Dada Maua’s Diary

Crossroads
Lubumbashi 7-22

I leave the eerie beauty of early morning at the Johannesburg Airport to fly several hours north. From the air, straight-line roads and curving rivers cut this land, dividing bare rocks from dry plains from green acres. The shores reach like fingers into the lakes sparkling in the morning sun. When we pass over settled land, the metal roofs reflect light like the diamonds deep within the earth on which they sit. The city stretches beneath us as we turn into our final landing pattern, colors of muted green and brown. The trees still have cover even though here it is the depth of winter, dropping to 2o C. this morning in Johannesburg.

On the tarmac, I hold up my name badge and scan the cards held out by the men lining the walk to the building. I walk the line twice, sure that there will be someone there for me, and finally, one of the men without a name card asks me if I am Sylvia. He hands my passport to one uniformed official while a woman examines my immunization record. Then my documents disappear with my handler into a back room and I read on the sofa in a waiting room with other passengers. He comes back once to ask my profession, and I read on. A chapter later, Puma arrives and introduces himself. I gather my things, and he says, oh no, not yet, wait a bit more.

This game sets a tone for the country. En route to our plane at Johannesburg, the businessmen are laughing about someone being refused the flight because he didn’t have a visa for Congo. “Visa? You don’t need a visa – you can buy one when you get there! And the price is set by the nationality of your passport.” I will know that Congo is truly independent, taking her place in the ranks of nations, when I can get off a plane, stand in line at the passport control, watch the official enter my number into the computer to see if I’m on a watch list, and stamp me through. While the outside world continues to mock the Congolese playing this game, the country remains in its infancy. I long to see the day when the country takes itself seriously as a people instead of the current modus operatus of every man for himself.

We load into a battered Jeep and Puma points out landmarks in the city as we pass. We slow to a crawl going past a drop gate manned by uniformed guards and he explains that this is the presidential palace when Mr. Kabila is in town, so the armed guards along the way watch to be sure passersby are not using cell phones, not playing the radio, and not driving more than 20 mph, even when the president is not there. They are a serious looking bunch, as are most military. No one defies the guidelines. A lot like Washington D.C.

We turn off the main road and I meet the devil and he is a city street, my first of too many kilometers suffering the lack of maintenance of the roads. Think a back mountain road, paved once, but long since cracked, broken, deeply carved, caked in dirt rising in clouds. Puma has come this way to show me the school he attended, 15 years ago a thriving property with several buildings, a schoolyard, ordered and functioning. He lived nearby growing up and shakes his head as he remembers what once was, grieving the disintegration with a fierce determination to push back, one man against a mountain in a relentless slide into the valley of death.

We stop suddenly, the noise coming from the back end of the Jeep grinding us to a halt. Puma and the driver decide after looking it over that we need a mechanic stop, so we creep around the block to a parking area filled with minivan taxi buses seeking customers and mechanics working out of the back of trucks.

The first lucky young men to arrive with tools begin to jack up the car and take off the wheel. They find a ring of metal hanging by a wire, rattling against the tire. One rushes off for metal cutters but before he can return, Puma has bent the metal back and forth to break it. Problem solved, 3 boys paid 500 francs each (about a dollar), and we resume our travel.

The car park of minivans looks just like the parking lot at Mandela Square in Jo’burg and just like the streets of Yerevan, Armenia. It is apparently a characteristic of an emerging society that in the absence of mass transit infrastructure, individuals begin their own transport businesses. Hundreds of them. Of course, my hometown needs better mass transport, too. We have that in common So instead of one coherent public transport network of several dozen buses, there are countless vans vying for clients, clogging the roads.

The roads. As we leave the broken pavement of the city streets, we dive into the minefield of the dirt roads of Congo. Dirt packed harder than paving, washboard for starters and holes the size of Kansas. Our driver works the wheel like a Nascar hero. No, like a motocross biker. OK, maybe like a slalom skier working the poles, spinning tight around one to dive into the next, finding a straight line between obstacles. Now add in the unavoidable jouncing-ceiling-bumping-jolting-kidney-bursting-back-breaking-breath- snatching ride that complicates his even clinging to the wheel. Oh. There are other vehicles on the road, cars (how do they survive more than an hour of this?), more Jeeps, 4-wheel drives, and bicycles. And pedestrians, children, women with burdens on their heads, men pushing wheelbarrows, all vying for the same piece of good road. With no sense of order, each simply taking what he wants, cutting in, cutting off, scooting past by an inch, leaping in front of oncoming traffic. Anarchy.

Then we come to an intersection of two such roads. The driver lurches into the path of oncoming traffic, swerves around pedestrians, cuts off a car trying to turn. This takes the terror of the Armenian bus running red lights at will into the realm of zen serenity.

And here I have found in the maelstrom of the crossroads a metaphor for the culture of the Congo. Each man for himself. Community coherence? Not on your life. Here is Faustin Ntala’s lesson on this culture:

I vented my frustration at the lack of apparent interest in community action to improve the roads. I said in recognizable Dave Hyde fashion, “If I lived along this road, I’d have my 10 kids out every day filling buckets with stones and filling in the biggest holes. I’d be organizing my neighbors for a Sunday afternoon gathering that started with roadwork and ended with a barbecue. I’d work up to collecting a dollar per family until I could buy a truckload of gravel to spread on the road.”

Faustin just smiled. “And the day after you would awake to find the gravel gathered up and sold to someone in the next village building a house.” Heavens. How can a culture of ‘strip everything in sight for today with a blind eye to tomorrow’ ever transform itself into a community conscious of the common good?

I feel a strong desire to simply go home to enjoy the culture of community with a vision of the common weal and infrastructure in place to accomplish tasks for the common good. The task here is overwhelming. Yet there is hope for a future, because it has evolved from a past.

And what a past. The Belgians constructed an infrastructure that they abandoned in 1960 with no transition of administrative leadership. Those who eventually took control did so without the requisite experience to run the train system, maintain the roads, and serve the people. Without going into the depths of the horrors perpetrated by Leopold’s bloody 23 year reign at the turn of the century which murdered literally half the population, it must be said that serving the people was never remotely considered as a goal. Using up the people to serve the greedy desires of the leader became the model for Congolese leadership.

It is a vast and murky chasm that separates the Congo from the promised land of independence, with the crossing a road as deeply pocked as that which breaks my bones.

Along this road I see small buildings that seem to serve as homes or as businesses, small brick structures labeled Pharmacy, Hardware, or Grocery. These are built close to the road with virtually no space to do business. I find it hard to imagine in rain and storms whatever residents do to reach a store. This road must become a sea of mud, these businesses inundated.

Then there are the high brick walls with barred gates, with only the tops of breezy palm trees visible above: this is where the money goes. The walls at first appear defensive; then I realize that they also serve the purpose of maintaining the ignorance of the public, preventing the people whose backbreaking labor created the profits from seeing, from knowing.

In a transparent system, the people will demand justice, but if the people can be kept blind to the reality around them, they will keep trudging along the rutted road, eyes down, looking for today’s meal. And ignorant of their own power, an overwhelming force if they would just join together as a community in action.

We arrive at Myrt School compound, a group of buildings with trees, cactus, palms, and bushes in abundance in the school yard. Everything is the color of the red dirt, clouds of dust rising from the road, the grounds, stripped of any ground cover and dry in this season. We drive through the gate across the road, held open by a young man in workers’ blue overalls, into a yard with grass, palms, trees, and bushes. I deposit my bag in the house, an admirably sound two-story structure with living room, bedrooms, bathroom, and office. There is much to do to finish the house, floor covering, finished walls, plumbing complete, but it is comfortable and secure. As Puma reminds us, he built this compound from scratch, sleeping outside. First task: he dug a well. Second he built an outdoor toilet with adjoining shower room. Then he built the house. The neighbors first came to him for water instead of the walk to the nearby stream, but eventually they too dug wells. And now they all have an outhouse instead of the great outdoors. Human beings learn by example, by seeing what can be and following. As educators, that is our mission: to model the process, the strategies, the curiosity and determination, the perseverance that will serve our students’ interests.











Across the road I find the Myrt School complex of buildings, built bit by bit over the years by Able and Willing, Incorporated, of Washington D.C. under the direction of Mbuyu Wa Mbuyu, called Puma. He is a native of this town, a poor man’s son who struggled through school, succeeding in achieving a technical degree as an electrician. He has devoted his energy to this school project and already I see already his utter commitment to the development of this country. The library already has a start of textbooks and literature, but the bare shelves invite the influx of boxes of books, a task near to my heart.

