the poet from Mwene Ditu

I met him in Lubumbashi
A boy from the village
of Mwene Ditu
Where they live 60 kilometers
From the diamond mines
But don't have running water
Inside, No electricity
Where bicycles run
Like cars

I met him in Lubumbashi
Selling cases of Coke
Primus, Skol and Fanta
from a run down depot
with a broken window and
a metal door
his cot rolled up
behind

He arrived in the capital
Kinshasa
with just one suitcase
a few clothes, some photos
and papers from his past

Yesterday, as we walked
home from the pool
where he's taught himself to swim
I saw him carrying
One of his old school notebooks

What are you reading
I wondered.
Philosophy,
he said.
Descartes, Marcel, Plato
Do you know Socrates
he asked

ESL in DRC

ESL is a fact of life in Congo. Everywhere people are learning English, speaking broken, accented English or that careful, proper English that uses words native speakers hardly ever do. For the U.S. citizen, reference points are all wrong, even in our American school, because the students are coming from around the world with their own reference points. That is how I found myself reading an essay about ice skating, Christmas coming, and hot summer days. I forgot where I was and questioned the student. "Hot? Christmas is almost here? Where are you???"

"In South Africa." She shrugged. I mentioned to her, and to everyone, that identifying the setting is very important. It helps to orient the reader to your time and place, the time and place of the story. If reading is an escape, as the author, we must provide the means of travel.

Sometimes, words aren't enough. Identifying setting doesn't really add to clarity. More than a translation and definition is needed. And this is how I found myself trying to explain the concept of kitchen items and uses during my Monday night ESL 'class.'

I've been trying to teach English to two women every Monday since August. I can't really tell how far we are getting. Everyone acquires language at their own pace. I was surprised to learn that English is taught in Congolese schools (and in many African schools.) It is much like the language classes taught in U.S. high schools. Having no one to practice with and living in English speaking houses, most people do not retain much of the language they studied for 3 or 4 years in high school. So it is here.

Student number 1, Mama Vero, works around enough English speaking people that she has a fairly quick understanding of the words. She is just not yet confident enough to be speaking too often herself. Student number 2, her sister Odille, really doesn't have much exposure to English. It takes her longer to grasp the defintion, the concept and then to pronounce the word.

We've been working with a picture dictionary which is really helpful for translating the French words I may not know. We also have an English-Lingala book - no pictures and really outdated but occasionally useful. As with any task I undertake, I often find it easy to lose focus and to become over or underwhelmed with what I am actually accomplishing.

I have been trying to focus on practical English- words that well help them on the job, the job being housework and child care. I figured, when I offered this English speaking evening, that acquiring the language would open up more job opportunities for them. I have been slowly realizing the obvious- learning English in Africa is more than just language translation.

There have been a few instances where the translation is simply meaningless. I do know the word for brown in French, but here, they seemed mostly to use the word chocolate. I thought it quite opposite from the eskimos- who've been mythically reported to have some 35 different words for snow. In this land of tans, browns, toffees, dark chocolate and deep rich charcoal browns they had only one insufficient word.

The unit on household items was equally daunting. We are stalled at kitchen. The picture of a kitchen in the Oxford Picture Dictionary is quite detailed and filled with many gadgets I simply skipped over. Toaster and garbage disposal to name a few. Electric can opener and blender to name a few more. We briefly discussed dishwasher and microwave, mostly out of novelty for the former and occasionally you will find the latter in an ex-pat home.  The words were harder to remember in this case because, for Odille especially, she doesn't utilize these items on a daily basis. Her kitchen is outside. I've seen her cut a handful of scallions by gathering them together and running them along the blade of the knife. Cutting board?

I've seen her lay out the materials she needs on the seat of a chair, which she has turned facing her, as she sits in an opposite chair, outside where she can feel a slight breeze and have enough light to see by. Counter? And while she is familiar with a refrigerator, understanding the two parts (freezer and refrigerator) takes some explaining, as does oven versus stove.

It was one particularly painful back day when I thought that African kitchens, outside and with their chairs and stools, made much more sense than our Western kitchens, where we stand and labour on our feet once again. The most useful kitchen, I think, would be a hybrid. A kitchen with low counters and shelves so we could sit and chop and cut and mix. A low, wide oven that would allow us to boil and bake and steam from the comfort of a seat.

