On how art is a reflection of the artist and the world they live in - July 26, 2012

I got the chance to hang out with the girls on a Sunday, we ended up taking a walk to the Academie des Beaux-Artes, which is not far from Café Mozart. I have passed by it in a car but I didn’t realize it was so close. We took a little walk, me and 2 young women and 3 little girls. Nous faisions a promenade a l’Academie des Beaux-Artes ou les artes et sculptures restent ici. Even the walk was fun.

It was really nice, there were sculptures galore just as in Rodin’s garden in Paris. I took lots of pictures at both sculpture gardens, especially of the sculptures I really likes. “The Kiss” is one beautiful sculpture, so passionate, Rodin quite exquisitely captures two lovers clearly enamoured of each other in an embrace at the moment just before their lips touch. You can feel and sense the tension there. I quite enjoyed that and had more time on my own to reflect on the art. I’ll go back to Beaux-Artes and reflect, it was beautiful but sad also, at the same time there were concrete and stone sculptures of moms cradling babies (made me wistful), there were also sculptures of war and abuse, army men with guns one poking someone in the back in a menacing way, a man beating a woman. Tortured. The arts speaks for the artists who are Congolese who have been through something. It was beautiful and sad and I’ll go back another day on the weekend.

Walking along side the road I am struck by a gallery of another kind, for some strange reason I haven’t figured out the word for garbage, but the gallery of plastic bottles that are littering the landscape surrounds me and I am struck by it. I took pictures surreptitiously with my cellphone. The plastic bottle is the only piece of garbage that stands out among all other garbage because it refuses to be obliterated like the pieces of paper mercilessly crushed by passing vehicles and trampled by feet. The plastic bottle withstands all pressures and remains, flattened but intact, perhaps missing its lid but unbroken.

Playing in the dark - thank God the power finally went out - July 24, 2012

I know it sounds odd but I thank God the power finally went out on Monday night. It was going to be a usual night like any other, after prayers and dinner, I watch some TV with the girls in their verandah-esque open-to-the-outside TV/sitting room. I usually watch for a half-hour or so then it’s time for me to tuck myself in, 'je me couche'.

Monday night was different and how I enjoyed it! Sometimes after prayers and dinner I end up dancing with a few girls, even if I dance well they laugh. Sometimes they laugh because I catch on so quickly and it’s a surprise to them. My favourite experience has been dancing with them to “Sh’took my money”, which I think is ‘she took my money’, it’s a great and fun African song in English so for me it’s easy to understand and everyone else gets it as well; it’s a very popular song, I’m sure I’ve heard it everywhere I’ve gone. There are even dance moves and gestures for the song and everyone sings along. “Sh’took my money, sh’took my money, sh’took my money, and I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.” (search on the web).

So Monday night I plopped myself on the couch as invited, “Marie-Lauren, assiez-toi,” but we were watching music videos and some people were already up dancing, then I was invited to dance also, they know that I can and I never refuse an opportunity for dance or to learn a new move. So now a bunch of us are dancing.

And then the five Austrian girls that are also volunteering for the summer and who arrived on Sunday night pass by on their way to bed, they are encouraged to come dance, because now it’s a dance party, not your usual TV-watching night. When everyone is watching tv, you can sometimes pass by, say ‘bon soir’ and be on your way. Monday night was different, there was no way you could refuse the energy that was in the air, it was infectious.

Then, all of a sudden, in the middle of everyone singing along to the video and dancing, the power goes out, and everything goes dark. And not just for a minute, because here in Kinshasa, in Gombe, the power is always on, if it goes it’s for a few seconds, or sometimes it flickers, but in the five weeks I’ve been here the power hadn’t gone out for any length of time. As in most big cities that consume a lot, conservation is a concept that is not practiced as much as it is preached. Even though the power could go out at any minute, people have air-conditioners and use electricity, there is work to be, done business goes on and here there is bread to bake. It wasn’t until the big power outage of summer 2005 in eastern parts of Canada and the United States that Canadians started to take electricity consumption and conservation seriously and were at first asked to use power more judiciously and then charged time-of-day rates to encourage conservation.