We arrive during the lunch break and I meet teachers as they gather in groups to eat in different classrooms. Those that I join are delighted to help me practice “Jambo” and “Jambo sana ,” and I begin to note the words for colors as I help pass out the lunch plates and cups. We are three short, which becomes critical as those left out feel the slight. The meal is based around bugari, a white corn meal paste that is rolled into softball size serving from which individuals will roll small quantities in their right hand into balls that they then flatten to scoop up the vegetable condiment. The casual break time allows me to converse, to interact in order to let me know me and to meet them. I learn few names because I never see them written, but I remember Béatrice and Geneviève. I begin to learn faces and smiles.

These 60 teachers gather in the classroom, sitting on benches 2 each at table desks. The door and window are open to allow the cool air to move and the sunlight to come in. There is no electric lighting needed. Faustin stands by a front table and a slate chalkboard to address the group. I find a small table and chair in the front corner.

The focus of the seminar is math and science pedagogy. The teachers will have a mixture of presentations in the large group, small group discussions and projects, and individual work. Faustin explains his expectations for the portfolio that will be submitted Saturday, a page responding to the question, “Why do you choose to continue to teach?”, a page of model lesson plan appropriate to their level based on the discussions of the week, and a page of evaluation, reflecting on what they learned during the week and how they will apply it. He addresses the teachers, fielding questions, insisting on top quality work, and I hear echoes of Dr. Koop instructing the seminarians in Geneva and Liege on the portfolio that we are expected to submit, a lesson planned and taught and a faculty presentation. Teaching and teacher formation is more the same than different globally.

We close for the day about 4pm and head back to the house, then head for town to visit Faustin’s sister Annie. I’m still running on excitement and nervous energy. The city streets are smoothly paved in many places, the main avenues and thoroughfares, but we bump off these streets onto broken pavement to get to her house. The children open the street gate and the gate to their drive. Richard, the oldest, named after his dad, greets me politely, answering my Swahili with a grin and a handshake. He is about eleven. His sister Catherine, another Catie, is a beauty already at 9, with a quick smile and quiet strength. The middle brother, Phineas, holds back, but shakes my hand. Mariella comes to me on the sofa and snuggles up, letting me pet her hair and hold my hand, soberly listening to my reassuring chatter. I have to work to get a grin out of her, but she is quick to sit on my lap. It is little Pascal, the baby at maybe 2 years old, who cowers at the strange and terrifying sight of this white woman invading his home. He hides his face on his brother or sister’s shoulder and claims his mother’s lap when she sits with me, turning away resolutely in spite of familial reassurances.

Faustin’s sister is lovely and amiable, her children bright and friendly and well-mannered. Their father works as a field geologist, often out in the bush for a week or more seeking and analyzing potential mining sites.

We visit for a bit before pleading fatigue and head for home. I get kisses and smiles from all but Pascal. I accept the challenge.

Marcel, the neighbor and long time friend of Puma who works for him here, has prepared a dinner of chicken and bugari and vegetables at the outdoor kitchen, a clever fireplace with a metal cooking surface and an interior oven and smoking rake. Delicious meal. And Simba, the local blond beer, very smooth and almost sweet, not bitter at all. The Tembo dark version is even better. The alcohol content doesn’t seem to be very high.

I am stunned that it is dark at 6pm, not yet accustomed to the winter light cycle, and also not yet used to the Muskegon habits of carrying a flashlight out to the bathhouse, out to brush teeth under a tree, lighting a candle to dress for bed. Also not used to the concrete floor, cold to bare feet. But when I fall into bed, it is luxurious, clean, warm, soft. The adrenaline of the day, my excitement and relief at managing to get through the airport, the overwhelming sights on all sides, the amazement at actually being here, fade into a good night’s sleep.



Dada Maua
Lubumbashi 7-23

I awoke without alarm at 7 and decided I might as well dress before hitting the outhouse trail. I make a mental note to remember to put in contacts next time before applying the mosquito repellent – which is pretty redundant this time of year, at least here, as there is no standing water and no sign of bugs. I get into the skirt and top and work on the headscarf. Yikes. I end up with something that is way too pirate and resolve to get help from the ladies.

I have awoken with a snuffly head and and sinus pressure, so I take some aspirin and hope I haven’t eaten something camouflaged. I take a Claritin, praying that the dust and different plant life doesn’t become a daily issue.

Much to my surprise, breakfast did appear, rice pudding for Ntala, boiled eggs, and a herbal infusion of cut grass that smells a bit like citronella.

When I have weaned myself from the comfort of the great log and coals of the fire
and managed the outdoor tooth brushing and outhouse, we cross the thick dust of the road to the school grounds, where teachers are already waiting. They light up at the sight of my Congolese garb and delight in my greeting in Swahili. One of the men steps up to me when I have asked someone’s name and given my own in the language to say, “No, that is not your name today. You need an African name.” I tell them that Sylvia means From the Woods and he grins. “Now your name is Dada Maua. Maua means flower.” They all nod and smile and laugh when I repeat it in the sentence.

I tell them that I wanted to come prepared to dress in their style, so I had gone to the Matonge district of Brussels to find a Congolese dress shop where I bought this outfit. It is important to me to be willing to adapt to the culture here, to eat and dress and even talk as local life dictates. It seems to me that they appreciate that effort, and Faustin and Puma both refer to the gesture at one point in conversation, so they too seem to appreciate my willing immersion in the culture.

The lesson in math pedagogy involves identifying the means by which a teacher can verify that a student understands the underlying meaning of the digits manipulated in computation, the concepts of number and decimal place, of tens and hundreds. The discussion permits the teachers to explain the different ways to have their class deconstruct a number to show their comprehension. In the course of the presentation and discussion, the topic often veers into larger questions of classroom management with little or no teaching material and other administrative issues.

Faustin moves on to a science lesson, complete with demonstration. He takes a balloon filled with water and asks teacher to hypothesize the consequences of holding it over a lighted candle. “It will burn!” “It will explode!” “No, the water will keep it from burning!” There is a pandemonium of discussion, which pleases Faustin no end. He explains that this is exactly the reaction he elicits in the classroom. Following the summary of all hypotheses, he lights the candle and holds it under the balloon. Nothing happens, to the shock of most participants. They immediately begin to ask if there were something special about the balloon, and he responds by suggesting that further study would require altering the color of the balloon, the type of liquid, the length of time in the flame. This demonstration illustrated the principle of basing science instruction not on lecture but on observation, hyposthesis, conclusion.

I struggle all day with the mounting realization that the sinus pressure is escalating into full-blown headache and with the ensuing tension as I grope for ways to deal with it. No ice packs, no hot showers, not towel over the teakettle for steam.

Together with the ebbing of the original adrenaline rush, the process of acclimatization, the awkwardness of the deep knee bends required by the toilet ( or lack of), and the sense that there is no way to change the culture, the roads, the economy, the despair, the complacent acceptance, the dust, I sink into a profound desire to go home. It occurs to me that I am in much the same process as an exchange student, who follows a predictable pattern of adaptation: euphoria at the exotic new place replaced by discomfort with the unfamiliar and the new daily routines, followed by despair at the overwhelming changes required, and finally accommodation into the new culture.

After the seminar closed for the day, we drove into town to call on Euphrasy Ntala’s sister, Getty. We asked her about finding a store to buy clothes for me, and she called her friendly neighborhood tailor on the spot. He came immediately, took my measurements, and negotiated a price to sew a classroom set of boys and girls school clothes for Faustin’s students and 3 garments for me with fabric that I would select. He also agreed to take in the top of the dress that I was wearing.

When we get home at the end of the day, I ask for hot water for a bath and explain the sinus problem. Marcel gets me a big bucket of hot water and a scoop cup then goes to find some Vicks ointment. I ask to use the house bathroom with its floor drain and door directly to my bedroom – much easier to imagine than the confines of the shower stall across the yard in the woods.

To my utter relief, I find that the hot shower is a hot shower, regardless of the mechanism, and my head relaxes. The Vicks under my nose helps too, and I go to bed feeling that there is hope.


Wigs, and What Women Want
Lumbumbashi 7-24-08 Thursday

I awoke with a certainty that the sinus headache was going to get me. Another hot shower and cool morning air drained my head, but the concomitant digestive malaise was unnerving. I managed, in the end, and skipped any thought of breakfast. I managed to sit with Faustin while he ate canned fish and eggs, and in the end, I felt better.

The cloud of imminent incapacity diffused, I donned my skirt with a black shirt and white blouse and was loudly greeted with a chorus of teachers saying, “It’s Sylvia, not Dada Maua!” I explained that my top was going off to the tailor and that I had not yet done my clothes shopping. Note to self: I wish I had a wardrobe ready to go before the workshop instead of getting the clothes when all are gone. Couldn’t be helped this time, though I could have bought one more outfit in Brussels.

