On hanging out with a bunch of nuns and how real they are, how often I forget they are religious - August 30, 2012

Eating ice cream at the Don Bosco Service Station. It is late. Long after mass, and after chatting with people we knew, the six of us stopped to have an ice cream.

Church is a place where people congregate, hence congregation, and even I, a tourist, a visitor from Canada who is in Lubumbashi for only 9 days had a friend to say hi to. Imagine!

A young man came up to me to say “bon soir”, I politely replied but didn’t know the guy though he seemed to know me. He asked me in French if I remembered him, I said I was sorry, but no, I didn’t. He reminded me that he met me at Neema’s graduation fete at the Café Mozart. Ah! It was rather nice that he remembered me and came up to say hi. Everyone of the Sisters had someone come up to say hi, even me. I felt special but at the same time normal.

It was this feeling of normal that persisted. Sister Janet, Sister Justine, Sister Noella, Sister Florence, Sister Matilde and I hung out eating ice cream at the Don Bosco. There was I, chilling and hanging out with my new friends. We sauntered back to church because we heard the start of a concert and wanted to check it out on our way back. We quickly hurried to eat the ice cream, my throat was so cold in the cool night air. Everyone had been telling me how cold Lubumbashi would be, almost like back home for me they said. Ha! Not at all. I’ve been in much colder places. But after eating ice cream and standing outside I could feel it and little goosebumps appeared on my arms.

Once we were finished our ice creams, we said “au revoir” and “a demain” to Sister Janet and took seats inside the church for the concert. This was different from the concert at Sacre Coeur in Kinshasa my 2^nd or 3^rd week there. This had a beautiful chorus in a big old style church with high vaulted ceilings and concrete so the music was amplified naturally and with speakers.

After listening for a while, we left to go home (yea, home at Maison Laura, ahem – next door to the President’s house, the president of the DRC!). The walk home was casual and serene except for avoiding cars all the time. They engaged me in conversation, patiently awaiting each staggered sentence. I appreciated being included and it made it easier to speak that they had patience with me as well.

It was then that I noticed that the life of the religious is ‘normal’ so to say. I have enjoyed living among the sisters. They are really some of the nicest people on earth. We pray often. We eat together. The biggest difference between the religious and those who follow a different calling is that the religious are self-less. Everything they do for the other. There are great rewards in that life, beyond the feeling of doing good, and before the ever-after. In this country, there is respect for the Sisters, they are seen as sisters to everyone, as carers, they carry the country’s children, the poor, the neglected, the sick, in their hearts and in their hands. I am glad to call them Sister and friend.

How these Sisters are foster and adoptive mothers, good ones at that - August 29, 2012

I had lunch with the Salesian Sisters at the Provincial House on a Wednesday. It was very nice. I got the chance to listen to them share stories about their work, their lives. It is always enlightening for me. I have heard from some of the girls how they regard the Sisters, especially the one or ones they are closest to as family. Those girls who don’t have parents, neither Mom or Dad or no Mom, usually end up in the care of the Sisters and many stay until they can be on their own.

 

I recall talking to Mathilde about it when she told me about her pending engagement party. I asked if she was inviting or expecting family to come to the ‘presentation’ but she told me that Sister Hildegard is her family and that is who she is expecting. Mathilde has neither mother nor father. I have been blessed to see the girls who have grown up with someone stable in their lives and are now ready to leave the nest and be full-grown, contributing members of society. I have also seen the little ones who struggle to find that someone.

 

At lunch that day, Sr. Josephine talked about Rebekka. Rebekka is a small child about two years old, round face, cherubic cheeks, bright eyes with pools of black, a generous smile, she is round, bubbly and a little chubby. I always saw Rebekka when Sr. Josephine came from Sanga Mamba to Café Mozart for supplies or to visit. Every time Sr. Josephine was there, so was Rebekka. All the girls loved her, she is such a sweet and alluring child. Shy at first, but friendly. It took her a while to acclimate to the Austrians, she cried at first because she hadn’t seen white people before, but then she got used to them. I hadn’t heard her story before, but at lunch that day Sr. Josephine shared her story.

 

Rebekka came to the Sisters at Sanga Mamba, starving and malnourished, beaten and abused a year ago. A relative dropped her off one day. She was a skinny thing then and looked the part of the starving child and didn’t say a word, she was very young, but either extremely shy or too traumatized to say anything. Sr. Josephine talked to the Sisters at the table and I sat right next to her so I heard her story first-hand, though in French. At this point, I had spent 10 weeks in Kinshasa so my comprehension was very good. I heard words I’m familiar with working in child welfare:  abuse, maltreated, traumatized. Unmistakeable even in French.

 

Sr. Josephine explained to us as she had to the relative that they don’t normally take in such young children. Children come to them to attend school and live there as ‘internes’ when they are old enough for school five years old or thereabouts. Rebekka was very young. Sr. Josephine was reluctant to take her in at that young age but couldn’t refuse, the child was young yes but needed someone to take care of her and raise her. How could Sr. Josephine say no to that? So she took her in and became her adopted mother.

 

Sr. Josephine was at the Provincial House in Lubumbashi for a week, and told us that she talks to Rebekka on the telephone every day while she is away and that Rebekka calls her ‘mama’. She is surprised now that the child is talking so much and tells us about it because when she first came to Sr. Josephine she didn’t talk at all, not one word. But after time with Sr. Josephine, Rebekka began feeling comfortable, safe and loved. The last time I saw her before I left Kinshasa, she even sang for me ‘bon anniversaire’. What a sweet child! It is always hard to imagine that someone would abuse such a beautiful, innocent, little child, but they do and it can’t be explained or understood. I am grateful and happy that in the DRC the Salesian Sisters are there for these girls, especially the littlest ones. They are sisters to some and mothers to others.