In the dark, there were shouts and hollers of ‘awws’ and ‘ooohhhas’ s if we were asking some
grand poo-bah to ‘turn the lights back on please, we were having such a good time’. The fun didn’t stop there. With cell-phones as flashlights, the girls guide each other, taking great care with the five new girls, down the stairs to the courtyard. It takes me a moment to join, I watch for a bit, take pictures from upstairs, it’s really fun upstairs because the flash from my camera is the only light in a sea of darkness. Then I hear my name and they are calling me to come down.

We begin with a game much like “duck, duck, goose” but the words are different and it’s a song everyone sings while they clap their hands rhythmically to the music. It’s enchanting and I wish I had recorded it because I can’t remember it now. It was really great to see the girls having so much fun without the amenity of electricity. I saw their leadership skills in action as one by one, they each took turns choralling everyone, instructing the game and leading us on an adventure in the dark. Katey, a young-ish girl who smiles lots and seems to me to be shy most of the time begins the song for the game. It is played, simply, it is played and we the outsiders, the volunteers, look on and participate. When a scarf is dropped behind you, you leave your seat on the ground and run around the circle of seated girls and women trying to catch the person who dropped the scarf to the music that is being sung while hands slap laps in an ever-increasing pitch and frequency. Once you make it back to a seat after you have dropped the scarf and run away from the person chasing you, the music begins afresh, slow at first then faster until the next person makes it safely to a seat before they are caught. Katey continues to lead the song throughout this game.

We then play a child’s game like “London bridge is falling down” but faster, in French, and with 30-odd women and girls the tunnel we create with outstretched arms seems very long. I hear a few of the words in French and my partner Matilde sings it clearly for me so I can sing it. We wind our way to the front of the building from the courtyard with that game. Then when it is finished because our arms are tired and no one wants to run through the tunnel anymore because we are not all little children, though there are little ones-'les petites', and our bodies can take only so much running while squatting, we race to the courtyard at the back and start a new game.

Sister Rosalie has come out with a light and a word of caution. She only speaks in French, but like everyone here she gestures so you don’t miss what she is saying even if you don’t understand the words. Sister Rosalie is in charge of the girls in the dormitory, that is her work. She reminds us that it is late, by now 9:30pm, and we have neighbours in the apartment building next door who
are not playing games in the dark and might like the opportunity to sleep quietly. Sister Rosalie is encouraging and walks around us with the light balanced on her head. It’s a thing here and everyone can and does it, sits, stands or walks balancing something on their head.

The last game is “le lyon appelles” and it is also played in a large circle. My friend Bijou the petite leads this game. Bijou is still recovering from the emergency surgery for appendicitis, it has only been three weeks or so, so she plays the games cautiously. I notice she plays the first game without the running, instead she does a slow but steady crouch. She directs the tug of war game because we wrapped arms around torsos to make a human chain and that would not be good for
people with abdominal surgeries. Bijou has a raspy voice, she is very intelligent and well-travelled, speaks English and has a fiancé Salvatore. Bijou’s voice is constant through the game. This one is the most fun, it is more thinking than running, and one has to concentrate. I’m out early so I join the others in the middle of the circle while the game continues. I attempt to balance the light on my head but only for a few minutes because it is straining, different and
new.

I’ve handedmy camera to Sonya who braided my hair a while back and she has taken pictures throughout. This is the kind of fun I’ve been hoping for but didn’t want to impose. The girls here work hard during the day and for most of them the only time they get to chill and relax is at night when the work is done and they can watch tv. So often, I’ve wanted to lead a game or a song and say something in French that is like, “Hey gals, let’s dance or sing or something!” but that would be me imposing my wants and desires and I’m here for them to learn from, listen to and encourage them. For me, this was another dream come true.