We used my kitchen, with its high counters and wooden cupboards, to work on most of the words. Sink. Faucet. Drain. Yup, they didn't have any of those things at their house. We used the picture for testing. What is on the table? What is the dad doing? I got a bit overzealous with my questions before realizing that eggs, milk, butter and flour would not necessarily signal pancakes or some kind of batter to them. I realized too late that the carton of milk did not resemble the can of powdered milk we buy here. All of these things required lengthy explanations (some people do buy milk in a carton here,  Vero would have seen this, Odille- no.)

I decided the next few lessons would involve cooking. We had been pretty good at defining words and building vocabulary but we hadn't done a lot of discussion. I thought cooking some things together in a kitchen would provide the perfect practice for asking and responding to questions and directions.

We made potato chips. We peeled potatoes and washed them in the sink. We sliced thin pieces and fried with a spatula. We sprinkled salt and flipped the potatoes over when they were crisp. Things were going well. I had Vero repeat all of the directions to me for each new batch of chips we put in the pan. I sent her home with a small bag, realizing she would never make these herself, though she had all the materials. How could she spend so much time preparing something that wouldn't fill the belly through the night?

Much earlier in the year, I had also taught her to make her own yogurt. I even provided the thermal container and the occasional small starter batch of yogurt. That was before the congelateur broke down. Vero and her sister used to sell Cokes and soft drinks, commonly called sucre (sugar) here. But when the large, deep cooler broke down, that prospect for earning money also broke down. Along with the occasional yogurt treat. And the PUR water. Vero told me even though she had been making clean water, the kids would always run over and grab a drink directly from the tap in the yard. It didn't seem to make sense to her to keep buying the packets, even if they're only 4cents each.

We'll continue English, and cooking, at least until the summer reprieve. What they'll remember and what they'll actually use- well, I can't really be sure. But our high school language teachers never seemed to dwell too long on that thought.  Besides, Vero and Odille already speak Swahili, Lingala and French. That's more than most potato chip eating, yogurt loving Americans anyway.

I've been Booted

When I first arrived at school, we were given an interesting orientation task. The staff was divided into groups and each group had to find something that all members had in common. A typical community building, ice breaking type of exercise. In general, groups came up with forgettable responses that did not truly get to the heart of the matter- unifying us as educators, neighbors, and colleagues. However, one group did manage to cross  the boundary and came up with a truly unique bond. They'd all been arrested at one point or another (well, except one person, whom they were willing to overlook in the name of sensationalism.) It was a funny and surprising admission from a group of teachers. One of them addressed us apologetically and said, "Well, when you live in Africa its not really that hard to get arrested." It seemed to change the perspective of trouble with the police from an "if" to a "when."

And so my "when" nearly arrived on this holiday weekend, though I have vowed personally to avoid African police stations if at all possible. Some doors seem likely to open only in one direction (it could also be my avid love of reading all things African or about Africa that has given me a slightly skewed vision of what goes on in some departments...)

We had taken a trip out to the store, as so many adventures seem to begin here. Road work has created a bit of havoc on the main boulevard. Before we knew it, we were coralled downtown much further than we intended to go. There was only one lane of traffic open, going in one direction. Choices were slim. We ended up by a frequented store (of many ex-pats here in Kin) and near the US embassy, a somewhat notorious part of town.

Not surprisingly, we were signaled to pull over. There were a lot of cars being pulled over. I was reminded  of the end-of-the month inspection checks in the U.S. But then my friend pointed out a white SUV with a yellow tire boot. It was empty and on the opposite side of the road, which had become increasingly congested. The Kinshasa gare central is in this area and just after the turn there is a large taxi pick up area. Between the taxis and the long line of cars pulled over, there wasn't a lot of room for other motorists to pass.

