"Are you my friend?" I looked into his serious brown eyes and burst out laughing. We were in the middle of our English lesson and I had constructed a role playing session that I thought was going rather well. Isaac had wanted to talk about cars and after studying the vocabulary for interior and exterior parts of a car, we were now acting out a customer/ mechanic scenario.
I wasn't actually sure at first if he got the idea that we were imagining. After several stops and starts, I felt like the situation was pretty clear. I was the customer, whose car had broken down a few kilometers away from Isaac's garage. He successfully called for a tow truck and began to ask me diagnostic questions. Eventually I asked him how much all of the repairs would cost.
And that's when he asked if we were friends. Because how could he determine a fair price without really knowing the depth of our imaginary relationship. Ah yes, the inevitable role of culture in play.
13.5.12
Secret Confessions of an African Taxi rider
While I can't argue that taking a taxi can be unpredictable and frustrating- in any city- I must admit to finding a certain therapeutic value in it. After weeks of feeling cut off and estranged from the world, a ride in a taxi is just the medicine I need to bring me back to earth.
As I wait for the right moment to dash through the crowds and try to claim a place in a cab, I listen to the destinations being sung out. "Limete...Limbe.....Zondo...Pompage......Gombe....Boulevard....Whoolerie...." I am seduced. I feel like choosing any one of those places, the one most beautifully sung, and heading off for an unplanned adventure.
It happens every time. For a brief moment, I seriously consider just wandering off to a place with a melodic name and a search for a whole new me. A buffet of choices before me.....
As I wait for the right moment to dash through the crowds and try to claim a place in a cab, I listen to the destinations being sung out. "Limete...Limbe.....Zondo...Pompage......Gombe....Boulevard....Whoolerie...." I am seduced. I feel like choosing any one of those places, the one most beautifully sung, and heading off for an unplanned adventure.
It happens every time. For a brief moment, I seriously consider just wandering off to a place with a melodic name and a search for a whole new me. A buffet of choices before me.....
6.5.12
Shop Rite Shop Wrong
"It looks just like America," Nabih gasped as we pulled into the parking lot, effectively leaving Kinshasa behind and entering the first world realm of supermarkets and malls. The parking lot had delineated spaces (enough for everyone) and tree coverings for beauty and shade. People pushing shopping carts out to their cars completed the picture of your average American (or South African) grocery mart.
Inside we found the shelves lined with goods- food and non food items alike- the choices staggering. Shoes and sandals hung on metal hooks across from baby foods and formula. Vitamins, health food items and plastic tupperware filled another aisle. I felt myself overcome with that now foreign desire to browse and wonder what I "needed" at home.
I have been to the new ShopRite twice and both times I have been forcing myself to feel that this is progress and it's good. I tried to be amused as I rounded a corner with Mohamed only to hear a quick intake of breath. "Wow!" It was the soda and juice aisle, and it was quite explosive- bottles filled with sugar coated, colored liquid seemed to stretch on endlessly. I shook my head in horror. An involuntary, "No way," escaped from my lips though I'd meant to think it only to myself. We are not buying anything in this aisle.
I was also caught up in delusion as the fruit and vegetable aisles were equally bright and alluring. The prices there remain prohibitive (though I splurged on a $5 bag of plum tomatoes. and so yummmy have they been.) I did purchase some of the canned variety- envisioning a pie one Sunday evening.
During check out, Nabih and I accidentally broke a bottle of spices (and weren't asked to pay for it!) When there was a problem with the price of my flour, the cashier flicked a switch and her register light started blinking. Yup, just like old times. A dressed up "Vache Qui Rire" was hanging around the store to entertain the kiddos and Nabih was even awarded a promotional baseball cap from Africa's Choice (powdered milk.) But something about the whole experience left me unsettled and I've yet to figure out why. Is this how middle classes are made? This is progress and development so it must be good?
I don't know enough about the chain to really make a statement in that respect. I see a sign for a Hungry Lion next door. Mohamed tells me it is a fast food restaurant opening. I want to be happy about all this development. Kintambo itself has been deluded with small new grocery stores and life has become ever more convenient (if not more affordable. It still is Kinshasa, after all.) But I worry about the huge divide. Shopping at these stores is still not the mark of the average Conoglaise...and there remain far too many children sleeping on the streets- which seems the very basic of social services.
