Partie II de II - relations construites: Maman Megan (et autres étapes)

Part II of II - Relationship Building: Maman Megan (and other steps forward)

Don't read this yet. This is part II of the past week-and-a-half-or-so. Scroll down to part one.

As Karen Ridd has taught me to do, I am trying hard to be mindful of my experiences of cultural adjustment; to notice opportunities as they arise and act on them, to be aware of them as they are happening, and to reflect on them after they've happened. As a result I am enjoying them immensely.

Two Thursdays ago now (oh dear, three months is just not enough time!), I realized that I was not, in fact, hearing things and that people had been calling me Maman Megan. I asked Maman T why this was, and she explained to me that it is a highly significant sign of respect. I had an ahah! moment, followed by an awwwwww! moment, followed by a quiet oh, wow. moment all in the course of about 30 seconds. This turned out to be quite the day for me. Let me explain.

During the conflict resolution training session at the CPLB office that afternoon, the group was in the process of discussing conflict dynamics and how conflict can either be negatively or positively transformed by behaviours and attitudes. They first used a generic textbook-like story (Congolese culture is highly based on oral traditions and story telling), and then began to discuss conflict dynamics in Congolese context. They understand (as, to my relief, have I for the past two years of studying this country) their current conflicts as stemming widely from their colonial history. Going all the way back to the region's discovery by Belgium; through slave commerce; then understanding imperialist attitudes toward foreign territory inhabited by non-whites (and how colonies were established and justified), this historical progression is not only inextricable from Congo's current conflict, but also key to understanding conflict in Congo and many other post-colonial states today. They discussed colonialism for a while, and how attitudes and behaviours in that part of their history influenced conflict. When they were about to go on I somehow mustered up all of the courage I could and asked, for the first time since my arrival, if I might offer a thought. They listened politely as I explained that it could be that attitudes of entitlement, coupled with beliefs that what was to be found in this region was there for the taking, drove Leopold II and later the Belgian state in their behaviours. These same attitudes and beliefs can be seen behind not only Mobutu's actions for the thirty-plus years following independence, but also in a huge majority of the actors involved in their current conflict; European, North American, and African alike. This attitude of entitlement is a major theme running through Congo's history from the very first contact with Europe and really does help understand how it is that so many foreign actors have their hands in Congo's cookie jar, so to speak.

I couldn't believe it. As I struggled to articulate myself in French and suggest this idea, I watched their faces light up one by one as though there were cartoon lightbulbs being switched on over their heads.

Of course, they said, and then picked the discussion up and just started running with it, going down the list of significant events in Congo's history that exemplify this concept. They really seemed excited about being offered another angle from which to analyze their realities. Really, I couldn't believe it. I got something right! While they carried on with their discussion, I sat in my observer's position in the room which is removed from the table they sit around during the sessions, a little excited and dizzy with relief that neither had they been offended, nor put out, by my being so bold as to offer my Western perspective.

Did I earn myself some credibility? When the session was over and I was standing outside waiting for Jean Claude to lock up, one of the members of the session walked outside, up to me, and slowly and rather conclusively said "Bon, Maman Megan," with a smile. This was the first time that he had called me Maman.

Another way that I have been able to do some important relationship building has been through laughing. Congolese love to laugh; particularly at each other. This has been a bonus for me, being that I've been so socio-culturally clumsy and really kind of dorky this whole time. But it is so so important to laugh at yourself when you're being laughed at! Each time I've shared a laugh with someone, we've ended up just a little bit more comfortable with each other. This happened immediately with Maman T. Does that woman ever love to laugh!! She's really taken me under her wing and took on a sort of surrogate mother role with me almost right away. Next was Pascal, with whom I shared some full belly-laughs about his visits to Canada and cultural differences at the beginning of my second week.

After another weekend back with my family - that is, my biological family - I arrived back chez Kulungus and last Wednesday had Claudia take me to the Avenue de Commerce just outside the Grande Marché - Commerce Avenue outside the city's central market downtown. I was on the hunt for some good fabrics to have tailored into culturally and climatologically (so totally not the right word lol) appropriate clothing. It took about an hour each way from the house to get downtown in that sweltering heat by taxibus.