Yes, this Trini-Canadian can dance – on the study of the ‘danse Congolais’ – August 28, 2012

I have been studying the dancing since I arrived. I love to dance and learn all kinds of ne w dances. The first week I arrived, the girls were listening to music outside on the benches and dancing a little. I came by and joined them. As always, from day 1 until I left, there were squeals of laughter and delight. I could never tell if they were laughing because it was funny to see me dance like that or if it was surprising that I could dance like that. I’d like to think it was the
latter.

I paid attention to how they moved and what they did with arms, legs and hips. My trainer is a dancer and she told me to watch and learn how the Congolese dance. She said they dance amazingly and I had best learn how they do it during my three months in Congo. She was very excited for me to go and see the dancing and hear the music. So I was a little bit prepared for what I saw and I came with the expectation that I would learn something, that I would study
something.

Certainly, the Congolese-‘Congolais’ have a particular way of dancing. My trainer, Francisca, said I should pay attention to it and I’m so glad she told me so and that I did. You need good posture to dance the way of the Congolese. I started paying attention at Café Mozart with the girls after dinner and whenever we had free time. I watched Jessica dance, she dances very well with the arms, shoulders and good posture. Aisha dances with the hips and feet. I couldn’t figure out the way they twisted their legs until I studied the girls dancing at the Fikin; it was there I saw the secret that one foot is planted and gives the impression that the both feet are moving. I still can’t figure out what to do when I see both feet twisting, I can’t see the shift of weight.

I made some videos at the fete Neema had for her graduation. I invited myself to her fete on the Terrase atop Café Mozart since I had the responsibility to close up after the party, I thought I should attend the party then I would know better when it ends. There is more study to do but I watched then how the women and the men moved, how they lifted their shoulders and chests, how their arms moved akimbo to their bodies. The woman always dance with the chest lifted, never sagging, never slouching. At the wedding of Serge’s brother Alfred, I danced with the women again and copied their movements. We were there with friends of Serge from Café Mozart also, so Frank would show me some new moves especially ones specific to certain songs. I later learned that the girls think he is a good dancer and I was right to follow his steps.

At the wedding of Bijou and Salvatore there was even more dancing. By now I had some of the basic moves down and every time I saw a new move I studied it, copied it and then voila! Frank was there again showing off his moves and there I was learning from him. One of the girls told me, “Frank danse bien, tu peut se regarder.” I danced very well. One man talked to me only in Lingala, I told him I barely speak French and Lingala not at all. In French, the man told me he
thought I was Congolese, he asked not only where I am from but where I grew up. He was surprised and astonished that I was a foreigner from Canada but I could dance like that. He said in French, “'Comment est ce que tu danse comme le Congolais?' How come you dance like the Congolese?” I danced really well. ‘J’ai dansé bien, très bien’. I had been studying the dance, watched others, the girls here, the women at Neema’s fete, the people at the wedding of Serge’s brother, so by the time Bijou’s wedding came I was ready. Watch and learn is how I did it. Observe and then try. I tried to copy exactly what I saw, for the most part it worked. That’s how I can dance like the ‘Congolais’.

I cannot wait to show off my moves at a dance club in Toronto! Preferably one that plays Congolese music. ;)

“A-eh Marie-Lauren!” and how that greeting started and evolved – August 29, 2012

Just by being here you have an impact. But you never know what that impact is or how it feels, you just know you are here to be with people, to show them you care, to help, to lend your skills, to do whatever it is that you can do. I didn’t realize my impact or influence on the girls until the night of Bijou’s wedding.

It all started with Katey. I don’t know why, I don’t think it was because I am Canadian, I don’t think anyone here knows the universal Canadian ‘eh!’ and I am 99% sure I didn’t use it here because I was speaking French instead of English, but you never know when it is ingrained as it is. It may also be that is how Katey talks. One morning, it began very musical and rhythmic “A-eh
Marie-Lauren!” and I replied with the same melody “A-eh Ka-tey!” and so it went. Every morning and then every time we saw each other, “A-eh (name)!” It became like a greeting and salutation all in one, it reassured the other that everything was all right, spirits were good, one’s health and happiness was intact enough to say ‘hi-howareyou-Imfine” all in one word.

Even if Katey was in serious conversation with someone or with others or if she was busy working, if she saw me she gave me her great big smile with all white teeth against her rich ebony skin and that familiar greeting. I knew that everything was okay with her, I replied signalling all was well with me. Even if I wasn’t feeling right, slightly out of sorts, lonely or misunderstood, hearing that greeting from Katey lifted my spirits and reminded me that
everything was alright in the world because I was with people I cared for who cared for me.

It started almost right away, week one for sure if not day one. It was an unusual way for me to remember her name and for her mine, but it worked. It spread to the other girls as well. They challenged me to remember their names as well. I did. I had to write down over 60 names on a tiny piece of paper and after two weeks I had them all. And then many weeks after, when there were new girls at the school beginning their training and formation, they heard the greeting and joined in. They were new to me and I hadn’t room in my head for more names so I replied with just an “A-eh!” One of the girls challenged me, she told me her name was Lucie and that she expected when she greeted me with “A-eh Marie-Lauren!” I would reply with “A-eh, Lu-cie!”