I am trying to remain open to the possibility that businesses like these can lead to a widespread evolution in quality of life for all. It must start somewhere, rite? But for now, I still prefer my eggs to come with feathers.
Inside we found the shelves lined with goods- food and non food items alike- the choices staggering. Shoes and sandals hung on metal hooks across from baby foods and formula. Vitamins, health food items and plastic tupperware filled another aisle. I felt myself overcome with that now foreign desire to browse and wonder what I "needed" at home.
 |
| Bakery- complete with plastic hair covers |
 |
| The ultimate in colored sugar drinks |
I was also caught up in delusion as the fruit and vegetable aisles were equally bright and alluring. The prices there remain prohibitive (though I splurged on a $5 bag of plum tomatoes. and so yummmy have they been.) I did purchase some of the canned variety- envisioning a pie one Sunday evening.
 |
| Yes, I bought those two missing cans of strawberries-had to forgo the real ones |
 |
| La Vache Qui Rire |
I am trying to remain open to the possibility that businesses like these can lead to a widespread evolution in quality of life for all. It must start somewhere, rite? But for now, I still prefer my eggs to come with feathers.
 |
| Local eggs- delivered with feathers and chicken poop...they're that fresh! |
1.4.12
A Coup- by Air Mail
I've been teaching and living here in Kinshasa long enough for certain things to become everyday, unnoticeable. I've made amends with the riches my students have and the kinds of poverty it brings to many of their lives. I am aware of the power many of them are surrounded by on a daily basis and the thoughts of entitlement it often leads to.
There are other things to become accustomed to as well. No mail service. Lack of reliable connections for phone and internet. These things often lead to frustration and miscommunication - or missed communication. People collect SIM cards and numbers from multiple phone service providers in hopes that at least one of them will be capable of catching a signal at any given time. Snail mail is a thing of luxury and a sign of status. (US Embassy kids can be easily spotted in the lunchroom by the ever sought after fruit roll ups and Rice Krispie treat snacks they have received through "the pouch.")
Our school is in the process of installing an intercom system that promises to be reliable and clear in communication. But our disaster preparedness drills still involve a messenger coming to the door with a hand held sign "Code Yellow" or walking around the parking lot hand cranking a siren. So it was not really surprising to me to hear, in the middle of math class one day, a knock on the door and a hand delivered message from one of our office assistants.
Things turned a bit bizarre however when I noticed the envelope. It was not the large, plain office envelope that tuition notices or school records come in that are to be sent home to parents through their child. This envelope was of the letter variety, the air mail letter with blue and red markings dotting the edge.
"The driver is waiting for a response." I was told. What? I am in the middle of teaching. I opened the letter, scanned it - becoming more and more incredulous- the parent wanted to arrange a meeting with me in two hours. I started explaining why it was impossible to meet in two hours (students, class, professional duty...) and then finally made a big decision. They'll have to wait.
"The answer is no and they'll have to wait. I can't respond to this now." The assistant was slightly aghast and unsure how to leave without the required response. From the corner of my eye, I saw the student in question surveying the scene. She had been attempting a power play- a coup perhaps. She'd started a bit of trouble the day before and was trying to call in the ranks to get her out of it. Leaving 25 students, especially these particular 25 students, to their own devices while I tried to check my schedule and arrange a meeting would have been deadly. No, no response. Our time was too powerful and luckily, in my classroom, I still get to be queen.
The assistant left unhappily, formulating some response about a phone call later- which would have been the very appropriate first response taken by the parent. And I was left to chuckle over my first air mail delivery---by hand.
There are other things to become accustomed to as well. No mail service. Lack of reliable connections for phone and internet. These things often lead to frustration and miscommunication - or missed communication. People collect SIM cards and numbers from multiple phone service providers in hopes that at least one of them will be capable of catching a signal at any given time. Snail mail is a thing of luxury and a sign of status. (US Embassy kids can be easily spotted in the lunchroom by the ever sought after fruit roll ups and Rice Krispie treat snacks they have received through "the pouch.")
Our school is in the process of installing an intercom system that promises to be reliable and clear in communication. But our disaster preparedness drills still involve a messenger coming to the door with a hand held sign "Code Yellow" or walking around the parking lot hand cranking a siren. So it was not really surprising to me to hear, in the middle of math class one day, a knock on the door and a hand delivered message from one of our office assistants.