I suppose I haven't entirely explained these wonderful modes of transportation, have I? We-eh-ell. Most of them have had their seats removed and benches installed in them. There are usually anywhere from two to three more benches in them than it is possible to fit people comfortably or even logistically and there is about a foot between each bench for leg room. But where there is an inch of free space in a taxibus, a person will replace it. Six-seater vans are turned into twenty-seater taxis. Many of them have round holes cut into their sides for (not windows, but) air-holes, but more often than not the unfortunate people who end up getting in first get crammed up against them and block any air from actually making its way in. I plan on posting some video on my Facebook page of the Poids Lourds that I can covertly take in our vehicle behind the safety of the CIA-dark tinted windows of the back seat, and I should be able to get a few shots of them in the vid. And they are CHEAP (by my wealthy standards, anyways). The hour drive from Binza - the district in which the Kulungus reside - to downtown, cost 500 francs for each of us. The ride back was only 350 francs each (the price varies depending on what the driver of each individually owned taxi decides to charge that day, or ride, or for that person). The exchange rate last Wednesday was 800FC to $1 USD; you do the math.

Anyhow, by the time we got to the Ave I had finished all of my water and my clothes were thoroughly drenched. As in skirt sticking to ass getting out-wet. She led me around the Ave seemingly aimlessly for a while and I figured she was just showing me around and letting me take it all in; I'm almost always in vehicles being transported from one place to another, so this was the first time I really got a good chance to take in the sounds and smells and bustling colours up close. It was great! I put on my best I Am Not Brand New To This Country So Do Not Even Think About Trying To Take Advantage act (which, btw, Claudia said I do quite well) and 'casually' walked around with her. I didn't get a chance to find out until later why she was occasionally shaking her head or rolling her eyes or laughing to herself. Everyone told me before I left the house that I would be 'bothered' a lot and that it is a really good thing that I am able to wear my bag in front of me so that the pickpocket shegués can't sneak into it behind me. I got various other warnings of this nature before we left, but while we were on the Ave I really didn't notice much more than a few shegués asking me for money or to buy their wares and a whole lot of people saying mondele in between a whole lot of other Lingala words that I don't understand. And, of course, people greeting me. Finally, we ended up at this massive store with twenty foot-high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling fabric. You wouldn't believe it. I wanted to take pictures so badly!! It was completely overwhelming though. The heat, dehydration, and the selection were just too much for me and I barely even looked around. I just stuck to one corner and got the heck outta dodge as fast as I could! Even with the high ceilings, I began to feel a little claustrophobic after a while. As a result, I am bound and determined to go back! I got some really beautiful patterns, and one of the bolts I bought is, by fluke, some good quality West African material (says my aunt who lived in West Africa for six years). However, I also bought a much poorer quality fabric and none are Congolese! I was a little hasty. No worries. Now that I know what I am walking into, I'll go back and do it right. I'd like to go to some open air markets to get more, but there was one pattern there that I would really like to go back for. En tous cas, in the end I ended up paying $27 USD for 24 yards of material. Not too shabby, no?

When we got back to the house the first thing that Maman T asked me was whether I was bothered by many people. I told her no, not really; if there were many people calling after me I wouldn't know because it was all in Lingala! So Maman looked to Claudia, who began to giggle. She said that there were a whole bunch of men everywhere we went calling me a vraie cherie, which after a little probing I managed to get her to explain to me means a beautiful girl. Eeh! Not so! I insisted that there is no way that they could have been talking about me because white women are noooo match for the renouned beauty of African women. They wouldn't even have been able to see me next to her. Non, non! she laughs. They were talking about you! Nope, not so, I again insisted. It was you, dear.