After Faustin reviewed key points of the science methodology work from Wednesday, he gave the floor to Puma, who made a stirring presentation on the example teachers set for their students on the subject of their self-image and identity as Congolese. He used the example of the wig to illustrate his meaning.

His son, Percy, presented a researched history of the wig, beginning with the use by the Europeans as a means of identifying those being sanctioned for moral infringements such as theft or adultery. Later the English judges adopted the wearing of the elaborate white wig with robes to differentiate themselves from the common man, as a mantle of authority.

In France, it was Louis XIII who wore a wig to conceal his baldness. Not wanting his brother to suffer from this stigma, Louis XIV donned a wig himself to show his solidarity, thus setting the fashion trend for the aristocracy. He noted that the wearing of wigs by African women was a means by which they could more closely resemble white women, concluding that they showed thereby a lack of confidence in their natural beauty.

Puma spoke on the importance of knowing oneself, choosing one’s long term goals, and acting with confidence in one’s own identity along the way. “If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will take you there.” He asked me to speak on the subject, so I talked about my custom of trying to fit in wherever I go, to be mistaken for French when in France. It was important enough to me that I made a trip to Brussels to find the Congolese district and buy clothes in the Congolese women’s style. It is not a case of fitting in here so much as a means of showing respect and admiration for the local culture, much like learning immediately the words in Swahili for greeting and thank you.

The afternoon work in groups allowed me the opportunity to move from room to room photographing each group with their group name (each a national park in Congo) and then taking individual shots for possible use with quotes on the Waza or Able and Willing websites, or as author bio shots if we can publish their books.

During this workshop time, the task was to write a booklet text at the reading level of their own classroom to accompany the photos of the avocado that Puma had taken, from nut, to tree, to fruit. I hope we can develop a model for publishing teacher created materials, either here or in the USA, for use with Congolese classrooms and as language texts in context, for American French classes.

After the end of the session, we went to town to Faustin’s favorite café for a drink and a burger with Puma. He listened to the clicking of my camera as I shot out the window at the stores and walled homes along the way, finally pointing out the problematic use of such photos with any kind of political implication. Able and Willing has been operating freely for 15 years here through changing governments largely because all the work and publicity has focused exclusively on the school and its functions. If there are photos outside the school grounds, they are of the Scouts out in the community doing service. He reminds me that in the role of Waza secretary working I partnership with Able and Willing, I must consider the consequences of exceeding those limits in published writing. I realize that a public blog will not be the best place for the details of a journal.

I enjoyed the burger, commenting that it was far better than McDonald’s, starting with the great bread. I tasted Puma’s goat meat that he chose over the burger. He quickly tired of the noisy bustle of the intersection and the flow of men into the bar to have a drink on the way home. He longed for the quiet of his own fireside with the night sounds of the bush and lamented the money spent on beer and burgers that could be better allocated elsewhere.

By now, I have the routine tasks of dressing for bed, washing, brushing, outbuilding facilities, and candlelight comfortably established. It would have been more productive to have arrived, like Faustin, a week ahead of the seminar in order to be fully prepared. That will go in my list of suggestions for next time.

The Blessing of Old Friends, Found
Lumbumbashi Friday 7-25-08

This morning we rise at our ease since the teachers have a workday at home to finish their books and to work on their portfolio. I am working on the computer when Faustin says it’s time to leave. He is in a hurry so I gather my things and head off.

We go first up the road toward town, just before the dirt ends and the paving begins, to the TESOL school where Faustin taught for 9 years. He introduces himself and me to the administrators who happen to be there and shows me around. After looking at the library and some classrooms, an older gentleman approaches.

“Can it really be you?” is the easily divined translation of the Lingala that he utters, grinning at Faustin, who embraces him with astonishment. It is an old friend from his days here, one of the custodians that had been so kind. He excuses himself to rush off, coming back with his colleague who also embraces the obviously moved young prodigal son. The chatter exudes emotion, pride in his success, delight in his return, admiration for the loyalty that has kept these friends at work here for so long.

We leave after a long and satisfying visit, more sweet as it was unexpected, to keep an appointment with the Minister of Education, hoping to confirm his attendance at the closing ceremony tomorrow. We enter the building under the watchful eyes of guards, to whom Faustin directs a request to go upstairs to see the secretary of the ministry.

The secretary listens to his polite request to see the Minister, but he is unfortunately not available. Instead we are ushered into the congenial presence of the Directeur de Cabinet, a gentleman who in his soft-spoken way is both authoritative and kind.

He and Faustin discuss the seminar, the goals of Waza, and the process of securing a letter of approval from the provincial government to send with the application for federal recognition to Kinshasa. The Director asks Faustin to explore the acquisition of material and equipment for the ministry offices and for the schools, and suggests that we contact his daughter who has a publishing business. He asks about sending used textbooks and I tell him about our French books going to Nigeria. I make every effort to act the secretary deferring to my director.

We have had this discussion already after I heard some young men commenting on my offering Puma the front seat with Faustin, and moving to the back. They thought I was refusing the front with the driver and insisting on the back. In my mind, the front was the preferred place, which meant that I was showing deference, but here (and in the limo culture at home), I had taken the seat of superior. From now on, we agreed, I would not only take the front seat with the driver but I would hold the door for my boss.

We picked up Getty and headed for the city shops. I am undone by the overwhelming quantity of wildly flowered fabrics, both in the window and in row upon row of shelves and tables. It is hard to get past the vivid pinks and purples and oranges and neon greens and yellows that I would as soon avoid to find something floral but calmer, more wood elf. The patiently waiting friends and clerks make me feel as if I should hurry, though they are not rushing me, as the clerks pull out one bolt after another. I long for a quiet walk through the patterns, spread out enough to see the whole, all the while realizing it would have been smart to move money from the suitcase storage to my purse and worrying that I won’t have enough cash.

Faustin covers the last $30 that I need, and I leave with 3 fabrics and a ready-made skirt and blouse with headscarf in a lavender and brown flowered print that Emily and Jennifer will appreciate. Getty takes the fabric to give to the tailor and I head for home with every intention to wear my lovely dress to our dinner tonight.

We are invited to the home of Thierry and Yolanda, longtime friends of Faustin and a consulting member of the Waza board of directors. He lives in a quiet residential neighborhood with a really badly rutted street, but behind the walls, his drive is smooth and his garden lovely. The trees are flourishing with a cistern and a clever water pumping system.

Their home is warm and welcoming, with a lovely living and dining area and roomy kitchen, children’s bedrooms and master bed and bathroom, all making me feel right at home. I just miss falling on my face, tripping on the step up to the kitchen with my unaccustomed long skirts. I lurch and recover, suffering terminal embarrassment.

This is the second dress I bought in Brussels, thinking it would be dressy and formal for Saturday’s closing ceremony, but when I tried it on for the men, they said it was less Congolese and more Senegalese, so I saved the flowered skirt and top for tomorrow and was happy to have a nice outfit for this dinner party.

Thierry and Yoyo ask me if I would rather eat in the dining room or on the veranda, which flusters me, still suffering from the headlong fall across the kitchen. I waffle and finally say if they have no preference, I would enjoy the outdoor setting. (Of course, by the end of dinner they are shivering in the evening air and I’m feeling entirely ill-equipped socially.)

Thierry gets me clean water for the traditional hand-washing routine before dinner, then says grace after we take our places.
The boys, an older brother and twins Michael and Paul, set the table while the girls carry in the feast. There is fish and chicken, rice and bugari, langa langa, the green vegetable condiment, and sausages, French fries and sweet potato fries. The youngest, Gabriel, stands close to my side, big eyed, and converses. He learns to say please and thank you in English and shows his skill to Faustin. We talk about our skin color and I explain my comparison of people and plants, that we grow differently depending on the sun and rain and temperature. He enjoys looking at my photo viewer, and I show photos to his mother.

Thierry clears our plates, scrapes, and stacks them for his boys, who carry them back to the kitchen. Little Gabriel helps by carrying a glass or a dish. I am impressed by the family ethic of all pitching in to lend a hand. These are kind and unassuming people whose presence on the board will be of great help. I am pleased to have this evening with a middle-class family whose lifestyle is a model for the aspiring workforce thronging the streets of Lubumbashi.

It seems to me that one issue here is the impact on the economy of the influx of refugees from the war in the east. When there is an over-supply of workers, wages fall. Perhaps there will come a time where peace in the east allows the federal government to rebuild some of the villages and cities devastated by the conflict in order to attract the return of the residents who have fled. The cities of this fragile economy cannot support the rural population crowding into the area searching for jobs and security.