Things turned a bit bizarre however when I noticed the envelope. It was not the large, plain office envelope that tuition notices or school records come in that are to be sent home to parents through their child. This envelope was of the letter variety, the air mail letter with blue and red markings dotting the edge.
"The driver is waiting for a response." I was told. What? I am in the middle of teaching. I opened the letter, scanned it - becoming more and more incredulous- the parent wanted to arrange a meeting with me in two hours. I started explaining why it was impossible to meet in two hours (students, class, professional duty...) and then finally made a big decision. They'll have to wait.
"The answer is no and they'll have to wait. I can't respond to this now." The assistant was slightly aghast and unsure how to leave without the required response. From the corner of my eye, I saw the student in question surveying the scene. She had been attempting a power play- a coup perhaps. She'd started a bit of trouble the day before and was trying to call in the ranks to get her out of it. Leaving 25 students, especially these particular 25 students, to their own devices while I tried to check my schedule and arrange a meeting would have been deadly. No, no response. Our time was too powerful and luckily, in my classroom, I still get to be queen.
The assistant left unhappily, formulating some response about a phone call later- which would have been the very appropriate first response taken by the parent. And I was left to chuckle over my first air mail delivery---by hand.
Welcoming death
Moving to Africa has required a change in most areas of behavior and perception. There are new things to learn and old things to unlearn. Some habits simply cannot be continued (stopping at the corner gas station for a morning cup of coffee, which is then swallowed down in the car while listening to the latest American news on NPR or mindless morning DJ's spinning the most recent in American radio pop has morphed into brewing fresh ginger and clove tea in my own kitchen and then leisurely sipping from my back porch while my eyes take in the green lushness of the jungle and my ears delight in the cacophony of bird calls. And yes- somehow there is even time for this ritual on workdays.)
Sara Rich captures some other transitions one must make before becoming truly acclimated to the pace of life in Congo ( and the challenges of coming and going) on her blog Rice and Beans for the Soul. In the past four years, I have been grappling with many of these issues. Access to drinking water- and just water in general- getting used to dimmer lights - and often no lights at all- and the lack of consumer choices have all ranked near the top of my list. (I completely relate to splurging on a chocolate candy bar---and admit, in this last year, to becoming a bit confused about what constitutes an extravagant purchase. Is $8 for a box of cereal a bargain or a rip off? $10 strawberries....equaling out to $1 a piece....a snatch or a shrug? Of course, there was no doubt about the $4 head of broccoli- definitely a deal! and a one time purchase as such a great bargain could not be found twice, sadly.)
Beyond the material, there are other changes to adapt to in Congo. These differences are more philosophical and have to do with what we welcome into our lives. By welcome, I suppose I mean accept. Some ideas and concepts enter without choice or pleasure. But if I am choosing to stay in Africa, to live and work here, then there certain realities that must be accepted and in that sense, I am allowing them into my life. Many of these aspects- such as the lack of privacy surrounding nearly every moment of life- inspire opposing senses of intrigue and exasperation. Living in Africa also means infusing spirituality- in one form or another- into pretty much every corner of life. Taxi buses are adorned with "Travel in Christ" and "God's good hand." Stores along the roadside are named "Jehovah's Good Word Fashions" and "Jesus is Our Savior Boutique." It's not just in the naming of things, but also in the dialogue. Every conversation can be said to have two layers- the literal one and the one referring to past and present, seen and unseen, physical and spiritual. Trying to decipher which level we're on and which "reality" we are referring to can be another of those past times that is at once puzzling and slightly infuriating.
Welcoming death as a part of life has been one of the hardest things I have had to adjust to. In America, death is sequestered. It is an occasion revered and often resisted. There is surprise and anger. But here in Congo, death is something everyone seems to have experienced at least twice over. "What are you doing this evening?" is just as often answered, "Going to a funeral," as "Going to visit a friend for dinner." In all of my 33 years before coming to Africa, death had only touched my personal life twice- and both of those times were so much on the periphery they barely had the ability to touch me. Or should I say the first funeral was such a foreign and bizarre series of rituals that I couldn't even bring myself to go to the second, which quickly followed. I just don't have much experience with death and my first funeral, at the age of 20, seemed simply grotesque and bizarre. I had no foundation with which to understand the quiet, solemn staring at the body or the solitary tears choked back by the parents. None of it made sense to me. None of it touched me. A foreign affair.
