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.

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.

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.