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.

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. ;)

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.

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.

History ain't nothing like the present - Paris to Kinshasa - June 23, 2012

Paris has been fun, a good test of my French skills and my ability to manage in a somewhat foreign environment. One might wonder why I detoured to Paris en route to Kinshasa. Moi aussi, yet there are some great incidentals along the way.

Incidentally, while in Paris I visited the Musee de Quoi Branly, Europe's largest collection of Oceanic peoples, Asian, African and American first peoples history and culture. It is referred to as the collections of 'non-Western' cultures. I began my history tour of the museum with the Pygmy people of Papua New Guinea and finished with the Chilean people of Chile.

Along the way, I saw artifacts and history of the food, lifestyle, dress and culture of the first people of many cultures including Congo, Angola, Haiti and Vietnam. I feel like I learned stuff about a history many centuries old, as much as you can from dead people's stuff. (Shrug). I also saw that one of the largest collections came from one Western European doctor who brought back to Europe all the "gifts" the people had given him. I had my misgivings about the number of funeral staffs and pyres that were on display. I appreciated seeing them in the museum, but wondered about the ethics of uprooting someone's culture and heritage in the form of their tombstone so it could be in a museum. Hmmm, that is a debate that I believe rages beyond this blog.

While I learned about the people of Congo and the Yoruba culture (in Congo and neighbouring African countries), it has only whet my appetite to learn more about the culture and heritage of Congo from those living it today. Just like studying French language and history. Going to the museums is fun, but it is a damn-sight removed from the France of today, which is more complicated and diverse than the revolution would suggest. I have attended two churches this week and I keep remembering that getting rid of religion and religious hierarchy was a tenement of the revolution. Hmmm. Yet, Paris and many other parts of France boast the most beautiful and largest churches with strong congregations, the language is built around religion. With as complex a history, or more complex and diverse some could argue, (but each person's and country's history is relative and unique), the Congo of today may be far removed from the Congo of years past that I saw reflected in the museum.

I realize that not many people get the opportunity to visit a country different or 'foreign' from their own and live the culture, heritage and history of that place by living among it's peoples. Most of us are limited in our experience of other cultures through museum visits and what we learn on the internet or from a library or the media. I am grateful for this opportunity to live another culture and experience another life, another lifestyle by living among the peoples.

I hope I can give back to others what this experience will give to me. I only wish more people took the chance and the opportunity to be somewhere else and do something else.