Ceremony, Congo Style
Lumbumbashi 7-26-08 Saturday

Last night I worried that we were leaving too much for the morning. I was right. We were up and going early, but printing the 63 photos for the teachers took an hour. Faustin was still writing and typing his speech, while I signed the 63 certificates. Instead of spending the hour visiting with our teachers, I was shut in the office, a lamentable waste. I should have done the office work in the evening. I did get out into the crowd by 9am, and since the representative of the Education Ministry was not there yet, I chatted with the teachers.

We began the program at 10am, sitting on chairs at a table on the school office porch before the teachers sitting in rows of chairs in the yard. Our moderator opened the ceremony, passing the microphone first to Puma then to Faustin. There was a skit acted out by 3 students about the value of studying science and math, and a lovely vocal performance.

The minister handed out a dozen symbolic certificates, leaving the rest to be distributed after the ceremony. He left before we closed, but the Minister of Finance did arrive as expected at 11am to address the teachers, hand out more certificates, and close the proceedings. The provincial school inspector, a veteran of 57 years, addressed a thoughtful commentary to an appreciative audience. I had asked Puma on the spur of the moment if I could say thank you before the closing; just my luck that the minister arrived and was there to hear my impromptu speech (the only one not carefully crafted in advance and read!). I talked about the beauty of the final song requiring no translation, as the heart understands the language of the heart. It seemed a safe theme, apolitical, so I said that Africa with its wealth of human and primary resources was the heart of the world, that the DR Congo was the heart of Africa, that teachers were the heart of Congo, and that the teacher’s heart was children, the blood that will animate the future of the country. I fervently wished I had known I would have a chance to speak in order to write something out, but I think it was obvious I was speaking extemporaneously.

Once the closing complete and the Minister gone with Faustin and Puma for refreshments, I supervised the distribution of the rest of the Brevet certificates with the group pictures. Disaster. I had made 2 sets of one group and left out a group. I set down the 2 unclaimed photos with the duplicates (never to be seen again) and rushed off to redo the group. I also had to shoot the 3 teachers who were not present during the group shots and print those. In hindsight, we realized the groups wished that the directors were in the photo with them. Next time.

I called random numbers to let them choose from the odds and ends of gift items I had brought. Should have found 50 of the same thing. Another next time. Un avoidable envy over what was deemed ‘good stuff’ and crap. Sigh. Best intentions, poor planning.

I sat and spoke with several individuals seeking our assistance, to publish stories, to go to college, to learn English, and visited with the ladies. At last Faustin finished the individual evaluation interviews – maybe 5pm. – and we headed home for a meal. Exhausted.

Faustin explained that his brother-in-law was coming to get us for dinner, so it was postponed. We stopped at a European hotel for a drink, then went to the Hollybum for dinner. Really. I think they say it ‘boom’ as in the French for party. A very French restaurant: fresh avocado and vinaigrette, fish, rice, tonic water.

After dinner we stopped to see Annie and the kids, then in a burst of enthusiasm, picked up Getty and went to a dance club. The early hour was great but as the college kids poured in, we were too crowded to even dance. It was another unique opportunity to be the odd one out, not only as a white, but a white Grandma. The staring is unnerving though understandable. I just want to throw my head back and shout, ‘I’m just a woman! Get over the skin!’ Not in this lifetime.

Babes in the Bush
Lumbumbashi Sunday 7-27

We slept well and long, breakfasted, and headed for the bush. Faustin wanted to buy a parcel of land near the new Myrt School in the village about 3 miles up the road away from the city. We drove in Richard’s truck, stopping to admire the long view of the terrain in winter.

The Myrt School building location has a roofed skeleton to which the Scouts will begin bringing brick next week. The village children follow Puma and Faustin, then gather their courage and come see me where I have made a seat of brick pile to be less intimidating, down at their level.

I exhaust my Swahili, which doesn’t work any better than French, and resort to pointing to elicit their names and repeat them. They are mute and big-eyed in wonder. Then I show them the camera and let them take photos of each other, looking at the back screen each time to see. It is the only toy I have, and it serves the purpose. They giggle and jostle to each have a turn.

I ask them to take me for a walk around the village and hold 2 little hands. Touch does not feel color, only warmth. We follow a path back to a street lined with small homes, and the Mamas come out to greet us, grinning. I ask them to help me fix my headscarf, and one of them ties it for me. They ask for money, and I tell them that my boss has the money, that I am only the secretary. They find this hard to believe. White means wealth. How do you move a culture even inches in their assumptions? Like moving the termite hill across the yard. Whites assume black Africans in loin cloths live in thatched huts and hunt wild game with spears. It’s a great barrier, a wall that neither side can not see over.

Walls have become a theme here, the stubborn self-defense that refuses to share the beauty of one’s garden with the passersby, the barrier to the envy of the neighbors.

I see now the other walls, less tangible but equally opaque. There are walls that shut away the financial transactions of the Company, taking in the profits which only trickle down to the worker or his community, but flow like molten copper rivers into the pockets of the master, whether local or foreign.

There are walls in the minds of the successful that keep him from suffering the sight of the poor misery around him. He makes a pittance of a charitable donation to ease his mind and does not see into their lives.

Robert Frost wrote sarcastically “walls make good neighbors.” How apt to this country! Now step back. Does any of this sound like home to you? Corporate greed that climbs on the backs of the working poor, taking power to legislate in favor of corporate interests, losing any moral compass in the vastness of the machine? Sounds like home to me. Ask the farmer fueling his tractors, the grocer trucking in his product, the factory worker driving 15 gallons a week to work – and ask Big Oil about the burgeoning profits, from whence they come and where do they go? Home.

Greed loves walls, both to keep others from seeing and to avoid seeing the truth. Truth loves transparence, wrought iron fences that provide protection without limiting vision. Truth longs to see the green beyond the dusty road. May she find blooms, at home and here in Congo.

My interaction with the village Mamas lasts too short a moment. An angry Papa storms into the group and launches into a tirade. I fear it is due to my visit and ask the older boys who have gathered if they argue because of me. The boys assure me that it is something else, but I see how those who do not understand the language suspect that others are talking about them. It is a natural fear – we are at the core still self-centered and have to work to realize that the lives of others do not revolve around us.

The atmosphere tainted by the loud argument, I lead the children back to the village yard where Faustin and Richard sit with the young chief and the elder retired chief to negotiate the sale of land. I sit with them briefly, then ask permission to go get my book. The negotiations do not concern me, and there is little communication possible with the children. I admit I am traumatized by the argument and the request for money, and want to escape into the safe haven of the book. I take a chair into the shade of the house, away from the doorway, and sit down to read. I smile at those who pass but stay buried in my book.

Eventually the negotiations conclude, and we head back to town. Faustin and I have dinner at his sister Nathalie’s house, with her husband Vincent and little Jane, Joyce, and baby Vincent. His sister Irene is also there with little Percy. Cousin Christian gently handles the babies, serving the little girls, consoling and cuddling. He is a model young man in the family, quietly helping out his aunts, his uncle, with babies and dvd player, with table setting and serving.

The Mamas have worked hard to prepare a great feast in a small kitchen, served in a small living room of their small home. They have three rooms: the kitchen, living room, bedroom, all small. There is electricity from the generator, since the city current is irregular at best. Amazing how the country exports electricity to neighboring countries without having an infrastructure of current at home.

Vincent explains how he has bid on a house but lost to higher bidders. With the continuing influx of refugees from the war in the east and from farmers and villagers from the surrounding countryside coming to the city seeking work, housing is in great shortage and thus at high price. Work, on the other hand, earns exceptionally low wages, since there are so many clamoring to get jobs. What one man will do to earn $10 another will step in to do for $5. So in the end, the employer pays $1 for $10 work and many go without. Even those who work go without in this system, which is in effect lacking any system.

And while the Papas seek work to provide for their families, the Mamas carry their share of the burden. Bless them for their determination to do well for their young. May they live to retire in secure comfort to watch their children and grandchildren thrive.

The Coal Iron
Lubumbashi Monday 7-28

Marcel loaded up the iron with hot coals of charcoal and I did the ironing, using the slate tabletop and a towel. It was an improvement over the old flat iron, since the heat stayed constant. It came with a metal rest that I set on the ground beside me to protect the iron surface while I shifted the fabric.

I crossed the road, a main thoroughfare for the villagers into the market and the city, thronged much of the day with pedestrians carrying often staggering loads, cyclists also with sometimes mountainous baggage, cars, jeeps, all-wheel drive vehicles, trucks loaded with workers or materials, and children on errands.

Across the road is the Myrt School in whose office I worked most of the day, recording the observations and evaluations of the seminar staff. Since Faustin stayed in town last night, he came to find me later in the day.

We had dinner again at Nathalie’s with Vincent’s dad joining us. Little Joyce and Jane gathered their gumption and offered a parting gift for their uncle, a shirt from the family of which he is now nominally head, as the eldest.