I was shocked, surprised and slightly embarrassed in a good way that the girls all knew this greeting at the wedding. I looked good, dressed in a short pink-striped dress that I bought with Matilde at the Grand Marche, I did my hair and makeup and my nails. I was quite a sight. Even Sr. Hildegard commented on the length of my skirt. They are such real people sometimes I forget they are nuns. I am looking good and I am just sauntering to my room to freshen up after dinner and before the dancing begins. I was seated early so I didn’t get to see all the girls before dinner, but I have to pass them on my way out. I was totally caught off guard when to my surprise instead of a hi or hello, ‘salut’ or ‘bon soir’, there is a chorus of “A-eh Marie-Lauren!”

Every girl there that I knew gave me this greeting, and if they were slow to join in the chorus, they added their greetings like an echoing wave. Oh my! It was fantastic. Way to make a girl feel special! I’m not normally shy, but when you are centred out like that it can be a bit overwhelming. It may have been my imagination or not, but I’m sure everyone heard that greeting cause I think a chorus of 46 or so girls can be pretty loud. I didn’t even look back as I left to see if heads turned, I imagine they did. (Pictured here is me with Terese).

Those girls were so nice to give me that attention. I had tried over the 10 weeks I was at Café Mozart to give them mine. I see that they returned the favour. Much appreciated.

The wedding and the dancing – August 24, 2012

The wedding of Bijou and Salvatore was fantastic! They had a civil marriage in the afternoon followed by a fete at night. It was the second ‘mariage fete’ I attended but this one I looked forward to very much because I knew Bijou and Salvatore and knew their wedding would be fantastic. It was held at Café Mozart, outside under the African night sky, a new moon and a few stars. (the picture is taken when the happy couple returns from the civil ceremony)

I witnessed the traditions of the ‘Congolais’ and am awed, again. I saw a few of these traditions at the wedding of Serge’s brother Alfred a few weeks before and now the images are cemented in my mind. At the entrance of the bride and groom, the newly married couple there are the shouts and chants and greetings of welcome. Once they are settled there is the presentation of the gifts. It is like the receiving line that I am familiar with where you greet the bride and groom with the appropriate salutation, the women greet each other cheek to cheek to cheek (three times) and the men greet the women the same way, the men great each other temple to temple to temple (three times). You hand your gift to the bride whose matron or maid of honour or marine (God-mother) takes it and holds securely. After this is the first dance of the married couple. While they take to the dance floor, guests come at them with wads of cash in hand and throw it at the couple like confetti, some people throw the money with flare and pizzaz, some tuck it in the pockets of the groom or the bosom of the bride, depending on how well you know the couple I think. The petites scramble to pick up all the money, usually ‘Francs Congolais’.

Then the dancing begins. Other couples, married or engaged join the newly married couple on the dance floor. At this was Bijou’s wedding, Matilde and her fiancé joined them as did Engenie and her fiancé. Then later there was the food and the eating, it was very good. I did my best to not overeat but there were so many things that I enjoy eating it was hard to resist. There was the ‘chiquang’-made of manioc/cassava solely, fried plantain, salted fish ‘poisson sale’, chicken ‘poulet’, the greens ‘pon du’-made of the leaves of the manioc/cassava and much more. Then the cake came out and there was the cake cutting ceremony, by this time, almost everyone is up dancing so the cake serving is interrupted. While I'm dancing, I noticed a young girl has her cake in hand and is eating it while dancing, I try the same. It doesn’t work for me and I have to take my pieces of the groom’s chocolate cake and the bride’s white cake back to my seat, where I share it.

After this, then the dancing begins in earnest. I dance with Bijou and she is as good at it as I imagined, she dances really well even in her big wedding dress, I hope I can look as classy and sophisticated as she does at her wedding at mine when it comes. The best part is that the wedding took place at Café Mozart and everyone from Café Mozart was there for the dinner and the dancing, even those few who had to work the event. All the girls who I had been practicing dancing with were there, some changed their clothes from their dresses into comfy yet stylish pants for the dancing. All the women I had worked with and talked of going out with were there and we danced together still. It was really nice that all the girls were there because this was their family’s wedding, Bijou is like their sister and the Sisters are like their parents so of course, they all attended, all 46 of them. A rather large family.

The National Museum at Kinshasa – August 22, 2012

It was a pleasure to listen to the curator describing in vivid detail the history and culture of the peoples of Congo. We arrived on foot after taking a taxi to the bottom of the hill. We walked up a long steep road to the museum, where a guard confiscated my passport, I was reluctant to part with my only and most important piece of identification, but I did and it was okay.

The power was out at first so we began the tour guided by torchlight. We paid 1000FC for ‘Congolais’, my local guide, a young girl from the school at Café Mozart, and $10 or approximately 10 000FC for ‘etrangers’ like myself. For me it was well worth the money to have a guided tour of the national museum of Congo. The curator talked in French, the choices were Lingala and French and since I only understand a few phrases in Lingala – “Na lobe” and “Sango nini”, I preferred French and my comprehension is much better so I understood and I even learned a few new words. Soon after we began the electricity was back on and we continued
in the light.

What I learned is that Congo is as diverse as it is large. I had noticed that there were all kinds of black people in Africa, more than I have ever seen anywhere. I had thought that Trinidad was diverse with its mixes and melanges and then Canada with its multiculturalism but really it is Africa that has the most diversity. I didn’t think I would see so many shades of black – from skin so rich in hue it appears purple to skin devoid of pigment and everything in between -- or every shape of nose and eye, every kind of cheek or jaw bone, every size giant or petit. Congo is just one example of the diversity of Africa. And no, all black people do not look alike, this was proven for sure. So if anyone still thinks that, take my word for it, it ain’t so.