Sister Rosalie comes out when we finish the game to send us all to bed. It is now very late and we are all tired from the games, but we’ve had a good time and enjoyed the darkness and the moments it lends us. I stay up to chat with Matilde for a while about her fiancé and mine, and her upcoming engagement party. Matilde lets me practice my French and corrects and adjusts as needed. I enjoy hearing about the girls’ dreams and desires for the future, very uplifting for me.

Shall I wish for the lights to go out again?

Not speaking French is like being on a silent retreat - July 18, 2012

I realized this a few days ago. I am essentially on a silent retreat. I am silent. The people around me speak. I listen. I hear. I understand most of the time. I pay attention. I listen to words, I look for meaning, I analyse faces and gestures. I feel.

I feel like someone who has just lost their sight and is stumbling around in the dark getting familiar with their surroundings, probing cautiously, tentatively and gradually. It’s not the best analogy because the girls here especially the young ones want to take my glasses off regularly. I do my best to explain that my ‘vu, c’est n’est pas bien’. How do you say astigmatism and near-sighted in French? On another note, I did find out the words for near- and far-sighted in conversation with Francoise. She is far-sighted and I am near-sighted. I think it’s better to be far-sighted if you haven’t got money for glasses. Francoise doesn’t have money for glasses, she seems to be managing. I don’t think I would manage with not being able to see clearly more than 6 inches in front of me. I managed for 9 years when I was young but I don’t know if I could do that again. My Dad is farsighted and I know he has to stretch his arms out to read anything that is close, distance is okay but anything close is difficult to see, hence far-sighted. I feel for Francoise because I know what it is to not be able to see. I will have to do something about it before I leave here or after I get back. The girl should have glasses to see with.

So imagine me fumbling about but instead of not having glasses, I do not have words. Me, the verbose one. The poet. The communicator. In English I am fine, great, excellent. In French, not so good. It is a challenge I foisted on myself willingly and I must admit it is getting better but I am on a silent retreat. Imagine the internal challenge for the one who always has words, is wordy and always talks. I have only ever talked this little when I had a bout of laryngitis, because that is what it usually takes to shut me up for a moment. So instead of being the talkative one, I’m the attentive, quiet one. I know it must be very hard for those who know me to comprehend that but it’s true.

Sister Mary Nazareth remarked as much when we visited the hospital, she said it in French but I only remember it in English, “But you are a marketer, how come you are so quiet? marketers and communicators are usually the talkative ones.” I replied in my best French, “en Anglais! Je faire marketing et communication en Anglais.” I think that satisfied her. I can converse when necessary and I’m finding that is how I’m talking, more out of necessity than anything. I have wondered how anyone who is a quiet person does this. I have a sister that is known as the quiet one, I now know what life must be like, except for the tolerance. I have to remind myself often that this is a treasured experience. I talk all the time, for my work, my volunteering, because it is who I am—a talker, learning to listen is a gift I accept.

At the dinner table, I learn the most about the French language, the Salesian Sisters, the Congo, Café Mozart, the Don Bosco school and all sorts of other things. There is another here who talks as much in French as in do in English, I am no competition. Others talk, but I am silent. I am pondering. It is really good to ponder. I’ve never thought so much in my head before. I usually think out loud, talk to myself, converse really, and mutter almost all the time. It has been really good to focus on thinking and listening. I liken this to a silent retreat because first it is a form of retreat, I am living in a religious community, and second because French is not my primary language, I am more silent than talkative. I rise a little later than the Sisters here, but I join
them at mass every morning at 6:15am, pray at every meal, pray the rosary and vespers at 6pm and go to the parish church on Sundays. Any retreat I’ve ever been on has not lasted more than a week. After 4 weeks I’m getting used to early mornings and am feeling very good in spirit for praying and meditating every day.