We began our dance with the police. They want the windows rolled down, I want to keep them up. They want my documents, I don't want to give my documents. They were asking for the 'card rose' which I didn't appear to have. I did have several letters with official looking titles and stamps however. And while I was carrying on this dispute, my friend and passenger noticed they were trying to boot us. I immeidately began to drive causing the 'booter' to jump back from the car. This also caused the police officer to become quite angry with me and we began something of a yelling exchange. My part went something like this, "Hey! Hey! Hey! You can't do that. What's the problem? We didn't do anything. Hey! Hey! Hey!..." and so on. His part went something like this..."Attention. Who do you think you are? You think this country is for you?!?! You need some discipline." And here all of my novels and travel biographies produced a vivid image of what Congolese police discipline might entail. I demanded pardon but continued to let him know that we had everything we were supposed to. So what was the problem? I let him know we had called someone to "help with the speaking" and he pretended not to hear me so I would roll down my window.

Onlookers and passing cars began to cause a fuss, as we were blocking the path of taxis. One of the orange vested men (the 'booters', I gathered) signed to me that we should pull up and over a bit. Ah, but how? I could go nowhere. He pantomined unlocking the boot so I could move out of the way. I just shook my head. If he unlocked my boot, I was driving away- although, with the traffic condition, I surely wouldn't get far. I figured it was only fair since he had thoughtlessly locked me in an inconvenient place for no apparent reason.

So we sat in the hot car, baking, discussing the benefits of a good sweat bath now and then. We watched the Congolese passing us and laughed at the way they stared at the tire and then stared at us. Doubletakes that caused the eyebrows to crumple in confusion or be raised in sympathetic wonderment. A few street boys even came over to speak some English and offer their advice: we were screwed. This really caused us to crack up in laughter. Everyone seemed to be telling us the obvious. But they did it with such concern and sincerity.

Once the boot has been applied, talking yourself out of the situation seems unlikely. I watched another couple get pulled over. The woman opened her door and stepped outside. (Isn't rule number 1 never to get out of the car? I thought.) I envied the way the breeze seemed to twirl her skirt around. Sweat dripped from my chin. We were waiting for some relief from the embassy. The man from the truck came over to inquire if we were ok...well, aside from being trapped-literally-inside our car. They drove away, no problems it seemed, leaving us contemplate why some mondele  were booted and others were not. Its all arbitrary here.

Our embassy guardian arrived, another Congolese police officer but in plain clothes. Upon sight, I didn't have much faith in him. "I am here for you," he told us and did take our documents and engage in discussion. There seemed hope of a resolution. It just came down to time. Resolutions can be lengthy....and costly. At one point, he snatched the papers from whoever was holding them and threw them in the car. "Don't give them anything!" he said. It didn't seem like things were going all that well. More discussion. Abruptly we were told we could go. The boot was removed. "We are not criminals..." I heard in careful, accented English as we drove away. It was the orange vested booter. Neither are we, I thought. Why the boot? It seemed like such extreme measures. Meanacing measures.

We did eventually make it to our intended destination, and shopped in soaking wet clothes, to the curisoity of those in the store. We even went to lunch to celebrate our freedom. On the way home, we passed the (gas)station in Kintambo and noticed  a group of orange vested men and a pile of yellow boots. Someone else's adventure.....

The Patriot

Today I am ready for the self indulgance of America. A day  like this creeps up on me every so often here. I become indignant and righteous. I forget everything I have learned and turn my head from the complicated facts confronting me daily. On a day like today, when I return to my car parked alonog the main road, I refuse to give money to the small crowd of boys surrounding it. They eye me as I shut my door, put on my seat belt and shift the car into gear... They are waiting for my response to their doe eyes and pleading nods. Today I am calloused. I want to demand an explanation for how they have earned money from me, besides standing in the road. When they slam my car as I drive away, I want to stop and get out. Today I feel like shaking a finger and shouting. Why do you feel you have a right to my money? Today I can only remember the struggles and poverty I faced as a youth; my slow climb out of it. But on a day like this one, I do not feel charitable in my new position. I do not remember the orphan or feel any sympathy. Today I drive in my car with my eyes straight ahead, not seeing anything. I feel so American today.

Field work

The school year is about to begin its annual rollar coaster build up and slamming descent to the final day. I am home enjoying "spring break" and trying to prepare for what I know will be a messy blur until the jolting moment when I realize its actually all over. School is out. Long before this set upon us, however, I began an experiential learning project with my fifth graders that has us out and about in Kinshasa.