At the museum, the curator showed me a map of languages in Congo and a map of tribes. There are more than 240 lanuages, officially there are four national languages – Chiluba, Lingala, Swahili and Kikongo, and then there are dialects for the different language groups. Languages
in the same region or group will pronounce some words differently but have many similarities. The languages in different regions are different, from Lingala in the west to Swahili in the east. I learned there are more than 460 tribes, which would explain the diversity you see in Kinshasa and Lubumbashi.

She, the curator, talked to me about the culture, the spirituality, the everyday and the special occasions of the different peoples of Congo. Sometimes she could only explain one element of one tribe because only that particular artifact was in the museum during this curation. She explained that for each tribe there are hundreds of artifacts and all of them couldn’t fit in the museum. There was one giant mask with lots of fabric strings or tendrils flowing all around the mask like long flowing hair. She explains that this is the feminine mask, it is worn by a man in a tribal council. In this way, the woman, the feminine is represented even if women are not physically part of the council. Throughout the presentation, there were many references to the role of women in the family, in the community and in society. Definitely I have talked to people here (mostly women) about women’s role and everyone agrees that women are producers and need
to be productive to have value. We were not limited in our discussions to the reproductivity of having babies, no, we also contemplated the role of women in having an education or training, having skills, being employable or employed, being able to contribute to the family, being able to carry the family, having strength and fortitude and being a contributing member of society.

What I liked most about the Musee National was this interactivity. I visited many museums in
Paris and enjoyed the Musee de Quai Branly, mostly because it showcased the history and heritage of Africa, Asian, and America before and with the influence of the West and colonization. Early history up to before colonization was showcased. At the Musee National in Kinshasa, the museum was solely about Congo and in Congo, I think also by the ‘Congolais’ for the ‘Congolais’. So instead of videos as there were at the Musee de Quai Branly, there was the woman talking in very good French, all the while being explicit with gestures and if I didn’t get something she repeated or explained differently or if I asked a question she answered.

She explained the initiation process for young men of a particular tribe moving into adulthood, the first stage. Young men are circumcised when they are 18 years old and without any pants on made to run through what she described as razor grass to see who is strongest and can tolerate that kind of pain. Ouch! The one that cries too much is not fit to be chief but the one who cries a little is strong enough to be chief and soft enough to empathize. An interesting test! So glad I’m not an 18 year old boy living in rural Congo. At first when she explained, I didn’t believe my ears but I could not not believe my eyes because her gestures were unmistakeable, and her reaction to my aghast look told me that I understood correctly.

I really enjoyed my personal guided tour of the museum. We left after an hour-long guided tour and took ourselves on a self-guided tour of the grounds where we looked at the murals and the statues of King Leopold and his nephew Albert, the two statues were the only items I saw reflecting colonial times. Then we picked up our identification cards and walked back down the hill. I learned a lot from that experience about the people of the Congo—their past, their history as told by them.

How can I not feel guilty – on visiting the beautiful waterfalls at Zongo – August 21, 2012

The price of rooms for a night can be as high as $500US. Seems astronomical in a place where the value of a Franc Congolese to a US dollar is 930FC to 1$. One cannot mistake the beauty of the place they call Zongo. ‘Nous avons visité les chutes de Zongo. C’était très beaux.’

The trip to Zongo was well worth the four hours and one pit stop along first paved and then dusty, bumpy roads. The view of the falls was well worth the arduous and treacherous climb up and down steep rocky places and slippery rock faces. As I heafted myself up large steps over huge rocks and wondered if they knew that people older than 20 visited this place. There is an expectation that you be somewhat fit to manage the hike to see the spectacular falls and bathe in the natural shower, ‘le douche naturelle’.

I managed somehow even though I keep reminding myself that my 36th birthday is next week. Sometimes I feel old surrounded by the teenaged girls at Café Mozart and the 20-somethings Austrians. But then I see Sr. Hildegard taking the same steps and hiking herself up and down the same treacherous steps with a smile. I have only a little grey hair in comparison to Sr. Hildegard so I feel better and more motivated to continue along.

It was more than beautiful. It was stupendous. We climbed first down and down to see the
caverns at the bottom, then up and up and up to see the top of the falls against a beautiful blue sky. We climbed down a little lower to take more pictures and see the falls from a different angle. Then up again a bit to stand in the mist and be drenched. It was a gentle shower, hundreds of tiny droplets cool against skin warmed by the sun. I was smart and wore my contacts instead of glasses or as in any rain shower I wouldn’t be able to see through speckled glasses.

It was an amazing experience and I’m so glad I got the see the natural beauty of Africa. Being in the city of Kinshasa is very different from experiencing life in a small African village. We had a marvellous time with our packed lunches of sandwiches and drinks at the side of the river before it becomes the falls.

I can’t help but feel a little guilty how much this trip can cost. Knowing that some people, from NGOs or the UN or the government or other tourists, can spend $100 to $500US to stay beside the falls for a night at the resort at Zongo, when the trip here takes you through what looks like poor villages where the children put out their hands and shout ‘l’argent’ or ‘moneee’, puts the reality of the DRC at the forefront where you realize the divide between the rich and the poor
is as vast as this country. It is still hard to realize and accept that there are street children, children living on the street, while this countries riches include diamonds, gold and other precious metals. Such is life?

The beauty of this land and realizing this is where my people came from – August 20, 2012

Beautiful voices singing hymns filled the breezy African air as we stepped out of the truck. The
church was behind us, away from the main road, not visible from where we stood but the voices were clear. The sound of music and children playing greeted us as we stopped in a small village along the way from Zongo to Kisantu to buy some pineapples.

The journey to Zongo and Kisantu in itself was an adventure besides the waterfalls at Zongo and the Botanical Garden at Kisantu. It is the dry season, the end of the “saison seche” in Congo in the southest west part just four hours outside Kinshasa. The red dirt covers the leaves, bushes and trees lining the road. It covers the jeep and our shoes whenever we leap out of the jeep.