But here in Africa, cemeteries meet the roadway. Traveling just outside the city center reveals graves springing up mere feet from houses, becoming part of the yard itself. Marker stones can be seen just across narrow paths that barely qualify as roads. And people perch on the edges, seek shade under the stone canopies and rest their tired, living bodies on the graves of those in peaceful slumber.
My first African funeral came as a shock. I found out about the passing in the middle of teaching my class. I was confused and troubled. My thoughts rotated from wondering what and how it could happen to dismay at the child left behind, along with her cousins who had now lost a second mother.
The wake itself was held in the hollowed theater of National Ballet. Asina Kititwa had been a long time member of the ballet and my teacher. Her casket sat adorned with wreaths and flowers while mourners made their way down the packed theater seats to give their respects. A group of women sat nearby the casket and every so often would jump up and begin wailing and caressing Asina's body. People shared stories of a life lived and celebrated together, though none made it through entirely before breaking down into tears and being helped off stage. Others sang and performed several beautiful dances in honor of Asina. The dancers resembled willow trees, fragile branches swaying in the breeze supported by strong and capable trunks as they danced and wept and poured their love and energy into their memories of performing together.
This ritual of celebrating and affirming and releasing seemed to make a bit more sense to me. The loud and unrestrained wailing made it possible for silent tears to fall and comfort to be found in any touch. The joy of dance and song validated the talent and artistry that Asina brought to this world and had clearly touched so many lives with. Nearly 300 people were in that auditorium, grieving together, supporting each other, singing and swaying and sharing memories of a life well lived.
Sara Rich captures some other transitions one must make before becoming truly acclimated to the pace of life in Congo ( and the challenges of coming and going) on her blog Rice and Beans for the Soul. In the past four years, I have been grappling with many of these issues. Access to drinking water- and just water in general- getting used to dimmer lights - and often no lights at all- and the lack of consumer choices have all ranked near the top of my list. (I completely relate to splurging on a chocolate candy bar---and admit, in this last year, to becoming a bit confused about what constitutes an extravagant purchase. Is $8 for a box of cereal a bargain or a rip off? $10 strawberries....equaling out to $1 a piece....a snatch or a shrug? Of course, there was no doubt about the $4 head of broccoli- definitely a deal! and a one time purchase as such a great bargain could not be found twice, sadly.)
Beyond the material, there are other changes to adapt to in Congo. These differences are more philosophical and have to do with what we welcome into our lives. By welcome, I suppose I mean accept. Some ideas and concepts enter without choice or pleasure. But if I am choosing to stay in Africa, to live and work here, then there certain realities that must be accepted and in that sense, I am allowing them into my life. Many of these aspects- such as the lack of privacy surrounding nearly every moment of life- inspire opposing senses of intrigue and exasperation. Living in Africa also means infusing spirituality- in one form or another- into pretty much every corner of life. Taxi buses are adorned with "Travel in Christ" and "God's good hand." Stores along the roadside are named "Jehovah's Good Word Fashions" and "Jesus is Our Savior Boutique." It's not just in the naming of things, but also in the dialogue. Every conversation can be said to have two layers- the literal one and the one referring to past and present, seen and unseen, physical and spiritual. Trying to decipher which level we're on and which "reality" we are referring to can be another of those past times that is at once puzzling and slightly infuriating.
Welcoming death as a part of life has been one of the hardest things I have had to adjust to. In America, death is sequestered. It is an occasion revered and often resisted. There is surprise and anger. But here in Congo, death is something everyone seems to have experienced at least twice over. "What are you doing this evening?" is just as often answered, "Going to a funeral," as "Going to visit a friend for dinner." In all of my 33 years before coming to Africa, death had only touched my personal life twice- and both of those times were so much on the periphery they barely had the ability to touch me. Or should I say the first funeral was such a foreign and bizarre series of rituals that I couldn't even bring myself to go to the second, which quickly followed. I just don't have much experience with death and my first funeral, at the age of 20, seemed simply grotesque and bizarre. I had no foundation with which to understand the quiet, solemn staring at the body or the solitary tears choked back by the parents. None of it made sense to me. None of it touched me. A foreign affair.