This wouldn't seem like such an amazing feat, except, well, we live in Kinshasa. Field tripping with 23 ten year olds comes with its share of natural hazards..no matter what continent you are on, but here in DRC there several other factors to consider.

We began the project in response to the school's mandate of career studies and an elementary career fair. As with every school "fair" some kind of culminating project would be needed to show off to the other classes and inspire their professional curiosity and growth. I decided to capture it all by taking the students out on several, much-begged for field trips and have them act as reporters and photographers who would then create a newspaper account of our adventures as well as a re-enactment newsclip shot "on location."  I contacted parents and businesses and found many to be eager and enthusiastic about welcoming us into their place of employment.

The school has a beautiful bus that seats 26 comfortably so transportation was not a problem.  Getting back the required permission slips, however, turned out to be more complicated than I had imagined. Many parents were reluctant to have their child out in Kinshasa traffic. "It can be dangerous," one parent remarked. 

And so it was that I found myself gazing out at the city sights as we embarked on our first trip downtown to a car rental business housed in a reputable hotel. I realized the thoughts that filtered through my mind were not really akin to thoughts I'd had on previous field trips. I imagined the bus surrounded by an angry mob (not a far stretch of the imagination, really. Just a few days before I'd seen a growing group of street boys crowding a large green SUV.)  I contemplated the correct way to handle such a situation and wondered if there shouldn't be some kind of special (tactical?) training for teachers. A few different approaches ran through my mind as I looked over the driver- figuring he should be the first line of defense but knowing it never really works out that way. Later, one of the teachers shared with me that at his previous school, they'd sent one of the security guards to accompany field trips. Yes, not a bad idea.

In addition to the perplexing thoughts, I am receiving a wealth of information about my students.We have been learning some unique aspects of living and doing business in DRC. For example, we found out that when you rent a car in Congo, it generally comes with a driver. How convenient-and affordable! On our trip to see the National Ballet, I had to post an adult next to some electrical wires that had snaked their way out of the ground. I asked our classroom assistant to direct students away from and around the hazard to keep any wayward kids from electrocuting themselves. And at the U.S embassy medical unit, I learned that many of my Africa-weathered students were already familiar with the ailments, bacterias, worms and bites that we viewed in the lab. (They kept saying, "Yeah, I had that," or "My sister had that!")

The Monkole Hospital was amazing. It was clean and well kept and appeared to employ many new and modern standards of sterility (no bug to be seen! If you have ever been in a hospital in Africa, you will know that this is difficult to achieve. Bugs are everywhere.) The newest building, the operational unit, even provides meals for patients with strict rules about NOT accepting food from home. (Traditionally in African hospitals, the patient's family is required to bring and provide food for the patient.) We were invited into patient's rooms (with their permission) and saw two brand new babies and one little girl with her grandma - all ready to go home. It seemed quite odd to me to have a group of 7 girls ooh-ing and ahhh-ing over a brand new baby in a hospital room, but the parents were proud and the doctors seemed eager to have us learn all we could.

We have a few other places lined up and I think its been successful in many respects. The students have developed a broader view of the country they live in and the school has begun to make some much needed contact with the community. As for me? I am still hoping for a crash course in field work. Should I try to bargain with the mobsters? Talk them down to a paltry sum (and will I be reimbursed for that?) Threaten them with governmental rebuke (I have quite a few children of ministers in my class) or perhaps, I could borrow a soldier.  On the way back from the hospital, we passed one student's house and he had called ahead to arrange someone to meet him by the main road. "Yup," he said as we passed a large, armed man in fatigues and a red beret. "That's my soldier."

the international top 10

A list of real, recent Top Ten reasons to be late or absent from school.......they range in order from the most common to the most unique, but ALL have been offered up to me by fifth graders or their parents:

10. It rained and/or traffic.
9. I had malaria.
8. My nanny didn't wake me up on time.
7. I am still on extended vacation with my parents in South Africa.
6. I moved back to South Africa (or insert other African country here) permanently.
5. My plane got in too late/early and I had to sleep all day.
4. I had to go to the (insert foreign country here) embassy to get a visa.
3. I broke my (insert body part here)
 --there have actually been 3 fifth graders who've broken an arm or wrist so far this year
2. My chauffeur got pulled over and didn't have the money for a fine, so I had to pay with my allowance.
1. We had an armed intruder in our yard last night and I was up all night talking to our security policemen

Trouble with travel.....part 2

With repetition comes experience and knowledge. I felt I knew what to expect for the ride back to Conakry, which, while not exactly comforting, at least put me in a slightly better position than when I was riding up to Kankan. I planned to leave at night, hoping most of our journey would be spent with the boys sleeping. Then we could arrive sometime mid-morning and be of less disturbance to whoever would be picking us up. It was New Year's Eve and I should have known that plans have a way of coming alive in Africa, like the wild dogs roaming the streets running every which way but the way you want. Somehow, I always forget this part. It is the deeply ingrained Western part of me that runs by clocks no matter how far removed from time and schedules I place myself. I wonder how long it takes to truly shed this last piece of constriction.

We were waiting in the Kankan gare central. Supposedly, the car would fill up in an hour or so. It was around 4:00 pm. This place looked more like a bus station, with covered waiting area (both inside and outside sections!) There were women selling fruit and cookies. Men walked around selling tea (strong African tea that is aerated between two cups with a flourish. The vendor carries about 3 or 4 thermoses of tea and a small bucket containing minature cups which are placed in water and reused.) We waited. The sun began to set, casting a red glow on everything. We kept hearing rumors that there were only 2 seats left to be filled (this rumor went on for hours, even as people approached, bought a ticket, and took up the wait with us.) Our things were shuffled from taxi top to taxi top as drivers discussed which car was filling up and who would make the journey.

I considered buying another seat as, in the interest of saving money once again, I'd only gotten two seats and one of the boys was riding on a lap. I considered it strongly as the time wore on. Six o'clock came and went. The boys snacked on watermelon and I bought some packages of cookies for the ride. The waiting was becoming painful. It turns out the driver was searching for a full taxi. When we finally loaded up, there were 2 people in the front passenger seat, 4 in the middle seat, 4 of us in the back seat AND one person behind us in the hatch back space.  Of course, he had to lay down scrunched up or sit up halfway leaning on the seat back of our already crowded third row.

I can see us from a bird's eye view, all packed in there threatening to explode like a shaken up soda bottle. The boys were able to sleep a lot and were actually well behaved for both trips considering the tight quarters.  I knew right away that this trip was going to be distinctly different from the last. If the ride to Kankan was with the conservative right, the ride back to Conakry was a rock and roll tour. There were two women traveling with us who did not have papers and the young driver took a direct approach at every checkpoint. Cash in hand. I, and my passport, were no longer the issue.

While this apporach made the road a bit faster to travel on, we seemed to stop a lot more frequently on this trip than the one going out. We had two people who needed to make prayer stops but also it seemed we stopped for eating and rest breaks. (Rest breaks? We just started!) At one of our first stops, which seemed to be near a gas station, perhaps a tiny gare central for whatever town this was.... I got out of the car to stretch and eat an orange. A bull cow walked by searching for scraps and nibbling my peels.  Motos zoomed through town as I watched the nightlife carry out its rituals. Surely this would seem a sleepy town by sunlight, I thought.

We continued on and I dozed a bit as the countryside turned back into tall grass and mud huts. Eventually we came to a frosty stop and I thought I heard the driver get out. The entire car appeared to be sleeping and I wondered exactly what we were doing here. We waited in the still night. Finally I asked one of the men in front what was going on.
"The driver needs to rest," he said. "He couldn't go on." Rest? I still felt like we had just began, like we had finally begun making some ground. Of course, I wasn't driving. But I thought surely he must have known he was going to be driving all night.  Foolishly, I thought he would have prepared for that. I made a bit of a grumble in the back prefering to get out of the car if we were waiting. My knees were screaming and my neck was throbbing. I thought the driver had left the car and I couldn't really believe he'd left us
"....in here like sardines.." I heard it come from the front and genuine laughter escaped from me. I wasn't the only one to be feeling this way. Turns out, the driver was actually in the car, slumped behind the steering wheel. One of the passengers up front tried vainly to awaken him. He could not be stirred. Some of the other passengers argued on his behalf. Once again, my eagle eyes kicked in and I saw us from above, a lonely taxi overflowing with people and bags parked on the side of a deserted road. We elected to get out.