Boy oh baby, that was it. Maman started laughing as soon as I started in on Claudia, and by the time I was finished my African women are more beautiful statement she was practically falling off her chair. And I swear that if Claudia's skin was just a couple of shades lighter I would have been able to see her blushing. I said that, too, and Maman started laughing even harder! The three of us laughed about this for a good ten minutes - no exaggeration. It was so great. Again the following morning, as we were both doing our hair in the bedroom, I offhandedly remarked 'eeh, çe qu'on fais pour la beauté, hein?' (the things we do for beauty!) which got us going again. 'A man wouldn't last a week in a woman's body!' 'Can you picture a man trying to put on his mascara in the morning? He wouldn't have eyes left by the end of the morning!' etc, etc. Breakthrough! The family is relatively conservative, and in a country in which many people will completely deny the existence of homosexuals, the idea of a man putting on mascara is, indeed, laughable. Additionally, other than Maman and Pascal most of them have kept a culturally respectful distance from me; not avoiding me or conversation with me by any means, but just generally not getting too close. The age gaps have a lot to do with it; particularly in Tshiokwe culture, children and youth stick with their age mates. 15 year old Julianna and 19 year old Christelle stick together and there is too much of an age difference for us to really develop a very intimate relationship. 22 year old Nene is very quiet and really sticks to herself. It's inappropriate for the guys to get close with me at all, regardless of their age. Claudia, about 26, is naturally the closest to me in age and has been the most open of all. She was always asking me how I was and seemed the most relaxed in her demeanour toward me, but we hadn't had any really critical incident-type bonding moments until this. It was suuuuch a fantastic feeling.

Since I can't add captions to my photos, and I am never able to take pictures of things I want to blog about, let me quickly explain the pics posted above (they are explained in reverse because they don't seem to want to post in the order I've explained them and I have been sitting in front of this computer for long enough for one day so don't want to copy and paste around!):

4)Dinner with friends of Aunt and Uncle - they are on either side of me for those of you who've never met them. I tried crocodile for the first time that night, which was delicious. Thankfully, this picture was taken near the beginning of the evening; the air conditioner barely worked and by the end of the evening I had sweated so much that I looked like I had just stepped out of the shower. I suppose ordering soup didn't help.

3)Mama and baby! This is our new backyardigan. Ellie is definitely no longer pregnant, and spends half of her time chasing the little one back into the house i.e. electrical box.

2)A longtime friend of John and Charity's, Pakisa, that aunt Char grew up 90 miles away from here in Kamayala. Pakisa has lived in the States for the past thirty-odd years, and told us last night that he wants to move back home; that he doesn't belong anywhere but Congo. It was beyond touching.

1)Just one of the breathtaking Kinshasa sunsets that I have the privilege of watching every night.

Partie I de II - difficultés: la pluie, c'est la vie (et autres impossibilités).

Part I of II - Difficulties: Rain is Life (and other impossibilities).

Water. Eau. Mayi.

How can people live without water? If anyone out there has the answer to that question, feel free to post it below. I can't seem to figure that one out. We can live without electricity. Sure, given that we've been living with it for a pretty significant chunk of time and are really completely dependent on it, a sudden lack thereof might render life a tad bit difficult at first. I certainly wouldn't be blogging right now. But it's totally doable - when it gets dark, light candles, fires, or oil lamps. Cook over fire. Done. But we absolutely can not under any circumstances live without water.

During my first week here, the morning after I arrived at the Kulungu household the water disappeared from the pipes shortly after I had showered in the morning. They did not have running water again until Friday night after I had already left for the weekend. As mentioned, they keep huge reserves of water in barrels, buckets, and plastic containers because this happens so frequently. But even as much water as they store, which is used for cooking, drinking, bathing, cleaning, and washing, does not last a family of eleven a terribly long time! By Thursday we were so low on water that I couldn't bear the thought of using any more of what there was left and did not shower. I just washed my face and asked the girls if they had any perfume. However, since I've arrived near the end of the rainy season, we were in luck. It rains every night. As the water still had not returned by Thursday evening, all of the buckets and containers and barrels were set outside overnight and filled with rainwater.

Bless the rains down in Africa.