On the way to town, we stopped at his aunt’s house to visit, since she had come a long distance to visit her family and he had not seen her for many years.

We stopped at Annie & Richard’s and I showed Annie and the kids my family photos, here and there on the laptop. Another note to add to my list for future seminars: a slideshow of home, family, school, community to introduce myself, whether in large group, small group, or pause time.

It occurred to me that it would be a good time to download Faustin’s full memory cards, but I did not have the power cord for laptop and the battery was depleted, so I managed to download the first of 3 cards, with 814 photos, and part of a 2nd that only had 209. The battery died partway through the process, so I will finish tomorrow. It was only a last minute whim to grab the computer to show photos, but in future I will carry computer in bag with all the equipment just in case.

Richard drove me back to Myrt School with the corpse of Faustin riding in the back of the truck, chivalrously keeping us company. It was a late night, but the benefits of engaging so closely in family life here are huge. I have been permitted into the intimacy of the family, giving me an insider point of view that would be hard to achieve from my role of teacher alone.

The Price of Being White
Lumbumbashi 7-29 Tuesday

Dead battery and dead generator spelled a morning working without a computer. We will have a generator battery jump when Faustin comes with the car.

In town I went shopping with Faustin only to discover that in the artisanal market, white buyer=triple price. No amount of Faustin negotiating and my playing secretary advising his purchase would budge the merchant from $50. Even at my generous best, I would not have paid that for the little elephants, a pair of earrings and an egg, even though the malachite green was smooth and attractive.

My attention wandered as he vainly carried on the price war, and I heard a marching song coming from the street: it was a troop of Boy Scouts. The Scouts play an active part of life here. Puma has Girl and Boy Scouts who work for the school in the summer to earn uniforms and school fees for the coming year.

They are delightful young people, quick to learn my name and to speak with me. I have enjoyed stepping into their ping-pong games several times as well as simply visiting. Corrine and Solange and Rigel have given me extra time, visiting, playing ping-pong, and taking me to the Myrt School family interviews.

We leave the market empty-handed and I vow to send a local friend back with my list and my money. Next stop, Getty at work, and head for the tailor’s to arrange my sewing and Faustin’s school uniforms. Another round of disappointing negotiations as the second tailor wants $10 apiece for the uniforms. We leave my fabric with the first tailor with the understanding that I will pick them up Thursday afternoon.

I arrive at Myrt School with my batteries as dead as the laptop, no gifts, still waiting for good clothes. After supper, it takes little for me to fall into bed, hoping for a tomorrow with more successes than this day.

The Money Changers’ Mirror
Lumbumbashi Wed 7-30

Faustin arrives to say his farewells on the way to the airport, showing me the large empty suitcase he will leave me to bring the rest of the school uniforms and my overflow. He signs last minute pay vouchers and gives his final instructions. I breathe a sigh and silently thank the amazing Harold of Cheap Tickets.com who booked my flights here. Faustin flies from Lumbumbashi to neighboring Zimbabwe, then to Johannesburg. After an overnight stay, he will fly to Washington, D.C. and then to Nevada where Liz and Tom Ryder will pick him up for a short 2 day visit. He arrives in Indianapolis Sunday evening at midnight. It makes my Lumbumbashi-Jo’burg-London-Paris trip look like a breeze.

In the absence of the generator batteries, still off being revived and without a car to jump from, I set aside the computer work and pick up the book beside Puma’s desk, Paix au Congo about and by Abbé Stefano Kaoze. I a delighted to note proverbs and their translations into French but disappointed to find they are in Taabwas, not Swahili or even the local Lingala. They are nonetheless an exciting organizer for Waza presentations. I will note them here, along with the germinal facts of the life of this first African priest.

Stéfano Kaoze was born at Libonga in the High-Marunga region south west of Lake Tanganika in 1885, the year of the infamous Berlin Conference at which the European leaders sliced up the African pie, giving the Kongo Free State to Leopold II to ‘protect’ its citizens from the Arab slavers.

He approached his uncle, the chief Mwemezi to say, “I want to discover the secret of the White’s papers.” The boy attended a missionary school, showing notable aptitude, especially in language acquisition. He turned over in his mind the frequent encouragement of the priest to the students to consider vocations for themselves.

In 1910 he wrote a seminal article at the request of his bishop, call Psychology of the Bantous, cited as a first Congolese literary publication in French. Its purpose was to make the culture of the Congolese accessible to the European.

Kaoze was ordained in 1917, the first African priest. In this year, the Germans offered to surrender in Europe in exchange for Congo, but were refused.

The letters and reflections of Stefano Kaoze during his studies built an admirable body of writing, to which he added a collection of his native language proverbs with translations into French and explanations of their application to daily life.

It seems to me that his life built a graceful bridge between the cultures, putting into value the traditional cultural beliefs of his people even as he dovetailed them with the Christian system. He embodies the comment by Antoine Tshitungo Kongolo in the preface, “Poet, your silence is a crime.”

By living in the embrace of 2 cultures, Abbé Kaoze blazed a path for those who followed. He wrote with forthright conviction. This comment, for example, lifts up the status of his people: “The Whites because they have all have made of our country their own, but no cord, no chain, no prison can touch our internal being.” He strove to establish a dialog between not only the African and European cultures but also among the diverse African ethic groups.

Along the way, he invented words in French to fill cultural gaps, for example, cheiftaness. He worked to transform the pejorative language of the missionaries and others, using “the innocent and well-mannered savage” and “the just pagan.” He explored the means of being fully Christian and fully African, talking about an African-style Christianity.

In several notes on culture, I learned that the traditionally priest is the Kitambwa Kya Leeza. Leeza is God. The Mipasi are the defunct ancesters to whom we look for guidance, and the Ngulu are the spirits of the place, protectors.

I could take this proverb as a personal slogan:

Kabezya taka kupa pawikele: buuk a wende. Mupasi takakupa pawikele: buuka wende.

Neither God nor your ancestors will give to you there where you sit, so get up and get going.

I have learned to believe this one, too:

Wazyungulukiile, wafikile.

He who goes by a tortuous route will arrive.

I think fondly of my AATF colleagues, especially Catie, when I read this one:

Sampila lubilo Iwa Basangu.

On all sides it is the path of the Whites.

Abbé Kaoze explains that this is a saying that lays the responsibility for what falls ill to the hand of the Whites.

I take these personally:

Kanwa kakata kali kuisongezya.

A big mouth shuts the door to well-being.

Kabezya kapeela waema.

God gives to he who has suffered.

I note this one for Puma and Ntala:

We waya, wituka basyala; ni we wasyala, wituka baya.

You who depart, do not insult those who stay behind; and you who stay behind, do not insult those who go.

This is a message for us all:

Ulabile, kalonda kali kamupwa mukonzo.

It is forgotten, but the little sore is busy eating off your leg.

And a mantra for school children everywhere:

Mwanike kuseka usifwanine, waseka Leeza.

The child who mocks misery mocks God.

And finally, a profoundly important cry from the heart of Africa to the foreign “investors” who come for copper, uranium, diamonds, and especially, coltan, the key element in flat screen television and cell phone fabrication, mined in horrific conditions by Congolese children in abject suffering:

Mwinoobe akukwate bwino, nu we mukwate bwino.

Someone who has sustained you well, you also must sustain him.

Stephano Kaoze divided the history of his land into 4 eras:

• The Calm Era under Chief Tumbwe of the house of Kasanga, a just king, during which, Kaoze adds, Congo breathed a large peace.
• The Civil War Era at the death of Tumbwe his empire was divided amongst his kin ( sounds like Charlemagne).
• The Arab Era (the Bangwama) during which time the ‘pagan savage’ was distrusted, treated as a dog, ‘kafiri,’ without religion. The Arabs enslaved and exported thousands. They left the language that was a creole of their own, Swahili.
• The era of the Whites during which the black man decided he wanted to be white, but since he couldn’t be, he would find the same power by oppressing his own countrymen in his best imitation of white.

Kaoze exhorts his fellow Africans to be White in what is external while remaining Black in their souls.

I conceive a parenthetical thought as I read about the life of this first African Roman Catholic priest: that as much as the local language Mass adds to the understanding of the people, the value of the Latin Mass was that wherever one traveled, one was always at home in the Mass. As a foreigner far from my native language, that is appealing in its comfort.

A final reflection today, far flung from that one, is the attitude of the Congolese toward their own country, and by extension, to themselves.

O Congolese, you accept Congolese francs in dirty, worn, torn, rotting bills that crumble in your hands, yet you require that the White man’s money be clean, crisp, whole, not even nicked at the edges. Is this how you value yourselves, and us? Do you find all that is White perfect? All that is Congo filth? Not I.