The moon was bright and cast a blue white glow on everything. Just across the small street were a series of covered stalls with benches. We walked over and had a seat in the chilly night air. We sat there shivering and watched our taxi sleeping. It was 3 a.m. After thirty minutes, the driver still hadn't awakened. We began to discus show long a good chauffeur needed to nap. One of the men, the professor, as I came to know him (he taught at the University of Kankan) was even more indignant because he said he had friends at a small town just up the road. Had we continued a bit, he could have found lodging for everyone to rest comfortably. (Although I found this negated the entire purpose of traveling at night. If I wanted to rest comfortably, I would waited in Kankan until the next day.)

We decided to take action and strode back to the car with intention. The driver would awaken. The professor roused the slepeing chauffeur for a good ten minutes. He refused to get up. It turned out the boy in the trunk was also a driver and the passengers convinced chauffeur #1 to hand the car over to chauffeur #2.  Pretty soon we were rumbling along at breakneck speed, hitting every pothole in sight. Chauffeur #1 now resided in the back back back and with every jump of the car he yelled out what sounded like critique and advice. I thought, since he surely wasn't getting any sleep back there, he would have been better off just taking the wheel.

We hadn't gone very far (or so it seemed. This trip was turning into a fragment series of small starts and stops) when we really hit something that threw the car into a swerve. A tire had exploded. We coasted, yet again, to the side of a deserted road.  Dawn was just breaking. There was a comic attempt to put the spare tire on but it turned out that the spare tire was not really fitted for this car. There was a second spare in the space below the hatchback but that tire was also flat. The road stretched out behind us. 

And a similar sight greeted us from the front. Chauffeur #2 hailed a ride (amazingly with another passing taxi!) A few people built a fire along the roadside and the rest of us settled in to sleep in the taxi until the sun truly rose. When the light filtered over the grass and the birds called us awake, we climbed from our slumbering places.

The road was empty save for a few women walking by occasionally. One of the passengers asked a question and was directed to some small shrubs nearby. Everyone started pulling stems and chewing and spitting.....toothbrush au natural. The oldest woman, a passenger without papers, managed to flag a ride and ran off in a lopsided way, clutching her bags and waving. The professor returned from an early morning walk triumphant. He had brought a young boy with a thermos of kankiliba tea and fried cakes.He'd arranged everything, free tea, buy your own sugar and cakes--good cakes made with good flour, he'd watched the whole process himself.

Personalities were starting to emerge. The chauffeur climbed from behind the wheel where he'd been resting. His only concern seemed to be a smoke. I couldn't really be sure since this group spoke mostly in Malinke, but it appeared he was getting the brush off. He was not acting like a good captain but rather seemed to be deserting the ship, passengers and all. Some discussion broke out.

Soon enough, however, things settled down. There wasn't much to do but wait. We took turns taking walks up the road, sitting in the shade of the taxi and waving down passing cars. The same questions were always asked as we tried to determine how far driver #2 actually had to travel to get the tire fixed. It was New Year's Day.

Sometime in the mid morning, a band of children walked by carrying scythes. They made a slow, solemn apporach and for Stephen King fans, there's no need to draw out the comparison. It was actually difficult for me to determine an emotion emanating from the boys with their serious faces---curiosity perhaps, in a muted way. They headed off into the tall grass to begin their day's cutting and collecting.  Soon after they disappeared, a strange figure shrouded in his own bundle of flowing grass steadily made his way down the road. I thought of snapping a photo. From a distance, he appeared to be a spirit from the bush. I never did see a face buried as it was beneath the load. The figure passed by 2 more times and left me wondering if it was the same person and how he managed to always be walking in the same direction without ever returning down the way he had come. Perhaps it truly was a spirit from the bush.