But here in Africa, cemeteries meet the roadway. Traveling just outside the city center reveals graves springing up mere feet from houses, becoming part of the yard itself. Marker stones can be seen just across narrow paths that barely qualify as roads. And people perch on the edges, seek shade under the stone canopies and rest their tired, living bodies on the graves of those in peaceful slumber.
My first African funeral came as a shock. I found out about the passing in the middle of teaching my class. I was confused and troubled. My thoughts rotated from wondering what and how it could happen to dismay at the child left behind, along with her cousins who had now lost a second mother.
The wake itself was held in the hollowed theater of National Ballet. Asina Kititwa had been a long time member of the ballet and my teacher. Her casket sat adorned with wreaths and flowers while mourners made their way down the packed theater seats to give their respects. A group of women sat nearby the casket and every so often would jump up and begin wailing and caressing Asina's body. People shared stories of a life lived and celebrated together, though none made it through entirely before breaking down into tears and being helped off stage. Others sang and performed several beautiful dances in honor of Asina. The dancers resembled willow trees, fragile branches swaying in the breeze supported by strong and capable trunks as they danced and wept and poured their love and energy into their memories of performing together.
22.1.12
Short changed
Last night I went to see this group- which seems to
encompass all things I hold dear- the power of art to transform lives, good
music and unexpected connections between people that cross surprising
boundaries. Staff Benda Bilili is a group made up of street people from
Kinshasa. Some handicapped, some tossed out and forgotten, but all talented and
capable musicians performing from their very souls. They were discovered and transported from
their ordinary lives to stardom. A real life fairy tale.
I arrived at my favorite cultural spot with Ousmane in tow.
We left the car in the careful hands of Christian. “Je guard ca,” he assured me
in a deep voice that didn’t seem to match his schoolboy uniform. He had
presented himself in such a formal way (a near salute as he told me his name
and desire) and this, coupled with his serious, scratchy voice, left me with
the thought that perhaps my car could really disappear and I should be grateful
for his very presence.
The show began with a near empty dance floor- save one lone
artist moved by the music. It quickly filled up with moving, screaming fans.
Everyone from those in wheelchairs to the young and old, the dancers and
nondancers, Congolese and Europeans. I watched as Ousmane and Bonaza shed their
reserve and chanted the refrains. We heard voices reminiscent of Papa Wemba and
Baba Maal. Drumbeats drove Ousmane to shake his head and pull out his favorite
guinean dance steps. Impromtu instruments made from ordinary objects inspired him
to raise his empty water bottle and energetically accompany the rhythms. One young man had such a sweet and inspiring
voice I was filled with nostalgic longing for a time in my past that has never
existed and a future moment I can only hope will transpire.
But I didn’t dance.
My foot tapped to the rhythm and maybe a sway escaped me, but dance did
not spring forth. I regarded Ousmane in his clear joy with a smile and shake of
my head, wishing I could be so free. I left for some fresh air and to reread a
particularly encouraging text message I’d received days earlier. “You must
learn to dominate your fear,” it read. And I wanted to; I so completely wanted to abandon my thoughts and surrender to joy. I am
perplexed by what holds me back, but remain in awe of its awesome power over me.
There is a huge barrier between what I want to do and what I allow myself to do.
As I returned, I caught
a glimpse of Ousmane and Bonaza dancing together, two sweet and beautiful friends
caught up in the magic of the music. But even that sight could not reach out
and encompass me. I enjoyed the show in my own careful way- too pensive, too bound
up in emotion and observation but nonetheless affected by the energy.
When we left, true to his word, Christian was there- and so
was our car, held to its spot no doubt due to the cunning and cleverness of our guardian . I stepped inside, found a few franc and rolled down the window to hand
him his payment. He walked off with his friend as I noticed the car behind us
had parked a bit closely. Normally, I
find no use for the hand signals and advice from street valets. In fact, they
often seem to choose the perfectly wrong place to stand, and I am left thinking that if only they’d
move I would be able to navigate the packed space much more quickly and easily. But as I watched the boys walk off counting
their money, I was consumed with an odd notion to roll down the window and call
them back. They hadn’t finished their service. I felt uncharacteristically
short-changed.