There is refinement here in the carefully pressed trousers and washed and polished feet of your people. There are barefoot children in rags with runny noses, hungry, sleeping in rat infested dung in the ghettos of my country. Look, O Congo, in a mirror wiped free of this infernal dust, and see yourselves, clean, fresh, pure, and equal!

Lost in Translation
Lumbumbashi Th 7-31

Another day of valleys, dust, weather front headache, and greens running through me. The trip to town was fruitless; I summoned all my reserve to go to the internet café with Narcy, where I found that my lengthy report to Able and Willing has been unreadable, tried resending it as well as several dozen photos which appeared not to transmit, then met Jetty at her workplace, only to discover that the tailor had not finished a single ensemble. Such checklists left unchecked are fodder for more headache.

When I landed back at Myrt School, I had no more, so lay down for a brief respite. I fell quickly asleep, only to be awakened by one of the boys, saying I was wanted. I dressed in a hurry and found the 9 Mamas who worked in the kitchen sitting at our table. I was groggy and clueless and they don’t understand French. The boy said, they have not been paid. They want to be paid. Partly it was my assumption that all the seminar expenses were paid before Ntala left and partly my experience with the residents coming to me for a handout that fueled my reply: of course they were paid. Are they here for their photos? I can’t print them yet until the generator works. They rolled their eyes in disgust and repeated that they had not been paid. We went to find Puma and the administrators who all materialized as an answer to prayer, and suddenly I remembered the discussion of their pay. They normally work for the school to pay their children’s school fees, and Ntala thought that this was a part of that quid pro quo. Puma and Freddie thought they should be paid a supplement since their kitchen service was in addition to the regular chores.

I agreed immediately, but did not have CFA, only dollars. Puma asked them to come back Tuesday. What an embarrassment. Not only do they have to wait over a week for their pay, but I insulted them, I’m sure, by my ignorant reply. This is another reason that all participants in the direction of the seminar need to be present during the planning. I waltzed in after the week was underway and missed all the preparation.

I crawled back into bed and fell deeply asleep, awakening only to eat supper, take a shower, and flee to dreams, where checklists are all checked off and days of disappointment transform into satisfying success.

A Gift of Grandpas
Lumbumbashi Fr 8-1

I awake this holiday morning feeling refreshed by the sleep and ready to have a go at a new day. I am forced to put on my pants and green oriental top, as the tailor has yet to deliver my clothes.

To my surprise, an elderly man joins us at the end of scrambled eggs and coffee, and Puma tenderly dishes him up a meal. I make him coffee with lots of milk and sugar, and he tells us how he has just come home from the hospital. He came by hoping for some biscuits. Puma asks me to take his picture; there are few here who see this many years. The life expectancy is 41.

I tell him as best I can that his presence at our table on this Memorial Day is a gift, to remind us whose grandfathers are gone of their value, to bring three dimensions to our memories the departed.

The laundry done (two pails, one sudsy, one to rinse, right under the clothes line, with no pins), I take my work to the school, reminding Marcel to send the tailor to me if he actually shows.

At the store across the road by the entrance to the school, Puma has another Grandpa to photograph. He explains to the gentleman, and I repeat my gratitude for the gift of Grandpas.

I work in the office until time to meet Solange, Corrine, and Rigel, my own Girl Scout guides and translators for family interviews & a game of ping pong.

Our first home visit is to Luc’s family, right near the school. His
Dad is there, a brick maker and construction material supplier. We work through the interview questions, then I offer to show them my family photos. His Dad hands me a photo album that begins with his own youth and shows me Luc as a baby and a small child, even has Puma 15 years younger on the porch. It is an exceptional welcome into the embrace of a family, a privilege to be so included in their trust.

His father has explained to reconcile the numbers that one of his sons died at age 30. I open the photo of Sarah on my desktop and share his grief. It is a bond that knows no cultural or racial barriers. We share my family slide show and part with the warmest sense of friendship, new and fresh and sweet, like loaves from the oven, an answer to that fervent prayer from all hearts for our dose of daily bread.

Suffer the Children
Lumbumbashi Sat 8-2

This morning we dress and leave early for the first anniversary of the founding of the St. Michel orphanage and school just down the road. I walk with Mr. Mukada while Puma rides his bike (twice, as the first go ended in a passing truck coating him with dust). We passed Mukada’s house and stopped to take a picture of him with his wife, which required her to change from work clothes into a pretty dress.

The greeting at the orphanage was warm, and I was ushered to a seat in the front row, but none of the other guests were seated, so I ask permission to shoot photos of the Scout band and the soccer practice. Released from celebrity status, I wandered among the kids, chatting and encouraging them to talk to me. It’s a hard sell. The tradition of the distinguished guest arriving an hour late is upheld, and after the band has played to the point of exhaustion, we begin the formal ceremony, an hour and a half late. Hard to justify having the students, little ones, guests, staff, all ready to begin at 9am and to ask them to wait. That 90 minutes translates to a message of diminished importance, of inferior priority to this event, in spite of the genuine apology offered by the late arrivals.

The moderator introduces the national anthem, and I am riveted by this small citizen who proudly flies his flag. Then the children’s choir sings, followed by four young speakers, charismatic, passionate, articulate, and roundly applauded for their message, forceful and direct, that children have a right to a family, to a home, to health, to safety, and to education.

The leader of the partner group, Salem, speaks about his NGO’s role in providing health care for the most vulnerable. I later meet a young doctor with Salem who explains that twice a week, Salem volunteers comb the city in the wee hours to pick up the street kids, taking the sick ones to their clinic and delivering the stronger ones to the orphanage. This young doctor is eager to talk about the urgent need of these children.

The founder of St. Michel’s is Papa Tuta, an elderly gentleman who explains with great dignity and quiet wisdom that he was so well cared for by the congregation of St. Michel that he chose that name for his project, a home and school for orphans and a temporary haven for those with disrupted family ties, street kids trying to get back home. His goal is to return those with families to their homes and find homes for the orphans.

He speaks forcefully, as did his pupils, and calls for the local officials and the community to step up their aid, to recognize the peril to a society that leaves its most precious resource to whither. He is roundly applauded, and I, for one, am making mental plans for ways that I can support his work. These children evoke in me a deep respect and admiration for their tenacity of life. The little girls who play at doing each other’s hair or who dance with jaunty grins to the irresistible beat of the blaring music find joy in the moment of a life that would crush the strongest adult.

This child waiting for the ceremony to begin, or perhaps simply waiting to be fed, sits so appropriately beneath the sign that pleads for justice for children.

I can’t imagine any more direct plea than this poster, which asks only for school paper and a ball for each child, not guns. The crime of child abduction in the militias is still happening in the east, with repercussions felt all the way down here.

The governor responds to the calls to action with grace and honesty, reminding the listening guests that his government has little to work with, but offers his wholehearted commendation and support. The local officials move to the brightly striped ribbon and in a solemn ritual, sprinkle the ground with water and cut the strand, officially opening St. Michael’s Orphanage and School.

I flinch at first at the sword wielded by the St. Michel on the uniform shirts in light of the need to remove arms from the lives of these children, but settle for a sense of the rightness of his patronage. The archangel can be left to stand protective guard over his children, who are released from fear by his presence, allowing them to arm themselves with learning, truth, moral values, and compassion for the weakest of Heaven’s creatures. May St. Michael watch over us all.

After a bountiful meal, Mukada and I walk back to Myrt School, where I work until time for the Girl Scouts to meet me for a school family interview. We check my slides show and play some ping pong first, then head to the home of Corrine, whose single mother has a proud set to her face as I in all my elegant dress and whiteness appear to question her. Her defensiveness is palpable, and I work carefully to win her trust. We manage with the questions through the translations of the girls, and I turn to the student questionnaire. Corrine answers with such conviction and passionate desire to succeed in school, with a plan to teach, move into administration, then seek a political role, with the goal of becoming Provincial Minister of Education. She gets my vote.

I sense a gradual lessening of the tension and hope that I have established some trust with this beautiful young mother, who breaks into a warm smile only at the moment that I ask her to be photographed with her daughter.

I am convinced that my investment in Waza, in our partnership with Able and Willing, and in this trip will bring some measure of good to this place. It is an honor to be so kindly welcomed even into the homes of the village, where I can be looked upon in complete veracity as a fearful presence, a stranger of the most menacing potential. I am grateful for the human warmth of this family, and think with longing of my own.


Circle of Friends
Lumbumbashi Sun 8-3

A Sunday morning, clear and cool, clean cumulus masses floating just out of reach, church bells in the distance. Without the ever present dust an idyllic scene. I read and await the arrival of the car; finally at 10, Puma calls a taxi to take us to town to meet his friends. I see quite a lot of smoothly paved street on this trip, an encouraging experience despite the crumble of the structures lining the way.