The dirt sometimes yellow, sometimes red, covers everything. The children in the village play barefooted, some with a ring and a stick, some with each other, some with a deflated ball. They play, I watch. I marvel at the significance of this for me. This simple existence is the beginning of everything, where it all started. This is the village in the country side of Congo, one of if not the largest countries in Africa, it is vast and I can’t possibly visit it all. This village is just one example of how people are living with the basics. One would think they live simply without basic amenities and modern conveniences. Yet, when we passed by other villages and the children wave and stretch out their hands to our jeep giving us the universal sign for money by rubbing the tips of their fingers together along with the universal sign for hunger by rubbing their
bellies, I also see men waving to us with one hand and the other clutching a cell phone close to their ear. Yes, even out here, four hours from Kinshasa, everyone has a cellphone.

The houses are small according to North American standards, no bigger than a trailer. But the home includes the land outside as the kitchen and the fire for cooking is outside under the sky for a roof and the sun for warmth. No walls are needed for some of the living as there is no winter to contend with, only the ‘saison seche’ and the ‘saison de pluie’. The children play outside and they have lots of room to run around. The clothes lines string from one small hut to another or to a tree. Women wash out in the open, not inside, no room inside for that, again under a warm sun and clear blue sky.

The houses are made of mud bricks, formed from the same yellow or redish earth the house stands on. Some are made of thatch and mud, with either thatch roofs or galvanized sheeting. I recall my mother showing me the mud houses just outside the village where we lived in Trinidad, West Indies, a Spanish-French-and finally-English colony. We have visited these same houses in another part of the world where another group of what could be the same people now live. It is
eery for me how much this scene resembles others I’ve witnessed growing up in Trinidad. When I visit Trinidad now I can see the same scenes now. Thought Trinidad is developed as is Congo, there are parts where people live in one or two-roomed mud huts, where the children run around on dirt floors with no shoes. That is a beginning.

In the city, one can see the evolution of that life but the differences are judgements. I have seen apartment buildings in Kinshasa with some large, some small rooms and I remember the size of condominiums in Toronto, a western city. How is it that people have traded one or two room small mud huts with endless spaces and the clear blue sky for a ceiling and the sun for warmth and the rain for water for small one or two bedroom condominiums with neighbours for a ceiling and no space to run around outside because it is either cold or dangerous? For most it is a choice, the way of the world I suppose.

Standing in that village watching the children play and recognizing the similarities, not only with this village but with other elements of Africa, of Congo that I see in the African Diaspora, fills me with a revelation. My connection to this place is strong. Even though I don’t know what country my African ancestors came from, I can feel that they were here or someplace like it. We have fu-fu in Trinidad but we call it co-co, it is the same thing but with ochroes, I have eaten the original fu-fu that the Africans brought with them when they were transplanted to the Caribbean and other lands. This is Africa, where it all started, where it began.

The Circle of Life, on birth, marriage and death – August 17, 2012

She wept openly, sobbing uncontrollably, chest heaving, breath ragged and staccato. She wept loudly, wailed, for her cousin who died of AIDS. Moments before she told me in words, “Mon cousin, il est mort. Il est mort de SIDA.” Those were words I understood. My French has improved, but I would have known SIDA anyway. It is likely the most prevalent disease on the African continent, probably killing more people than all the other diseases like malaria and symptoms like starvation and malnutrition combined.

I have wailed like that for loved ones lost so I know the feeling. Only twice in my life have I mourned like that, thank God. It was heart-wrenching to hear a grown woman, only 1 year older than me, cry like that. Death is real. It happens here in the Congo as it does anywhere else. It still affects people as it does anywhere else. I can only guess from her cries that Nanette was close
to her cousin or the realization that AIDS has taken another life or mourning the situation in Congo as dire. I don’t know what she was thinking, I didn’t ask, my mind now reels with imaginings.

Earlier that day, on my walk back from the ‘Salles de Exposition’, I came upon a funeral. It was a large funeral under a big tent in a space just off the main road, Vingt-quatre (No. 24 Boulevard is called “24” in French). There was music and tears, crying and laughter. I stayed for only a few minutes as I wasn’t invited and watched the women singing, some were singing through tears, wiping their faces as they swayed. It was sad and at the same time beautiful. There were a couple hundred people there.

At dinner later that night, the Sisters talked about the prospects and futures for the girls, especially those who are “aging-out” of their system of care. Once your studies are finished and you’ve passed your examinations, the “jury”, there is an expectation that you will either marry, or work or both, but there is a need for the young people to move out to make room for the younger students.

They were saddened that for many of the girls the chance that they would become pregnant quickly and begin the cycle all over again was very high. Funnily, Sr. Hildegard commented that the feistiest girls, the ones who give them the most trouble are the ones who are okay, they are productive and working and have found suitable husbands. Whereas she mourned the loss of the one who was gentle and easy going and didn’t give any trouble, that one has already had children
with no one to take care of her or them.

In one day, I experienced the emotional rollercoaster from death, birth and marriage. The circle of life is all I could think of and to ease my mind and my spirit and to stop myself from crying all the time, I sang the Disney song in my head – The Circle of Life. It seemed fitting.

Art is expressive, on the difference between an art gallery and a garden of art – August 16, 2012

Art is expressive of many things and the intent or purpose of it differes with each piece. I visited the ‘Salles de Exposition’ at the ‘Academie des Beaux Artes’ yesterday. It was so different from my previous visits to the ‘Academie des Beaux Artes’. Before I had only viewed the artwork that is outside in their gardens, the work of the students at the academy. Yesterday, I visited the ‘Salles
de Exposition’ which are only open during the week, not on Sundays which is when I have visited the ‘Academie’.