On a silent retreat, which my friends have urged me to attend, and I have poo-pooed it because I knew it would be a difficult challenge, there is little talking, potential eye-contact at meal times but overall little talking. Retreats in general but especially silent retreats are great opportunities for listening, especially for listening to God. I have been silent for almost 4 weeks now. I have heard His voice many times in my head directing my actions here. I have prayed for grace in learning the language, today the words to the Our Father ‘le Notre Pere’ jumped out of my mouth without much effort. I pray for insight on how to reach the young people here and the answer came during vespers, ‘play with them’. It’s been so long since I’ve lived with young people, especially so many teenage girls, I forget sometimes what makes them tick. (Kudos for the
sisters for taking on this challenge.) Today, one tall, pretty girl nearly chased me down to take yet another photo of her. Teenage girls on vacation are not concerned with my English class, nor their chores, they just want to dress up and wear makeup and have their picture taken. So being attentive and listening is bringing me insight and clarity.

If ever you needed to listen to yourself and your Creator, a silent retreat or one such as this, will give you that opportunity.

Prayer, meditation and a dose of silence, a good prescription for a clarifying, spiritual retreat.

The Market in Kinshasa - July 14, 2012

I did my best to not smile. I had a hard time keeping it in. I was very happy inside because of the reality that I was in, that I was fulfilling dreams, and also experiencing so much awesome.

In the bustling, dusty, hub that is a market in Kinshasa, I did my best to look stern and unconcerned, like I belonged, like I knew what I was doing. I didn’t at all, belong or know what I was doing. But I know from living in a so-called rough neighbourhood in a fairly large and diverse city, that you cannot show fear, nor can you show naivete. When they said keep your purse close, they mean it. I grabbed mine under my arm like my life depended on it and I never let it go until my hand hurt from cramping. I didn’t want to seem too happy to be there, I did my best and was still approached, followed, hounded, and harassed by peddlers. One man followed me for what seemed like 10 minutes, past hundreds of stalls, while I bought other things, just to get me to buy the pants that I paid very little attention to, but I must have smiled or seemed interested at least a little. He bargained himself down to ‘trois mille francs’ from five. Someone else tried to sell me pants for eight mille. I was dazzled by the bras in every colour, notably red, fushia and teal. I ended up with a rose coloured one and one white. And abundance of dresses, but I refused to buy anything there that I could get in Canada for the same price. A deal is a deal, however, and I did get a few items for dollar store prices.

I was escorted by two young girls from Café Mozart, two who know their way around the market, know the language and the culture. They guarded me like mother hens, one at the front, one at the rear, keeping me in the middle, safe where they could see me. At one moment in our walk about the market I thought to myself that the situation should be reversed and I should be the mother hen, but I acknowledge I’m a stranger in a strange land and I acknowledge that these ‘girls’ have had to grow up faster than I ever did. I still had a hard time conversing with them in French but it was so much easier to have them guide me. Without them, I wouldn’t have made good bargains, kept a good amount of my money, understood anyone. I followed their lead and they were so good about keeping track of things. I spent the money I had planned to and got some nice things for me and them. One girl, a tall, dark young woman, Noella, with big eyes and a wide smile, has been walking about in flip flops that barely fit. I have watched her walk about almost on tip-toe, almost all the time. I have seen the soles of her feet black where the heels hang over the edge of the too-small slipper. She needed a fairy god-mother to get her real shoes. We ended up getting flip-flops that fit, because she needs something for the everyday running around. I will want to get her nice shoes also, she deserves it, they all do.

I was so tempted to sample the wares on the street, there were oranges spiced with salt and piri-piri, yellow-coloured drinks that seemed fortified with something, fried plantain and of course baguettes everywhere. Usually, I travel for gastronomic experiences, I’m a gastronomic adventurer, but I heeded Soeur Yolande’s advice as I know I can have many of those things
at Chez Soeurs and Café Mozart. The market had everything you could imagine and was immense. I thoroughly enjoyed myself while we walked for what seemed like hours till we were all too tired because had worked earlier in the day cleaning classrooms, carrying chairs and tables, getting ready for September and my English course. The market had clothes, shoes, foodstuffs, toiletries, kitchen supplies, everything. I’m glad my list was short because you could easily get lost in there amid all the goods at well-below market value. It was like a giant flea market but tighter, busier, denser and well-organized, foodstuffs over here, shoes there, clothes here.