The Roffe Hotel’s familiar lobby opens into a quiet courtyard. Pierrette and her friends are seated at a shaded table just behind the table where Richard, Faustin, and I shared a pre-dinner drink. Pierrette clucks her tongue and tells me my headscarf is tied like an old lady (which I point out that I am), but she has me move the tie up to the top.

Her friends are a local veterinary medicine official and his wife, who works in public health and nutrition. They are kind and congenial. The beauty of this courtyard centers around the magnificent cactus that towers above the 2nd story and its neighbor, the palm. They are venerable and gracious trees, offering precious shade and slowly rotating silhouettes on the flagstone court.

I make a point of visiting the WC, my 2nd sighting (and sitting) in 2 weeks, before we leave to meet Puma’s friend. He plans to take me to the artisan market near there, but I spot the same sort of vendors on the street corner, so we cross to take a look. It is with great satisfaction that I manage to buy the few gifts that I want for a fair price.

Taxi prices waxing exorbitant, Puma walks me a few blocks to the mini-van stop that heads in our direction. Clutching the wrap-around pagne skirt against the brisk breeze, I thread my way through the crowds. Several people stop to greet him along the way and direct us to the right corner. Bus stops are kept a tightly protected secret here: if you don’t know, you won’t find out. No signs, no indication on the vans.

I slide into the first bench behind what used to be bucket front seats next to a nicely dressed and polite gentleman. The back seats fill, the assistant jumps on and wedges in, and we are off.

What used to be a van is reduced to a used tin can, scarred, rusted, bent, its formerly aquamarine interior now largely dust. My feet grow quickly hot sitting above the drive train. Every turn of the crankshaft, I hear the contact of each piston with the roar of the engine a crescendo at each shift of gears. The Congo is like this vehicle, impossible to say how it is still in action, stripped bare of any but the most vital bits, crumbling and squawking and crying for a bath, a tune-up, a lube, and a paint job. And no one seems to have the owner’s manual.

We dive off the smoothly paved streets onto the familiar rutted remains of a back way, headed into the industrial, or formerly industrial, side of town. That used to be a machine shop, this used to be a parts company. Such a backward slide from the functional into this chasm of chaos.

After several stops to drop passengers – one of which almost spells the end of the life of the sliding door – we reach the terminus. This plaza is unfamiliar, an intersection of fairly main road with dirt road headed into the residential area we seek.

The road is lined with small business and littered, no, paved, with trash. Coke and Fanta cans flattened by passing cars, bikes, feet, bits of plastic bag, shoes, ball caps, bottle caps. I am walking in a landfill. There are no wastebaskets, no trashcans – why have them when no one will come to collect them? I do see my first actual landfill in a hole the size of a basement, still trying to burn at the bottom while chickens and their chicks peck eagerly through the upper layer.

I have seen litter along our road, but nothing approaching the level of utter, unavoidable trash underfoot. And staggering as it is to me, no one seems to notice. I remember the trash casually littering the Belgian university housing and the city streets and curse their ever stepping foot in this land. The earth here is sunk deep beneath a crust, gritty skin of trash and dust, oozing infection.

Yet as we walk I see the intense, vibrant fuchsia of blooms bursting through the dust that fails to mute its energy. Then the profusion of lavender flowering on a towering tree glows as if with the exertion of having shaken off its dirty veil. There are sad, muted yellow flowers that sigh and curl up on themselves, ashamed at the filth that they can not escape.

We are accosted by 2 bright-eyed youngsters, Joy and Orient, sent by their parents to meet us. They chatter eagerly, pointing ahead to where the house is. These are old friends of Puma’s, Clement and Annie. In the yard we meet Marjorie and Pascaline, and in the living room, little Mike. He is the baby, about 3. His father explains that his hearing and thus his speech is impaired. He wants to see a doctor about it. He is away supervising the mining concessions where he works 50 miles away for a month at a time.

Annie serves us bukari and fish and lingua-lingua, and I get little Mike to warm up some. It’s not til we are ready to go that he gives me a grin and a kiss.

The other success of the afternoon is a phone call to Hoods who have stellar advice for de-dusting the memory card contacts. It’s such a pleasure to hear her voice.

Annie and Clement walk us farther along their road to their niece’s house, where we are warmly welcomed before hailing another taxi along the main road. Clement comes along to visit another set of friends who live out near us.

Here we are fed yet another meal, chicken and potatoes, Muscador rosé, bottled water. They are a friendly and happy gathering.

When we adjourn to the terrace bar, I manage to sit beside Virginie with her sweet 10 month old boy. He is quick to come to me and provides me with an evening of entertainment, clapping hands, blowing raspberries, learning ‘mama.’ When he fusses, his mother tosses him back to me and we walk around, swaying to the loud Congolese music, batting at tree branches, laying back to watch the stars come out around the clouds.

It is late when the party breaks up. Happily we are offered a ride home. Tomorrow will be packed with laundry to do, 2 interviews, and a trip to town to see Getty and get Faustin’s things. I have secured a 2nd blanket for the night as I finally caved to the necessity of recognizing that it is getting legitimately cold. Another stereotype bites the dust – and we do have dust.


Debts to be Paid
Lumbumbashi Mon 8-4

I awake with renewed hope for the mystic cure to the Nikon’s illiteracy and puff, pick, and gently prod with a fluff end of Q-tip. No dice. There will be no card reading today. Go to your nearest Nikon authorized dealer, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Sigh. Monopoly mantra aside, do not shoot photos again today. I manage to download those that I took with Puma’s camera and will settle for that.

I dress quickly, as the morning interview time has moved up to allow the Mama to get to market early, but I do get the computer over to the school and the generator lit to charge it, and a first batch of laundry done and hung before the girls come.

We visit the home of Stephane this morning, and again the girls must translate for the parents, even for this quiet 16 year old. His parents are lovely, warm and kind in their welcome. We laugh at the trial of getting a photo with the inexperienced Scouts as photographers, but I get to hold the 2 year old.

I return hoping to find breakfast, but settle for hot water and mayonnaise on bread. The computer is back charging, and I read for a bit before going back to the school office. The administrative meeting is still in full swing, but I interrupt to get the charger out and go to work in the lab. Before they lock up for a trip to town, I hurry to print the family photos and claim my computer. The camera batter charged fully makes no difference, as I expected, in the continued resistance to card reading.

The afternoon batch of laundry done, my girls reappear and we head for the home of the village chief, who has 3 children in Myrt School. Our visit is lively and passionate, covering the value of education and the Myrt School’s influence, then ranging widely afield into the politics of mining profits, foreign investment and influence ( and exported profits), and my obligation to do something with what I have learned here. The chief and his wife lay that responsibility at my feet like a gauntlet thrown.

I find myself rising from those valley days of despair, when I longed only for a croissant and inside plumbing, to a vow of profound importance, that I will write and speak to the widest possible audience (O Paulette, I hear the echoes), shedding light on the dark problems facing this country and the misery of her people, brought about to my shame by the greedy abuse of those with power and ignorant negligence of those who consume.

I share my family photos with this family of leadership, and ask their pardon for my passionate sermonizing, hoping I have not offended with my direct observations. The rain that fell, remarkably, in a gentle patter on the tin roof while we spoke, has ended. We take a lovely photo that my girls simply cannot hold still; my bliss in their repeated efforts is that I get to hold the sweetest, softest, smiling-est chub of infant while they fret over the photo. She pats my cheeks, I kiss hers, then hand her back to the Mama, who sends me off with a grin and a compliment for my lovely garb.

My Scouts and I have another lesson while walking; we play if you had one wish that would change one thing in Congo, what would you wish? Corrine will change the mentality that wants money before learning, that wants handouts instead of work. Solange wants education for all the adult generations so that they will be sure to educate her generation. Rigel worries that there is nothing left for her, but we decide that infrastructure would undergrid the society. I want running (clean) water, electricity at fingertips, garbage pick-up, mass transit, and paved roads lined with sidewalks, watered grass, and bike lanes. And pedestrian cross walks!

As we walk home, I point out a gaping rent in the clouds with sunlight behind it. That’s the way to paradise, I tell them, and you are the light within, leading your country with the bright wisdom. Then the clouds move and we agree that it is now a giant key hole, and they are the key that will unlock paradise for their people.

I leave these lovely young women at the gate with my business cards and a promise to pose for a photo together tomorrow. Marcel is back, there is rice with tomato sauce and chicken for dinner, and clean clothes dry for morning. It is with satisfaction that I head into my last day here, with quiet hope that the bits on the checklist will be ticked off, that I will find strength to carry away from this place enough to do justice to the crying need for illumination, for vision, for truth in a society that aches to live free.