13.1.12
The need to get M.A.D.D.
I admit to being a pseudo-blogger. This means that I blog when the mood strikes, and therefore, may end up with news that's not exactly up to the minute. I generally require some time to mull over an idea before I am ready to stumble off to my blog and share my thoughts. Of course, having time to extricate these thoughts requires pulling down one mask at the forfeiture of others (the mommy, teacher, housekeeper ones.)
But I have returned time and again to this particular concept (another requirement of blogging material. It must haunt me to a certain degree before I can commit written word to it.) I am stuck at a bit of a cliche, but as with most cliches, it is accurate if not a bit overtired. Because sometimes there really is no other way to describe Kinshasa except as the Wild West.
It ends with this story in which the son of
There were a few days of comments and postings flying around Facebook before attention turned again to other politics. But, as I've mentioned, I have remained somewhat haunted by this. And somewhat puzzled by the reaction. After all, it seems like the way business is done here in Kin- not just for the elite, but in this case, lack of responsisbility seems the status quo for all, economic standing aside. (An ironic bit of equality.)
I can now say that I have witnessed several car accidents here in Kinshasa and, unrelated, have at least 4 African hospital experiences under my belt. While different in mannerisms, quality of care and cleanliness, there are a few aspects that remain constant. One does not begin to receive any service until money has crossed hands. This might be difficult to do if you have had the ultimate misfortune to be knocked unconscious by your accident.
It appears Kazadi's accident was graced with the presence of angels. After having been knocked off his motorcycle and thrown to the pavement, he was picked up by a passing military general and spirited away to the closest hospital. The driver sped away in his drunken state. Apparently he was stopped by the military down the road where he admitted to being drunk and then ran away from his vehicle. Both the vehicle (from a prominent NGO) and the motorcycle were taken into the military compound and kept there.
My involvement in the chain of events is surreal. Once I heard about the accident (another timing from fate) I went directly to the hospital where I heard he was taken. It turned out to be a military hospital where no foreigners were allowed to enter. I stayed in the car by the iron barrier while the driver went up ahead- on foot. He returned a few minutes later with a doctor who updated me on Kazadi's condition. In the middle of the road we had a discussion about the need to transfer him to another hospital where he might receive a brain scan, some stitches to his face and further medical care. They actually contemplated having him walk down to the car so we could transport him. In my dream like state I let them know that was a ludicrous idea (was this really only apparent to me?) I told the driver to go ahead and pick up Kazadi with the car while I waited outside. "Are you sure? Here with the military?" What could be safer than a mondele in the dark surrounded by soldiers armed with AK's?
The driver returned with a bashed and bloody passenger who was barely coherent. We raced down to the local clinic, who told us he needed to be transferred to yet another hospital. Off we went. When we finally arrived, I was in a bit of a panic. It is easy for the Western mind - full of basic first aid and driver's ed horror stories- to imagine the damage resulting from delayed medical care. Kazadi was taken to a triage bed......and he laid down. The sheets turned from white to red as we waited. Nurses and doctors came in and out, asking mundane questions and one even seemed to become a bit impatient with the lack of response. "He won't talk to me," she said to me in a petulant voice. This is the part where the fog gathers and begins to descend.
I sat outside breathing deep, pacing and wondering when someone was going to get around to addressing his wounds. When the magical question of payment arose, I assured them that all I had to do was run down to the ATM and get the money. "Don't wait for me to return. Just start doing something. Call the scanner technician- I'm coming." I tried fervently to incite some action. I left Kazadi on the bed weaving in and out of consciousness as I rode off in search of cash.
They did send the ambulance out to retrieve the technician- a hopeful sign. And I got to sit in while the scan was taking place- more than would have happened in a Western hospital for sure. The technician explained all the images I was seeing on the screen- assuring me there had been no injury to the brain or skull. But I remain appalled at the amount of time that passed between being hit by the car and getting his cheek sewn up (a good four hours or more- most of which were spent in a hospital bed.) Of course, I am not a medical person. (Much of my deep breathing was done in the squatting position to relieve the dizziness and nausea that constantly threatened to overtake me. I don't really do open wounds to the head so well.) Maybe its normal to wait and see if the person is going to live before wasting thread on stitching him up?