By the end of it, I was dusty, sweaty and tired. What an exhilarating adventure! I was excited to be there but managed to contain my energy, I was scared at any moment of losing my cute pink purse to ‘vol’ or a ‘voleur’ and at the same time I was overwhelmed at the sights and sounds I could barely keep my eyes on my guides. An adventure to remember for sure. That is a market
in Kinshasa, what they call here ‘marché’.

On being alone while surrounded by people, I’m not the only one - July 9, 2012

My Sunday began with breakfast and church at Sacre Coeur, after that I was left on my own as Sunday is a free day for me. I am on my own today and the pressure of being alone is great. To be alone when surrounded by people is difficult to imagine, let alone experience, but it is the experience of being a volunteer on a mission. Sunday, I felt terribly, utterly alone as I realize I don’t have any friends here, not as yet anyways; I don’t have my boyfriend, my best friend, my Ma or any of my friends to visit or chat with.

On Sunday night, I chilled with the young girls at the school where I am at. In the two weeks I have been here I have learned the names of 51 people and got to know quite a few of them. I am sitting with five of the girls. We have danced, they showed me some moves and I showed a few as
well. We talked in French and English. One of the girls I have become quite fond of remarked that she was going away on vacation ‘vacances’. The last exams were last week and the jury or judging for practical knowledge was last Friday and Saturday, so it is vacation time for many. I asked in my broken French if she was going to visit her parents.

On a side note, I had asked Soeur Yolande about the girls’ situations, because I wanted to be careful how I approached the topic of family around what I was informed were at-risk young women. Soeur Yolande advised me that yes they were at-risk young women, they come from poverty or poor families, some had families, some had none. I didn’t understand any specifics
but enough generalities to get the picture. I work with at-risk youth in Toronto, youth who have been in or are in the child welfare system in Ontario and I am sensitive to their situations as much as I can be.

We had been having a fun time, dancing and laughing, communicating through funny gestures and broken French and English and some Lingala. To answer my question about her parents, the young girl gave me definitive hand gestures: the universal sign for ‘dead’. She laughed and giggled at my look of astonishment. I shouldn’t have been surprised, I should have been more prepared. She gave me another gesture, the universal gesture for baby, meaning her parents had died when she was a baby. The girl at my side told me the same was true for her. Her English is
better and she told me that her mother and father died when she was 6 years old. She has a sister in Congo but she is very far away. The first young girl has a sister and a niece in Canada, but she doesn’t know where.

I should have asked who she was going to visit for her vacation, an open-ended question, but then I might have to infer some things and it is better I know things more clearly. I did ask the question more correctly, “Qui est-ce que tu vas visiter?” She had to explain with more signs because I didn’t remember that marraine means God-mother.

Some of the girls will go away for the vacation time, some to visit family, some to visit friends or boyfriends. Some will stay here the whole summer because they do not have anyone to visit. For a moment on Sunday morning, I started to feel self-pity, I think it is normal to feel that way being so far from home, but it is the thing that binds us. I always try to remember that this, my situation, is temporary, for these girls, this is their reality. They are more alone than I, even if I don’t speak the language.

This is what I am here for. To dance for them, to translate American pop songs for them, to teach them conversational English, to entertain them and make them laugh. They laugh often at my French when I add an extra accent or word or mispronounce something. Funny, they don’t always tell me what I need to correct, but they laugh and that is good. The sound of young people
laughing is reward enough for my petite suffering of moments of loneliness.