There is an immediate difference between the art that is outside on the grounds and in the garden from the art that is in the exposition. It is for me the difference between public and private, at home and outside the house.

Before I wrote about the tortured souls on display on the grounds of the ‘Academie’. I witnessed artistic expressions of abuse, war, torture, starvation, death and also some expressions of love, family, parenting. But more often I saw the reality of the worst experiences in Congo, in Africa reflected in the art. I mused that that is because outside the home is a place for monuments, monuments to something public that must or should be shared. People often need or want
reminders of some shared experience so it is not forgotten.

In the ‘Salle de Exposition’, the art was more majestic in that I only saw art that reflected expressions of love, strength, hope, faith, tenderness. The sculptures were soft, smooth, modern and some classical, the paintings were vibrant and colourful, all of it was beautiful pieces of art one would want in one’s home. (More descriptions – something that struck me).

It was so very good for me to visit the art gallery. I mused that this kind of art, art intended for the home or office, some place somewhat private, should make you feel good, is intended to make you feel good. One purchases art, I think, to feel something good because at home you want to feel good, hope, beauty, strength, faith.

Upon realizing these girls don’t have family, some don’t have the bonds that are essential for normal growth and development – August 7, 2012

I was very sad yesterday. I don’t know if it was the malaria pills or the tiny cold I had that’s making me sensitive, but I cried deeply for the little girls.

We had visitors from Sanga Mamba yesterday, they came with the Sisters, ‘Les Soeurs’, and stayed for most of the day and left in the evening. When they were leaving at 8pm that night, the littlest one bawled and you could hear her cries from inside the café while she and the others piled into the truck outside to go back to Sanga Mamba. I think she made friends with the girls here, reconnected with the ones who are staying here from Sanga Mamba, and didn’t want to leave them or us. It made me so sad to hear her crying.

Many of the girls here are from Sanga Mamba so when the Sisters visit, all the girls run to them with screams and shouts and give them big bear hugs. So many of them are attached to the Soeurs, their foster moms. They need to be. I think the Sisters ‘Soeurs’ have enough love to raise all these kids and keep them in their hearts. I think it is good that some women can be devoted and committed to that life and be foster moms to so many children who need them.

Sometimes though, a few slip through those arms and are without attachments. As we watched the girls playing in ‘le salon’, the tv room for the Sisters that all the petites are welcomed to hang out in, we noticed some things. The littlest one who bawled upon leaving is 2 years old and receives much of the attention because she is the littlest and for now, the cutest. Then there is Ma-do, who is five years old, sassy and cute and she knows it. When the littlest one is not here, Ma-do is ‘le plus petite’ and gets all the attention. Then there is Sarah who is like a middle child. She is neither the youngest not the oldest of the petites nor has she found a way to be. Sarah is ‘metis’ meaning she is of fair complexion and mixed. They called me ‘metis’ here also when I first arrived. I have explained the double meanings of ‘metis’ here and ‘Metis’ in Canada. I’m Trini
and thus mixed so yes, like ‘metis’ but maybe different. Definitely, there is ‘shadeism’ here as there is anywhere there is difference even if it is slight, but I don’t think that is troubling Sarah as much as being in the middle.

While the littlest one was getting all the attention, Sarah was writhing on the ground, playing all kinds of zany tricks. Last night, she pretended to be blind with her eyes squeezed tight and reached out to grab the littlest one by the arm or the hair. I wasn’t sure what this was but I had seen it before, I’m not a social worker so I hadn’t done the analysis. Two of the Austrians volunteers are social workers so sometimes we have chats about social work and child protection. The other times I had seen Sarah act out was when Ma-do was getting all the attention for being cute and Marina, the oldest of the petites, had a running joke with me where she would try to ‘mange mon corps’--nibble on my neck and I would tickle her. It was Marina’s and my thing, but Sarah was also trying it out, trying to fit in. Sarah hasn’t found her own thing as yet.

Yesterday evening, Julia remarked to me that Sarah acts out because she doesn’t have a close attachment to any one person. Julia has noticed that Sarah acts out, rolling her body all over the couch or the floor, doing all kinds of arm-flailing to get some attention even if it’s negative attention. Oh, how my heart ached for her and for all the girls. Then I remember that I’m at a
boarding school for girls that is more like a foster/group home for children and girls who don’t have families. I cried from the depths of my heart.

Some do have the familial attachments, some have gone ‘home’ to Grandparents, God-parents,
aunts, uncles, sisters, brothers and a few to parents for their vacations. Some have no one and no place to go. Then I realize that so many of these children and girls do not have a mother-father or mother relationship. They, and we, rely heavily on the Sisters to provide the guidance, discipline, love and affection that 50-odd young girls between the ages of 5 and 18 need.

In my work in Toronto, Ontario with child welfare, we have long preached that children fare
well in a family-setting. Children need the bonding and attachment of one family or one stable adult in their lives. Here I see what happens when that is not the case. I cried, not for myself, but for all the girls who don’t have a family or a close attachment to one. They are again stronger than I for I have that attachment and can’t imagine my life without it.

Later on I witnessed something entirely different. The next night, Sister Yolande called all the ‘filles’ downstairs to say hello to the Sisters from Sanga Mamba, who had returned for another visit though brief. There were such shouts of glee and joy and laughter. There were hugs and kisses, strange handshakes and jumping on backs and lifting people up. Even the Austrians got right into it. When I saw the girls hugging each other even after the Sisters had gone I realized that they at least have each other. They have family of a different kind. For that, I am entirely grateful.

