems people are looking at my clothes. I can’t quite figure it out because I am not the only mondele to wear African fabric. Maybe it happens to everyone else as well.  But the Congolese often remark, “Vous est porte le pagne.”   

 “Chaque jour,” I respond. I wear the traditional African wrap skirt nearly every day.  

 I remember my Christmas list when I was 10 years old. I wanted a new wardrobe to help me adjust to a new school and some fairly intimidating classmates. I was looking for style. I wanted “wrap around skirts” – a fashion of the times—and shirts to go with. One for each day. I didn’t get any that year but have since been able to fill my closet with brightly colored African skirts that envelope me in a sense of warm comfort.  

What I adore about Africa is that people love fabric. They find pleasure in the patterns and designs. They appreciate its beauty and color. And when I am wearing it, I become beautiful too. Both men and women were complimenting me today. Not in the leering, sleazy way so often found on the streets of America, but in a gentile, graceful way. I can see the guy sitting just outside Kin Mart, “Mais, vous est belle.”  A small comment that brought a bit of sunshine into my gray and rainy day.  I can also see the two women in the produce section of Express, clearly discussing my clothes. Finally, as I walked away, one of them came up to me and remarked how much she liked the fabric. “Vous est bien porte, vrai Congolese. It’s very nice,” she said with a glorious smile and thumbs up.

Living in Africa can make me feel beautiful like this, when even another woman finds a moment to compliment you. I have been moved to this myself.  It’s hardly difficult as I find African women to be stunning in general. But add a regal fabric and royal manner and I am often inspired to compliment or ask from where the tissue was purchased.

In New York, I was bound by the cold. I often had to wear layer upon layer of shapeless, baggy clothes in an effort to be warm. In Florida, I remember having a frank discussion with a colleague who finally admitted parents may find my apparel unfamiliar—odd, she said. Here in Africa even wrapping for the chilly weather becomes an exercise in adorning oneself in an explosion of pattern and color. I have found my dress to be a point in common. It seems to express not just my love for the style, but my honest appreciation for the culture. Yes, living in Africa can make me feel beautiful like this. Kitoko makasi.

A Small Influence (or so I like to think)

My short story for today involves a scene I chose to participate in outside a pharmacy in the city. As is generally the case, I can't be certain about the true facts, but I choose to believe I had a small influence and feel better about saying something rather than nothing at all. Here is what happened:

We pulled up to a relatively quiet parking spot in front of the pharmacy. In the past this particular area is quite busy with tons of people waiting for transport, hanging around and other general commotion. The combination of a new traffic light (it works!), some recent  road work and a Sunday afternoon seemed to have generated a calm and rather sparse atmosphere. Two people were lounging on the steps. One was a young boy wearing multicolored socks-the kind that have holes for each individual toe- and flip flops. A few toes had emerged from the socks and he was curiously waving a small flag of Brazil as he lazily took in the cars passing on the boulevard. The other was a man who appeared to be sleeping. He was propping himself up on his arm and had his legs splayed in such an uncomfortable way that we speculated about whether or not he could actually be deep in slumber. Our friends went into the pharmacy while we continued to survey the scene.

Another man approached the Impossible Sleeper and shook him. No response. Another shake resulted in some swatting away hand movements one might make towards an annoying mosquito but no real conscious reaction. The man took a cursory look into Impossible Sleeper's shirt pocket and walked around the corner. He returned with 3 or 4 of his friends who began to truly shake IS once more. After no response, the group proceeded to go through his pants pockets, look through his wallet, and take off his shoes (snazzy blue sneakers) and belt. As they began to unbutton his shirt, I wondered how far they were going to go.

We in the car pondered what to do. We thought about calling the security from within the pharmacy and wondered where all the normally present police were. I began some conversation through the window, shaking my finger and saying something like "Laissez lui, c'est ne pas bonne." One of the guys looked kind of apologetic at us and told us this man had drunk too much.   But he did tap his friends on the shoulder and make some comments, pointing at our car. Of course, after I had gotten all of their attention, my friends in the pharmacy asked me to come in. Which meant I had to get out of the car that was now surrounded by the would-be muggers. Though they did appear to be somewhat friendly muggers. As I made my way up the steps, they told me they were Impossible Sleeper's brothers, a story which seemed to have little merit except for the fact that everyone appeared to be in such good humor. Maybe they were friends of some sort.