But this is my 4th African hospital. I am not going to say I am used to this, but I am aware of the pace of life here. "urgent" is always spelled with a lower case u.
More bizarre was the conversation I had the following day. I went in search of the motorcycle and the criminal. The military had kept the registration documents, though had released the vehicle to the administrator of the NGO. I still couldn't really figure out how the chauffeur had gotten away, especially since he admitted to the military that he had been drinking (in reality, the military are not the police and I suppose there is an element of jurisdiction here....one of those practices of law and order that seems to defy all other rules of order. It's always a challenge to determine which rules exist to be followed and which are there simply to be ignored.)
The administrator called me later that day and we made arrangements to meet. Our conversation is striking for the words that were missing as much for those they held. There were no apologies, no condolences, no assurances that one would be fired, turned in to authorities or in anyway reprimanded. I was told that all medical bills would be paid for and that the bike would be reimbursed. (One grace of getting hit by an NGO. At least there would be money to cover these things.) In saying goodbye, we walked toward the gate. He turned to me and said, "You know, accidents are like this. In Goma, 4 people were killed. In Rwanda, 2 people were killed....."
No, no, no, I wanted to scream. Accidents were not like this. If people didn't drink and drive, if people stayed on one side of the road instead of two, if people exercised patience and caution instead of recklessness and speed.....most accidents are preventable. But Kinshasa has a way of lifting me into that surreal plane where the twists and turns of people's words leave me in a bewildered state of speechlessness as I try to follow the winding path of their logic.
There has never been one word about social justice. It was all about monetary compensation. Which is perhaps a bit better than what has happened in the case of Yann Boshab. Perhaps there have been talks about money exchanging hands. I was told that the fact that the NGO readily accepted to pay meant they knew the driver was at fault. And so, despite the witnesses, videos and photo accounts in the Boshab case, offering to pay the families might be an acquiescence of guilt the families are not prepared to make.
The two accidents are miles apart in their brutality, consequences to human life and disregard for reparations. But that is by nothing more than the grace of God. Both drivers were drunk, both drivers fled the scene (one with the help of the police, the other with the nonchalance of the military) and, it appears that neither driver has suffered any legal consequence. One chauffeur may have lost some days pay- perhaps his job-and be wondering how he will feed his family. The other driver is surely comfortably cushioned by the wealth of his family. But the overall message remains consistent. Both drivers are free to drink, drive and injure or kill again.
But I have returned time and again to this particular concept (another requirement of blogging material. It must haunt me to a certain degree before I can commit written word to it.) I am stuck at a bit of a cliche, but as with most cliches, it is accurate if not a bit overtired. Because sometimes there really is no other way to describe Kinshasa except as the Wild West.
It ends with this story in which the son of
There were a few days of comments and postings flying around Facebook before attention turned again to other politics. But, as I've mentioned, I have remained somewhat haunted by this. And somewhat puzzled by the reaction. After all, it seems like the way business is done here in Kin- not just for the elite, but in this case, lack of responsisbility seems the status quo for all, economic standing aside. (An ironic bit of equality.)
I can now say that I have witnessed several car accidents here in Kinshasa and, unrelated, have at least 4 African hospital experiences under my belt. While different in mannerisms, quality of care and cleanliness, there are a few aspects that remain constant. One does not begin to receive any service until money has crossed hands. This might be difficult to do if you have had the ultimate misfortune to be knocked unconscious by your accident.
It appears Kazadi's accident was graced with the presence of angels. After having been knocked off his motorcycle and thrown to the pavement, he was picked up by a passing military general and spirited away to the closest hospital. The driver sped away in his drunken state. Apparently he was stopped by the military down the road where he admitted to being drunk and then ran away from his vehicle. Both the vehicle (from a prominent NGO) and the motorcycle were taken into the military compound and kept there.
My involvement in the chain of events is surreal. Once I heard about the accident (another timing from fate) I went directly to the hospital where I heard he was taken. It turned out to be a military hospital where no foreigners were allowed to enter. I stayed in the car by the iron barrier while the driver went up ahead- on foot. He returned a few minutes later with a doctor who updated me on Kazadi's condition. In the middle of the road we had a discussion about the need to transfer him to another hospital where he might receive a brain scan, some stitches to his face and further medical care. They actually contemplated having him walk down to the car so we could transport him. In my dream like state I let them know that was a ludicrous idea (was this really only apparent to me?) I told the driver to go ahead and pick up Kazadi with the car while I waited outside. "Are you sure? Here with the military?" What could be safer than a mondele in the dark surrounded by soldiers armed with AK's?