Mariage – a popular option for the girls, for me being wistful - August 1, 2012

In two days on the weekend, Saturday and Sunday, I witnessed a cultural tradition, the 'presentation’ (even though it looks like it’s written in English, I actually wrote it in French, hence the single quotation marks so you have to read it with an accent. Try pre-zen-ta-cion), and three ‘mariages’ (again, it’s French so try mari-ah-ges, not mehr-age).

Way to encourage a girl! We witnessed Matilde’s engagement on Saturday afternoon and it was really very nice. She was all dressed in white and came into the room after everyone else was seated. The fiancé, his family, Matilde’s family and friends (me included!) were all expectantly awaiting her. I nearly missed it chatting on skype in the cyber café, but I knew something was up when I saw all the girls running from the courtyard to the house and I heard their voices and
the Congolese way of celebrating. I ran up the stairs in time to see the crowd of young girls chanting and heralding Matilde. It was very much like the way they welcomed me and I really appreciated that. It was late at night but they were all there to welcome me as if with palm fronds, and they gave me hugs and kisses, it was fantastic. So this they were doing for Matilde.

I managed to get a seat and saw Matilde make her entrance. Once she sat, Soeur Hildegard
gave a speech and talked highly of Matilde and praised her. It was very becoming. The groom’s father also gave a few words, not a speech. Then there was a short ceremony at the chapel. Then dinner. There was even the exchange that happens. Wow! That was cool. I got to see a dowry kinda thing happen, except for the goat. Apparently, the goat is to come, I just don’t know when
and to whom the goat goes. Very interesting.

Before I could even go to the dinner, I saw out the window from where we are that a bride, also dressed in a beautiful white dress, came to the Café to chill for a bit with her wedding party. I dashed downstairs to get a better look at her and her party. It was lovely. I wanted to take some pictures but didn’t want to be intrusive, there’s some ‘interdit’ about taking pictures in public.

The very next day, on the way from the ‘Fikin’, we saw two more brides and their bridal parties taking their pictures at the ‘Parliament de peuple’. If I wasn’t already in the mood for an engagement and presentation and wedding, then this experience over the two days would be
enough to throw me over the edge. It’s like ‘darling, the signs couldn’t be any clearer’. I am already over the edge. We just need to make it official. Having experienced the ‘presentation’ here I will be sure to include my culture and his into the official ‘presentation’, engagement party, wedding ceremony and marriage. This experience here in the Congo has taught me how important culture and heritage are. I witnessed a cultural tradition that is older than I could imagine, centuries--no millennia years old, and I am awed.

La musique du Congo, the music of Congo--only a sample, just a taste – July 31, 2012

I have experienced some of the music of Congo and of Africa but only a little. J’ai ecoute la musique du Congo et d’Afrique mais un peu seul. As they say here, ‘petite à petite’. I’ve been invited to the night clubs but will wait a bit before I go out, it would be nice to go out with the friends I’ve made here and to see how the Congolese socialize and dance.

In the meantime, I’ve been to the Fikin – amusement park for children – and watched and listened to a couple concerts with live music. I’ve been singing with the girls here a little, learning some music and teaching some. Little by little, I’m experiencing Congo.

I went to the ‘Fikin’ with the Austrian girls. The sons of a friend of Sister Hildegard invited the girls out and there was room so I got to go along also. We managed to fit nine people in the SUV; there were the five Austrians, plus me, the two sons and one of them’s girlfriend. This was the closest the Austrians have gotten to the experience of transport in Kinshasa. We passed taxi vans filled with people on our way to the ‘Fikin’ and I explained, and they could see for themselves, that there were five or six rows of people in the van knee-to-knee and knee-to-back. The vans have five or six, more often six, wooden benches secured in the van for easily 24 people or 30 people. Transportation is cheap here though so 500FC or $0.50 is not too much to pay for convenience if not for spaciousness.

At the ‘Fikin’, we watched two small concerts. At the first concert people were seated and more relaxed and the host invited children up on stage to dance. I joined with a chair dance when the DJ played ‘Chop my money’ and all the littles danced on stage and we all danced in our seats. We remarked that we could easily imagine the ‘petites’ at Café Mozart on the same stage. (I was glad for the break to be out on my one day off but I was wistful thinking about the girls being able to enjoy the ‘Fikin’ also). At the second concert everyone was standing and moving to the music, it was gospel music so more dynamic and exuberant. Even though I don’t understand the words the music is beautiful.

But the most fun was learning a song from the girls on Monday night. We sung together last week sometime and heard the girls sing “Lord, I lift your name on high” in English, French and Lingala and we all wanted to learn the song in Lingala especially. After dinner yesterday, some of us gathered in the courtyard and sang a little and talked a little. The lights flickered and went out. Of course, the chorus of ‘oohhs’ ensued plus a few ‘oh nos’, but for the most part we just chilled and enjoyed the moments in the dark. My eyes got used to the darkness pretty quickly because the moon was almost full and thus very bright so it wasn’t really that dark. “What do you do when the lights go out?” one of the Austrian girls asked. I don’t have a good answer for that but I’d rather chill and hang out with people than stay in my room in the dark, because the only thing I can do there is sleep. We just chilled and hung out, sang a bit, talked a bit. The lights flickered on and then off again.

People kept asking me when I would be singing. I love singing but this was a command performace that I hadn’t prepared for. Noella told everyone that day that I would serenade them with Alicia Keys’ “No one” at night. My French is not that bad but I’m pretty sure Noella and I talked about ‘on va chanter’, as in ‘we’ will sing. Earlier that day for the English class, Noella and I translated “No one” together. In the moonlight under the Kinshasa night sky, I sang one line at a time and Noella gave the meaning in French.