There was really little else to contemplate onn the dry, dusty road. The sun rose above and we began to discuss whether or not driver #2 would ever return. I had no faith in him. A huge truck passed by, stopped to chat and passed water bags out the window to us. I tried to convince the others that we it was time for plan B. Surely we could take some kind of action rather than just sit ....indefinitely. At the very least, I wanted to impose a time limit whereby we would take action if he hadn't returned. I could see us sitting here until 6:00 when the sun would turn the sky rose red for a brief moment before leaving us, once again, in the dark with the cows.

Everyone else, however, held fast to the conviction that the driver would return. They had such faith and patience. I tried to get some it to rub off on me, but mostly I just tried to keep the crabby restlessness at bay and took walks up around the bend. Cars stopped every so often and broke the silence. A particularly fancy car passed by and offered a space to me and the boys for some 45000GF. I didn't really have it to spare and I was also wary of hopping into a car with three men in  flashy clothes and dark sunglasses. I hesitated

and finally refused. The professor gladly paid for the spot. I was happy to remain among the rest of the passengers watching our slow drama unfold. Another taxi passed by and the driver offered me an entire bag of peanut cornmeal paste. I've forgotten exactly what they called this snack but it was so delicious and reminded me of the Power Bars I used to love. I passed out gooey squares to everyone and wondered who would be next to go. 

Driver #2 did eventually return with the tire. He told a tale of riding from town to town, searching for a mechanic. The closest town that could offer services was not an option because the mechanic had gone off to visit his family for a New Year's celebration. The driver had been forced to continue retracing our path back to where we'd originally stopped and I'd shared my orange with the bull cow. It seemed to take only minutes to put the tire on, push the car into a running start (driver #1 had left the lights on all night) and get us on our way once again. It was the only part of the trip when time moved quickly.

The journey to Conakry felt as though it were taking place in another dimension. We made stops too frequently for me. I became tired of climbing in and out of the cramped back quarters (losing passengers somehow did not equal more space for us in the back back AND the driver incredibly appeared to be looking for more passengers.)

We passed through small towns and check points with ease. I kept my passport in my bag the whole time. We snacked endlessly on oranges. We stopped at a gas station, got another tire changed and picked up two more passengers. Driver #2 was once again relegated to the hatch back space. He jumped out at each check point and melted into sidelines. He merged with vendors and buyers and made his way around the check point where he would jog up to us and jump into the back once we had put a bit of distance bewtween us and the militiary. It seemed so simple and obvious I couldn't really believe he was fooling anyone. 

At the gas station, the other passengers bought some kind of meatballs and offered to share them with the boys. Nabih indulged but Mohamed declined. A passenger, whose name I never got, went into the store and returned with some cake bread. He had been so friendly toward the boys while we were waiting, playing games and amusing them. He spoke the most French and also translated the Malinke for me so I knew what was going on.

After many hours, long past sunset, we arrived in Conakry. The road into town was crowded and covered with soldiers. It was here that I had my one and only problem with my passport. I had to go in search of it, aqnd argue for its return. The taxi driver and a few of the passengers followed me. Despite the soldiers repeated, gruff orders and threats towards them, they did not leave. Later they told me that the soldiers wanted them to leave so they could extract a high price for the return of my passport. They'd elected to remain as witnesses. I listened to several soldiers arguing about the correct way to handle my passport. Being back in Conakry, they spoke a mixture of Sousou and French. I knew exactly what they saying and waited for the moment to present itself when I could slip a discreet "tip." Its a delicate process and needs to be timed just right, or so I believe. Unexplicably, one soldier (a red beret) ordered the other (a mere green beret) to return my papers, no tax imposed. Once again, we were on our way. 

It was near midnight when we arrived at our destination, a hazy, dusty crossroads teeming with people vending by candlelight. I got out of the taxi with a suitcase and two sleeping children. The passenger who had been so kind to the boys hailed another taxi for us. The woman we'd picked up at the gas station negotiated the price and I felt like we might actually be nearing the end of this epoch adventure. I was filled with a sense of gratefulness. It seems you're never truly alone in Africa, someone is always willing to help. I'd been keenly aware of this every step of the way. Turns out the trouble with travel isn't really so troublesome after all. Its just a matter of interesting company, an open spirit and the ability to see with eagle eyes.