The driver returned with a bashed and bloody passenger who was barely coherent. We raced down to the local clinic, who told us he needed to be transferred to yet another hospital. Off we went. When we finally arrived, I was in a bit of a panic. It is easy for the Western mind - full of basic first aid and driver's ed horror stories- to imagine the damage resulting from delayed medical care. Kazadi was taken to a triage bed......and he laid down. The sheets turned from white to red as we waited. Nurses and doctors came in and out, asking mundane questions and one even seemed to become a bit impatient with the lack of response. "He won't talk to me," she said to me in a petulant voice. This is the part where the fog gathers and begins to descend.
I sat outside breathing deep, pacing and wondering when someone was going to get around to addressing his wounds. When the magical question of payment arose, I assured them that all I had to do was run down to the ATM and get the money. "Don't wait for me to return. Just start doing something. Call the scanner technician- I'm coming." I tried fervently to incite some action. I left Kazadi on the bed weaving in and out of consciousness as I rode off in search of cash.
They did send the ambulance out to retrieve the technician- a hopeful sign. And I got to sit in while the scan was taking place- more than would have happened in a Western hospital for sure. The technician explained all the images I was seeing on the screen- assuring me there had been no injury to the brain or skull. But I remain appalled at the amount of time that passed between being hit by the car and getting his cheek sewn up (a good four hours or more- most of which were spent in a hospital bed.) Of course, I am not a medical person. (Much of my deep breathing was done in the squatting position to relieve the dizziness and nausea that constantly threatened to overtake me. I don't really do open wounds to the head so well.) Maybe its normal to wait and see if the person is going to live before wasting thread on stitching him up?
But this is my 4th African hospital. I am not going to say I am used to this, but I am aware of the pace of life here. "urgent" is always spelled with a lower case u.
More bizarre was the conversation I had the following day. I went in search of the motorcycle and the criminal. The military had kept the registration documents, though had released the vehicle to the administrator of the NGO. I still couldn't really figure out how the chauffeur had gotten away, especially since he admitted to the military that he had been drinking (in reality, the military are not the police and I suppose there is an element of jurisdiction here....one of those practices of law and order that seems to defy all other rules of order. It's always a challenge to determine which rules exist to be followed and which are there simply to be ignored.)
The administrator called me later that day and we made arrangements to meet. Our conversation is striking for the words that were missing as much for those they held. There were no apologies, no condolences, no assurances that one would be fired, turned in to authorities or in anyway reprimanded. I was told that all medical bills would be paid for and that the bike would be reimbursed. (One grace of getting hit by an NGO. At least there would be money to cover these things.) In saying goodbye, we walked toward the gate. He turned to me and said, "You know, accidents are like this. In Goma, 4 people were killed. In Rwanda, 2 people were killed....."
No, no, no, I wanted to scream. Accidents were not like this. If people didn't drink and drive, if people stayed on one side of the road instead of two, if people exercised patience and caution instead of recklessness and speed.....most accidents are preventable. But Kinshasa has a way of lifting me into that surreal plane where the twists and turns of people's words leave me in a bewildered state of speechlessness as I try to follow the winding path of their logic.
There has never been one word about social justice. It was all about monetary compensation. Which is perhaps a bit better than what has happened in the case of Yann Boshab. Perhaps there have been talks about money exchanging hands. I was told that the fact that the NGO readily accepted to pay meant they knew the driver was at fault. And so, despite the witnesses, videos and photo accounts in the Boshab case, offering to pay the families might be an acquiescence of guilt the families are not prepared to make.
The two accidents are miles apart in their brutality, consequences to human life and disregard for reparations. But that is by nothing more than the grace of God. Both drivers were drunk, both drivers fled the scene (one with the help of the police, the other with the nonchalance of the military) and, it appears that neither driver has suffered any legal consequence. One chauffeur may have lost some days pay- perhaps his job-and be wondering how he will feed his family. The other driver is surely comfortably cushioned by the wealth of his family. But the overall message remains consistent. Both drivers are free to drink, drive and injure or kill again.
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