Sometimes I forget that she is a teenager. It wasn’t until someone made fun of how she delivered the chorus in French that I remembered she is only seventeen. The chorus is “no one, no one, no one-un-un-unnh” in English; Noella spoke slowly and without much emotion, ‘Personne. Personne. Personne.’ rather matter-of-factly. These are words she is saying, not singing, and it was incredibly funny how dead-pan was her delivery. When someone laughed a little and remarked how flat Noella gave the ‘personne’ part, she got mightily offended and feigned annoyance. It was hilarious, I couldn’t help the situation at all because I continued to laugh, but I would bury my head in my lap so it wouldn’t seem that I was laughing at her. In her broken English, which must sound a lot like my French, she says “You make fun of me! I not sing for you no more.” And so it went. It was so amusing, we had to apologize and encourage her to continue with platitudes and graciousness. Teenage girls are so much fun!

Noella also led our learning of the gospel song, “Lord, I lift your name on high” in English, French and Lingala. A mountain of hilarity again with the teenaged antics. But we sang it in three languages. It was great to learn the French and Lingala with the help of Matilde, Vanessa, Crystal and also Lumiere who gave us the words and chords. I hope to come away with more music, language and culture and I hope to be able to give back more than I receive.

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?

Not as bad as you think? It's actually better - June 27, 2012

When I told people I was going to the Congo, the Democratic of Congo, there were worried faces, shocked and scared ones. ‘Why Congo?’ they ask ed. I said, ‘why not?’ If the sisters in the Congo, yes, THE Congo, not the other Congo (Brazzaville), wanted a volunteer then they would
get one.

My answer was simple, if there was a need for me in Congo then I would go. That is what this calling to serve is all about. Filling a void, being used as needed. I had been warned by people about the conditions in Africa, how I would need to prepare: don’t eat the food you don’t know, cook all your veggies, don’t drink the water, take a mosquito net, wear lots of bug spray, etc. Loads of warnings meant to prepare me I think, it is far better to over-estimate and be surprised than underestimate and be shocked.

Like most developing countries, the distinction between the rich and the poor, the suffering and the striving, is obvious. There are shanty towns, houses built with corrugated steel, dusty roads, and shack like stands selling almost anything. There are also grand maisons, large houses built with concrete, painted in bright colours, with Acadian roof tiles (or something like it), with large concrete fences with barbed wire on-top, long driveways for multiple vehicles, paved roads with markings.

Yesterday, (Day 1), I visited both Salesian communities. I am staying with the Salesian Sisters in Gombe where they have a striving community in the rich part of town. Like many Catholic sisters I have visited and got to know, these Salesian sisters are enterprising. Where there is a need, they fill it, in the most ingenious ways possible.

The Salesian sisters in Gombe, where I am staying, have a beautiful home and school for the twenty-something students and four Sisters that live here during the summer. This school focuses on matieres, professional development, and as such have provided venues for the young girls here aged 13 to 15 to acquire those skills. There is a boulangerie (bakery), a pattiserie
(café/resto), a kiosk (second lunch cafe, less rich, moins cher), a cyber café and a soon to come salon with aesthetic school.

The Salesian sisters in Katunga/Salunga (sp?) have a much bigger estate upon which is built four schools, a bakery and garden. The Sisters provide education to young children (maternelles), primary school aged children, secondary school (secondaire) and something else called scolaire. (I’m still trying to figure out the French.) They also have a boulangerie and two gardens. What they don’t have is electricity. Comme ci, comme ca. It is what is is. They are not suffering, to me, it seems. There is sunshine for light and heat and rain for cooling and water. It is a large estate so they seemed to be self-sufficient. I may be wrong, but that was the impression I got. There is still great need but they seemed okay, not destitute.

Both communities, though different in some respects, are the same in the core values and principles. These Sisters aim to help the children, educate the young, cherish them and give them values, hope and opportunity.

It’s not as bad as you think. It is actually better. My room at the school puts my hostel to shame. In Paris, I prepared myself for this trip and saved money by staying in a hostel. I made friends sharing with two others at a time. Our bathrooms were down the hall. Shared showers and toilets. Sheets and towels were rented. Only one plug to share among three people. The bed felt like a 10 year old futon. At the school, I have my own room, a desk, a comfy bed, comes with mosquito net, my own bathroom, sheets, bedding and a towel, two plugs and air-conditioning--which I don’t need because it is cool in Congo at the moment.

At breakfast the morning after I arrived, after mentioning my gluten and dairy allergies in French at dinner the night before, there was delicious gluten-free, multi-grain bread. Imagine my surprise, upon surprise.

One thing I wasn’t prepared for was the fastidiousness of the Sisters. I wasn’t as humble as I had hoped to be, because I came expecting the worst and wanting to help and share my skills, only to see that this community is doing pretty darn well. Where I thought I could share my baking
skills, they have a school for that; my hosting skills, again a school for that. I was starting to feel unneeded, plus my French is ragged at best.

Then, one of my unique skills became evident and valued. English! Ha, who would have thought that my desire to teach English in a foreign country would be realized in French-speaking Congo? Who would have thought that my degree in English Language and Literature would be of such
great value. I had a long chat with the Superior here, Sister Yolande, and through my broken French, she ascertained I have lots of skills and added value, just a matter of figuring out how to use them. My spoken and written English is pretty darn good and I can teach it while learning French, (yippee), I sing and can harmonize and the girls want to learn English songs, I sew and
there is a need to sew uniforms for next September’s classes. Lots to do here, just have to figure out what. It's all good and I'm looking forward to discovering more.