I was of little use to my friends in the pharmacy and so came out pretty quickly. By this time, Impossible Sleeper had become Groggily Awake. He had his phone in his hand, shoes and belt by his side and was talking to Toe Socks. Apparently the pharmacy security guard had come out just after I had gone in.

I can't be sure exactly what I witnessed. The whole thing had a kind of college haze feel to it. However, the would-be muggers seemed pretty secure in themselvese. At one point they were walking confidently away with a handful of blue shoes, a belt and a white cell phone. Moments like these offer an opportunity to show us how we will really respond to others needs. So, college haze or not, I'm glad I spoke up and was happy to see Groggily Awake had all of his belongings. Perhaps next Saturday night he will think twice about sleeping it off in the street.

I must also say I am happy-and perhaps a bit lucky-to see the would-be muggers had something of a conscience. At least with others watching, they were able to make the right decision. They didn't run off with their loot or fight for what wasn't theirs, but returned it in good humor. Lessons to be learnt for all.

food that falls from the sky... and other things that just make sense

I grew up surrounded by apple trees in the fall and the smell of freshly cut grass in the spring. Rain in the air signaled blossoms and growth. It brought hope for warmer weather and renewal of energy. Moving to a new country means adapting to new weather patterns and the feelings they evoke. While I have never missed the winter, autumn and spring are subtle periods of transition that ease my spirit into a new way of perceiving the world. 

Here in Kinshasa, rain is not always gentle. Storms are frequent and fierce. My first storm in Kinshasa was also my first day driving on unpredictable and busy night roads. I remember an enormous feeling of reluctance to go out. I had not yet become accustomed to the patterns of weather that would allow me to determine the implications of being caught out in the rain. As the palm trees swayed and the bamboo creaked, I had visions of tropical hurricanes and deserted islands.

I've since come to delight in the intensity of a Congo thunderstorm. I can join the locals in peering at a dark impending sky and shake my head. "No, it's not going to rain today." And I can sense the subtle changes that bring a sure need to carry an umbrella.

I have also come to realize and respect the power of the rain. One bewildering image I hold onto comes from a trip I was taking out to the village. It had begun to rain on our way and suddenly the streets were clear as people huddled under storefront overhangs and gathered along sidewalks as if waiting for a parade.  I found it comical to see the masses stopping their travels and postponing their schedules to simply wait out the rain.

This rain has been falling here for years, I thought. Haven't they developed a system for coping, for forging ahead and managing this small inconvenience? At the time I'd yet to see the damage brought by erosion or the roads that developed lake sized holes after only minutes of being exposed to water plunging from the sky.

This fourth year has found me waiting out the rain, understanding it doesn't last in its intensity. Patience is the surest tool of managing my safety and the most sound method for arriving dry and intact.

There are other facets of Congolese life that I've come to understand and, if not wholly embrace, at least I feel a sense of purpose behind these actions. This past week we've witnessed a deluge of caterpillars that appear to be a plague sent from heaven itself. They've arrived in such numbers the school kids are screaming and squirming as the little worms wriggle and fall onto backpacks and shoulders. They delight in tormenting each other with the small creatures we find covering our walks, walls and ceilings.

This influx of creatures has led many to become inspective, peering closely to see how they move, how they eat and how they form cocoons. A life science dream happening right in front of us. Many students ran to get containers and offered leaves and mangoes and small piles of grass to their new friends.

But it is not just the students who are profiting  from this event. Many of the adults can also be found outside, gathering mounds of caterpillars into glass and plastic jars or even homemade paper containers. Apparently the caterpillars make a tasty meal.

I admit to spending an evening in a hot car trying to determine if the sweat rolling down the inside of my shirt was truly perspiration or overzealous caterpillars exploring the dark and cozy underfolds of my clothing. 

Though I do not partake of this delicacy myself, it strikes me with a simple beauty and ingenious. Food falling from the sky. It makes perfect sense to grab a quick and nutritious snack while comfortably waiting out the rain under a storefront overhang.

