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.

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.

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.

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.

Parlez en francaise en Congo - Am I nervous? Bien sur! - June 26, 2012

I’ll be in Kinshasa by dinner time. I’m looking forward to a vastly different experience from my everyday in Toronto, Canada and my vacation week in Paris, France. I’ve heard about the Congolese people from new friends on Facebook (thanks Sabrina and Zaya) and I saw beautiful, adorned women in the lineup at the airport to go to Congo. Women in long dresses with sequins and jewels adorned, bright colours like fuscia and black, bright pink and aubergine, red and silver. Heads wrapped in matching or complementary scarves. Some with babies wrapped around their backs. All dressed up and made up. Wow! I cannot match them in my yoga pants, tired face and head wrapped for travel in non-matching scarf. But I hope to match them if I can by borrowing a little Congo culture when I’m there for 11 weeks.

A good friend asked me if I was nervous, if I had butterflies. I said ‘no, not really’. But it caused me to think about it. I was okay before being in Paris, it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, nearly everyone I encountered spoke a little English; it’s like everyone in customer service, travel and hospitality was bilingual. I won’t exactly be a tourist in Congo, so I know it will be different. My experience in France will not compare and I don’t expect it to. I am most nervous about ‘parlez en Francaise toujours’. At the airport, I needed people to repeat questions and directions, and I barely understood the spoken French. I can read it but listening and hearing is different.

Am I nervous? Do I have butterflies? Yes, I do. Mostly because I will be in a foreign environment but mostly because of the challenge I have hoisted upon myself to ‘get bilingual’. My boss asked me if I had a plan to learn French. I thought it was obvious. Immersion! I have always considered
immersion to be my best plan for learning and practicing French. But I also recognize I actually do need more study, so I’ve got my grammar book and my French-English dictionary and I will need to practice reading, writing and speaking. Practice is something I will get in Congo, what I am most happy about being in Congo is that I will have little choice but to ‘parlez en Francais’.

I know it will feel odd at first, but the years of study and the conversations with friends, listening and watching Quebecois television will become useful somehow. Talk about getting out of your comfort zone. I’m putting myself out there and taxing my limits to become a better, stronger
person through this experience. I can only do this by the grace of God and with the support and love of family and friends and through the fellowship of the Filles de Marie Auxiliatrice (Daughters of Mary, help of Christians), Salesian Sisters.

I hope the next blog will be bilingual. J’espere ca la prochaine blog sera bilingue.

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.