In some ways, it is a bad as you think but let me live through rose-coloured glasses – July 9, 2012

I have been misled by my senses. I had started to imagine that Congo was not as bad as imagined, (see first blog). It is better than I expected, the infrastructure, the opportunity for business, the money being made; and Kinshasa is a good example of these things. But what I haven’t seen or experienced directly is the Congo that you think of. Today, a young girl said to me in her broken English with a heavy Congolese accent, “Things are not so good in Congo”.

I have only experienced the ‘not so good’ vicariously through others. I have seen some of it, but I have been spared most of the squalor and poverty in my insulated existence at Café Mozart. I am thankful for that. I am content to experience and understand Congo little by little, or as Soeur Yolande has said to me, “petite a petite”. Soeur Yolande once told me this when I had eaten outside of the Café Mozart. I tried bbq-d goat meat “chevre” at a local hangout while out with some new friends. I was a bit sick the next day, surely from the chevre and the beer. Soeur Yolande said to me many things in French, after only one week here this is what I understood: “Marie-Lauren you are too delicate to eat food outside, you can drink things outside, anything in a bottle, soda, pop, beer, not water, but do not eat outside, only here in the community. You do not know who is preparing the food, here you know who and what they are doing. Try to experience Congo, little by little.” As far as the ‘not so good’, Lord let it be little by little.

I have seen the hospital run by the Sisters at Maleuka, I have seen the community that houses four schools run by the Sisters at Sanga Mamba, I have seen what I think of as a boarding school for girls run by the Sisters at Café Mozart in Gombe. I have talked to volunteer from France who was passing through after her vacation home and who is spending two years at Bugemyi doing agriculture, I have conversed with a Jesuit priest who also lives in the bush. I have even seen people living on the side of the room between a tree and a concrete wall just opposite the church I go to on Sundays, Sacre Coeur, where there is a convent of Sisters also. After the second Sunday mass I went to, I saw a child washing her hands by the side of the road, the rest of her body was covered in dust, it is very dusty in Kinshasa during the winter/dry season. Her family was lounging at the base of the wall just along it, with their clothes, drying, strewn over the wall. There was some bits of food, cooking utensils and more clothes lying around.

At the hospital I saw a reality different from where I am. On the tour I saw lots of sick people, but the thing I saw that stuck with me and worried me the worst was the sick children. This is what I was fundraising for. The malnourished kids here need food, especially peanut butter. The Sister
Superior giving me the tour explained when I asked that their parents were very poor and could not afford food to feed the children. Other family members, like grandmothers, had stepped up to help but they also have no money and no job. There were quite a few in the paediatric unit, sick, malnourished kids, they looked just like the kids in the TV commercials for World Vision and Plan, except cuter. One was so hungry, he wouldn’t stop crying. He was fine and quiet when he was listless on the bed, lying on his stomach, legs akimbo, hands sprawled whichever way, face smushed into the mattress, he looked like a ragdoll someone just plopped down on the mattress with no concern for positioning. Very sad. Then when he was sat upright by his grandmother, the
person who is left to look after him, perhaps the realization that his belly hurts or his whole being is unwell, but he just started bawling and was inconsolable.

Little by litte, this is how I am experiencing Congo. Petite a petite.

And lead us not into temptation - July 4, 2012

I've given in at least twice, eating a pavot/noisette cherry cake for dessert on the weekend and chocolate croissants today. I try very hard to eat the gluten-free bread that the boulangeur made especially for me and is also being sold at the cafe. It is nice, very whole grain-ey, but definitely free of gluten, I can tell cause it is heavy and hard, not light and fluffy like the croissants or the baguettes.