Orphans like me

I am impressed
by orphans like me
that have been flung
into this world
like leaves scattered
into the wind
far from the branches that birthed them
distant from roots that
nourished them
leaving behind our trees
of biological family

I gather these leaves
Their colors and textures
Pleasing in their differences
Rich in their ability to compliment
The skills and talents
We have obtained
through our singular lives

I am impressed
by orphans like me

year of the taxi

I've taken more taxis in these past few weeks than in all my years here in Congo. Despite the numerous warnings, I enjoy the taxis. I like learning the calls that will get me where I want to go and being ushered into waiting cars and buses. I find simple pleasure in the way the city streets pass outside my window and the gentle brush of a person sitting next to me. I like the interaction between passengers- a quick 'bonsoir' or passing small talk. The buses offer the most opportunity for conversation. We share the waiting and the heat.

My trip today was somehow especially  sweet. I went to pick up Mohamed at a friend's house. Getting there was quick and easy. The way back meant traffic and detours were against us. Mohamed was a pleasant walking partner. Even on the street, people talk to us.

We caught a bus in Kintambo and found ourselves in the way back. Mohamed was worried about how we would get out and whether or not we would see our stop in time. A man sitting next to us called him 'our little Congolese brother.' I've learned to enlist the aid of other passengers when I want to get out. They usually speak more French than the drivers and are willing to be louder than I. As I stepped around a leg and over a seat, one man said, "If you find this isn't where you want to be, just get back in." I found them words of comfort and caring. Like he knew I would be too hesitant to get back in if I found myself ill placed. But I am bolder here in Congo. And as I learn my way around the streets by foot I worry less about where I land.

I appreciate these interactions. They help me see a side of Congo I could love. They help my patience grow and make me feel connected. Enlightenment from a taxi ride.

death in the drc

My neighbors are dying. It started with a man whose name I still cannot remember. I am haunted by this. I first met him as the chauffeur for our superintendent. He was so well respected that we sought to offer him a more prominent position working for the school. Some paperwork issues prevented this and led to his eventual dismissal. He found work for one of our school families instead. I saw him often on campus and always made a point to speak with him. A few years ago I sought his services to train a young friend of mine. I hoped he would not only lend his expertise as a driver but also his manner of being, his professionalism. It was a month or so ago that I learned of his death. I have no details.

Last week, a member of our atelier, the custodians and gardeners who keep our campus running and looking beautiful, lost his three year old son. The boy had been at home with his older brother when he suddenly took ill. He died quickly before his parents could even return home and seek medical care. Although money is the customary response, nothing I could offer felt adequate. I see this gentle man who has returned to work after only a few days off and am troubled by the sadness in his eyes. My words of condolence seem ineffectual and small. Death is all around us.

Mama Vero is a woman whose family I have come to know personally. I have visited her house, listened to the stories of her family and run around the yard with her children. She lost her cousin this week. He was a working man, recently imprisoned and finally released, who refused to seek medical care. It is said that upon leaving prison, one must get quickly to a doctor. Congolese prisons are places that breed illness and disease. They think he died from tuberculosis. He had a cough that wouldn't stop until one day it just did. He left behind a wife and young children.

Just as she was leaving with sad news of the funeral occurring tomorrow, Kazadi returned from the market. He asked me if I knew Patrick. Of course, I was acquainted with the young entrepreneur who sold phone cards just outside of the gate. I always preferred to buy from him and often tried to delay my purchase until I saw his umbrella out and his stand open. I hadn't seen him since my return from the summer. Kazadi told me he had stopped by when he saw a woman in Patrick's usual place. Upon inquiring, he found that Patrick had died. Although I did not know this man very personally, the news caused my mouth to drop open. I froze in mid preparation of our evening meal. Patrick? Dead? Not much was offered in the way of reason. Apparently he had died 5 months before. He had a swelling on his arm which was believed to have come from someone he was in conflict with. This ill wishing neighbor had placed a curse on him. No cure could be found and so he succumbed to death.

All around me, my neighbors are dying.

year 4

And so begins another year in Kinsahsa....with all of the elements of a true Kinsahsa livelihood- a bit taxing, fast paced, full of colors and confusion, infused with passion and heartache, at times overwhelming in it's generosity and undervalued in potential.

I've arrived here changed in many ways. My brief sojourn in the US already feels to be more than a world away.
I've returned to Kinshasa with expectations and hope, only to have suffered as many losses as bits of wisdom gained. The accumulation of knowledge and perspective comes at a price. Once our eyes are opened, once an image has been viewed, it is impossible to un-see it ....though it seems we spend lifetimes perfecting this ability to unsee. 
In the words of The Book Thief.... I am haunted by humans.