Bananas, the Cuckoo, and The White Witch
Lumbumbashi Tues 8-5

It came to me yesterday in conversation with the village chief, which often happens when one listens to the wisdom of one’s elders. I recounted my initial surprise, then dawning comprehension of the reaction of small children, no, really, of most people here, to seeing me in their midst.

The children edge away behind the nearest skirt or pants’ leg, wide-eyed, finger in mouth. The adults try hard not to stare, but turn their heads when they think I’m not looking. Teenage boys stare boldly and grin at my greeting, while girls more timidly glance at me, then beam sweet smiles of astonished relief at my Swahili salutation.

Today I have suddenly observed this routine from outside myself, and I have seen The White Witch. Apologies to Lewis and profoundly to Tilda Swinson, but it is La Sorcière Blanche in all her menace, her cold, cruel power, that these people see in me. How satisfying to melt that initial fear into a warm embrace! If ever a stereotype needed the miraculous to melt its icy hold on the minds of a people, it is the myth that all Whites are cold, cruel, rapacious, arrogant, ignorant thieves. For these qualities have also been ably adopted by skins ebony as well as pale, olive, and burnished brown.

Trust must be earned by chapter and verse, not granted by the grain of the cover. The cautious reader must learn to look past the smooth leather to the heart of the text, or risk being colonized again by his brother.

I contemplate these 3 weeks and suddenly wonder if I have spoken to another White since I arrived. I run through the days, the groups, the homes, stores, hotels, and cannot find another White Person. No wonder I garner such attention!

Above me in this outdoor dining room, the African Cuckoo begins to call. His voice is 3 dimensional, booming, rich, impossible to imagine coming from this bird. His little pals, the magpies, chirp and flit at my coming, flashing their pristine plumage. Black and white, piano keys for their song, a message for God’s children to see the harmony, the beauty of our brotherhood.

I heard a crash in the garden yesterday, and looked up startled to see the head and shoulders of a youngster over the fence looking back. The broad leaves of the banana tree wave as if bidding farewell to their young, and I realize that their burden of fruit has been lifted. This is the day that Marcel is working elsewhere, Puma has been seen to leave, and I am alone. The neighbors have plucked the fruit from over the fence, and I dare not confront their hunger to ask for them back.

If a village man were to plant a fine garden, coddle his fruit trees, built his sturdy home, would he be left a rich harvest here? Or would his envious neighbors pluck his avocadoes, snatch his tomatoes, strip the house of gutter and shutter and rocking chair on the porch? How does one arrive at a moment when all the neighbors plant and build, each his own nest, to transform a mentality of tear down for today, and damn tomorrow into a mutually trustworthy community building a better future for all?

For it was today’s desperate need that fueled the savage stripping down of what was a relatively smoothly functioning economy when the administrative managers all fled their posts. May the work that we do with today’s youth facilitate the rebirth of the builder’s mentality in a new generation, opening their minds to the possibilities, the choices that they see as they consider how others around the world confront the same social, political, economic, and academic issues.

Farewell, dusty friend, fatigued with the long journey past. May you find a hot bath, cool water, and nourishment for body and soul as you seek shelter for another night on the long road ahead.

Liege to Brussels to London to Jo'burg

Done. Oh yeah, the intrepid traveler has taken the challenge and managed. The video I watched on Johannesburg said "If you are going to J'burg, you are not a tourist, you're a traveler." I quite agree.

My hotel is just 3km from the airport, a quick $8 taxi. But the city - well, we'll get to that - Mandela Square in Sandton was a 30 minute $40 drive. Reception at the hotel and the taxi driver both assured me there were no buses. There are buses everywhere, with mysterious names and numbers, and no whites on any of them. There is also the fleet of mini-vans, like Yerevan, running 15 passenger bus service.

I passed some very basic housing districts but the city, at least the small area I walked through, is modern, bustling, and very integrated. The upscale mall as well. It's only the buses that seem to be segegrated. And I did see a young white businessman and a middle aged woman who appeared to be waiting for a bus.

But there isn't really a city center with walking tour sort of appeal. My driver, Alfred, gave me the choices of the Apartheid Museum and the Mandela Square. I asked if I could have lunch at Mandela Square then walk or take a bus to the museum. It's 20km, he said. Yikes. Welcome to L.A. gone to extremes. I want to do a quick tourist top ten of the city and it turns out the city is really a county, or more. It's 35 km to one of the places he suggested.

I'm only here for less than a day, so I'll be content with my quick look. The people have been supremely helpful and friendly. I'm sure I look my most pathetic lost to elicit such kindness.

I ate a late lunch at the Lekgotla Dining Room at Nelson Mandela Square - a buffet of bean lentil soup, steamed bread and dip, chicken, shrimp, beef, lamb, curry and rice, sweet potatoes, vegetable blend (unidentified and scrumptious), fruit and Mango Brulée for dessert. And caffe. With a traditional African decor. A winning choice over the Thai House and Ristorante Italiano!

Tomorrow I begin 3 weeks in the DR Congo with uncertain internet access, so stay tuned. At latest will update August 9 when I get home.

Maastricht: neighbors to the north

What a commentary on neighborliness! The Flamand half of Belgium is not included in the tourist and business brochures as a part of Belgium, but labeled with France and Germany as if it were its own country, so the warmth of the Wallons for their Dutch neighbors in this charming town is surprisingly more than for their own countrymen.

We paid a short afternoon visit to this Dutch town, quaint and clean and tourist friendly, a stark contrast to the industrial working city that is Liège. This medallion on the church square marks the liberation of Maastricht on 14-15 September 1944, presented by the 30th Infantry Division Association, linking us in visible form to this place.




The church of Saint Servais has roots to the 4th century when the region was evangelized by Servais. A church was built on this site after his death in 384. Those very low numbers really work in my mind, enlarging and distorting my vision of time. It is disorienting to be in a place that has existed for so long before my coming.





The altar figure of Mary is crowded with the faithful, standing and kneeling in this small entrance chapel.









Saint Servais immediately brought a smile to my face and the image of Drew and Rachel, students who will be delighted to know they have a saint watching over them.

















After a cup of tea, a taste of chocolate, and a scoop of sorbet in a sweet tea room, we crossed the working river Meuse, admiring the row of buildings along the quai, in time to see the 6:07 train to Liège rolling away. We changed money and shopped in the bookstore while waiting for the 7:07, which was of course 10 minutes late.

Our morning classes had focused on the geography of Belgium, its rural and urban landscapes and their impact on the history and culture of the country. It was Mme Gonda who cracked the joke that the resolution of the Flamand-Wallon question would come about by climate change drowning Flanders and moving the coast back to Wallonie. Flanders is flourishing with only 6% unemployment while Wallonie has 18%, yet it is Wallonie with the slate, wood of the Ardennes forest, clay, and water resources that historically made it the more prosperous region.

Madame Wéry presented the crazy organization of the Belgian education system, which makes our administrative problems pale in comparison. The bright side is the choice each student has for the secondary school focus: general course work leading to university study (medicine, law, secondary teaching), technical course work leading to the technical schools (nursing, elementary teaching, social work, engineering, architecture, fine arts), or professional course work leading directly into the workforce (mechanic, dental assistant).

The special education schools for mild to severe mental disabilities have such outstanding results that French parents often move to enroll their children in the system. But the regular student has even more choices. There are three types of schools at all levels: the official schools, which are run by the French Community, the free schools that are run by the Catholic church, and the community schools under local administration.

The education system reflects the deep divides in this small land broken by a language barrier that seems insurmountable. There are Flamand immersion schools in Wallonie and French immersion schools in Flanders, but if a bilingual Flamand and Wallon sit down for a business dinner, they speak English, as neither wants to defer to the language of the other. There is a historical resentment by the Flamands of the French speaking aristocracy that originally ran the country, hoping that the local languages of Wallon in the south and Flamand in the north would die out. The policy worked in the south where Wallon is studied but no longer spoken, but Flanders kept their language, and their resentment.

This divisiveness brings back images of the Swiss, who also have this historical divide, but who have translated their differences into unity and brokered their skills at multilingual negotiation into a salable commodity.

The news is crackling with the resignation yesterday of the Belgian Prime Minister after the parliament failed to resolve the questions under debate involving the relationship between the Flamand (Flemish speaking) and the Wallon (French speaking) Community/Region. (Wallonie comes from the Wallon language which has Celtic roots). Belgium was without a government for the better part of a year due to this conflict. There is a strong sentiment that the country should split, with Flanders independent and Wallonie attached to France. No one seems to have asked the French what they think about this plan. All in all it's a sordid dispute with historical resentments simmering and no model for a Europe seeking to collaborate while maintaining national cultural identities. The Belgians like to say that Brussels in the Capital of Europe and Liege calls itself the Heart of Europe, but frankly, there is a major cardiac arrest imminent.