"And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil." - Our Father
"Et ne nous soumets pas á la tentation, Mais delivre-nous du mal." - Le 'Notre Pere'

I don't know how it happened, that a gluten-free, dairy-free lover of all things baked should find herself staying at a boulangerie and pattiserie for three months. I went all the way to Africa, the Congo, and where am I? At the doors of a Belgian-style Bakery and Cafe. Every morning, the smell of fresh baked baguettes wafts its way up the stairs to my room and taunts my nose. Every time I work at the Cafe or the Kiosk, cream-stuffed profiteroles and slices of black forest cake, eclairs and every imaginable, delectable dessert catches my eye. Everyday, baguettes are flinging themselves at me. Okay, that last part was my imagination, but there are literally mountains of baguettes here. Like in France, it is a staple, they are sold at the side of the road, from atop people's heads (with men carrying drinks, peanuts or bread atop their heads), from the baskets in driveways, the bread is everywhere. A quick and easy meal for the gluten-tolerant.

Cafe Mozart as it is called, is the hub of activity here at the Salesian Sisters ministry in Kinshasa. Very enterprising indeed. At Cafe Mozart and the Imbiss Don Bosco (Kiosk), they sell all variety of baked goods, from bread to pastries to tarts and cakes. My weakness is the croissants. I'm testing the theory that people have shared with me that it is North American genetically modified gluten product that I am sensitive and intolerant to. So far, the theory is mostly right. I wasn't sick last week or when I was in Paris and tested the theory, not as sick as I've been eating little bits of pizza or hidden gluten in fried items in Canada. My stomach is not cramping as it would had I eated a croissant from Toronto, but there is the usual bloating. Among 14 and 16 year olds, I don't want to be the one with a bloated belly, that wouldn't look right.

I'm trying to stay healthy here, and I make it to the 6:15 am mass every morning, after which is a scrumptious breakfast with my gluten-free bread. I try to make it up and down the three flights of stairs at least 10 times a day. For no reason whatsoever, I go to my room up stairs, if even to wash my hands, just so I get some exercise. I have to make more of an effort if the temptation to eat Congolese-flour pastries gets overwhelming, again.

I'm sure life in Congo isn't as idyllic as I'm painting it with an abundance of food and modernities everywhere. But this is what I'm being exposed to. I've met a few people who work in the bush and that is as good an insight as I'm going to get unless I go there myself. I met a nice priest on Sunday night, Father Gerard, a jesuit priest from Belgium who spoke very good English. Father Gerard told me all about the life in the bush. He is 79 and works in the bush at his mission. He told me about things that I don’t think I will experience here. Father Gerard went on about the bush only having electricity for 2 hours a day, internet once a week. A very different life than what I have here.

I met another volunteer yesterday, Joanne, from France. She is a young person, just finished university in engineering, tropical agriculture. She is volunteering at the Sister's mision in the bush, Boogeemyee (sp?), for 2 years. She is outside of the city there but goes in on weekends. Joanne has spent already 10 months in the bush and has survived. So vicariously, I'm hearing about life outside of the walls of this beautiful place called Cafe Mozart.

It is beautiful with the palm trees and the random birdies singing and the pet cats running around, one looks just like Chat Noire but is 1/4 her size. It is very nice, but I'm reminded often that it is a boarding school for girls, many of whom either have no family or whose family can't afford to keep them at home so have sent them here for an education. I'm hanging out with anywhere from 4 to 15 young girls at a time. There are 24 here. They are on school vacation so life is different than when there is school. So during summer vacation, they work at the patisserie, boulangerie and around the place. Today, I helped them scrub the baking sheets for the variety of breads baked here. For me it was fun, for them drudgery. They remind me why I'm here and what I'm doing. Tonight, we are to make merry with music and dance.

And for a good laugh, an African moment in French with English translation:
"Je n'oblierai jamais cette moment Afrique. Ha! Je suis a le kiosk, je regarde la rue dedans la porte, quand je regarde le voiture de la police vas lentement. Derrier le voiture, deux police, son guard, et des gens poussent le voiture en la rue. Seulement en Afrique?"
I will never forget this African moment. Ha! I am in the kiosk, I look at the road from just inside the door, when I see the police car going slowly. Behind the car, two police men, our guard, and other people are pushing the car down the road. Only in Africa?