We were good to go on Friday morning with water a-plenty. L'eau est là! But what the hell do they do in the dry season? I asked Pascal the following week. I didn't get much of an answer. He paused and vaguely responded that they do what they can in the dry season. That's that. They do what they can.

IN THIS DAY AND AGE, THERE SHOULD BE NO ONE ON THIS EARTH WHO LIVES WITHOUT ELECTRICITY AND RUNNING WATER UNLESS THEY DO SO VOLUNTARILY. Period, the end. But this is the life of a people who live in a non-functioning state. Period, the end. There is not even a fundamental level of fully funcitoning infrastructure. The electricity cuts in and out 24/7. There is no waste collection/disposal. The roads disintegrate by the milisecond. Et l'eau ne coule pas - water does not run from people's taps... those of them who have taps. The taps, as Kinois (what Kin's residents call themselves) say, are on strike.

Mwana ya mayi, or child water carriers in Lingala, roam the streets by the thousands selling Eau Pure - 'pure' water that I've been advised against drinking - in 500 ml plastic sacs. They carry huge clear plastic bags about half the size of Glad garbage bags full of these small sacs of water on their heads, dashing in between cars and taxi-buses (of which, by the way, a large number are VW vans from the '70s) when traffic is frozen and walking up and down Kinshasa's streets morning, noon, and night. You can hear them everywhere you go, calling out 'eaupure! eaupure!' and making kissy-sounds to get peoples' attention. This is one of the many ways in which hundreds of thousands of Kinois families supplement their income (or, rather, their lack thereof). Families often have several small sources of income, actually; from universities to factories, it is not uncommon for even those Congolese who are employed to go months upon months without their wages. Families sell bread and/or a few different types of produce, such as garlic and onions, outside their homes. They take in sewing. They leave early in the morning to search all day for odd jobs and day labour. Unemployment. I have already mentioned this, but it stares me in the face every single day. The abject poverty in Congo has its population living on edge. On certain main streets in Kin, more during the evening and into the night, the tension in the atmosphere is thick and electric with desparity. Kinshasa's youth and young adults have no jobs and can't afford of school fees. They are restless. Many, of course, end up in illicit trades, motivated by the need to provide for themselves and their families. An overwhelming amount of mwana ya mayi are also shegué, homeless street kids.

Yesterday my uncle and I stopped on the side of the road to buy some fruit and he was approached by a presentable young man who looked to be around 19. He was clean cut and very polite. Initially my uncle sort of dismissed him, assuming that he had approached to ask for money (which happens just about any time you step out of a vehicle or a store), but he respectfully and firmly urged that my uncle listen; he was asking for work. Fabrise explained to John that he is studying pedagogy but has had to drop out of school because he can not pay his tuition, and is willing to do any kind of labour in order to be able to afford to continue his studies. Serendipity. John and I had just been discussing what we, in our positions of privilege, can do to help those around us without. My uncle made a quick phone call to a man he works with, who told him that he should send Fabrise to his office on Monday morning and he would find Fabrise a job. Just like that. John wrote him a note to bring with him and Fabrise seemed to be incredibly grateful :) This afternoon, my uncle called over to find out whether Fabrise had showed up, and was advised that he has been put on a one-month trial period to see how he works out. Success!

Au Congo, n'importe quoi est possible.

Anything is possible in Congo.

Congo is understood as a failed state by its people. Often when there is talk of anything related to infrastructure - the unreliability of electricity and water; the deplorable conditions of the roads - people will say with a chuckle and a shrug simply 'ça ne marche pas' (it doesn't work), referring not only to the electricity or the roads, but moreover to government. The DRC's economy is so dysfunctional that over half of its people can go their entire lives without a job. In urban Congo, there are three socio-economic classes: embarrassingly rich, dirt poor, and a level of poverty that shames the West.

My aunt and uncle have a very close friend who has lost three family members over this past year; most recently his sister, yesterday (Sunday) morning. She had been ill for some time, but was gone within just a few hours of taking a turn for the worse. She left behind a four-year-old son, who is now an orphan as his father died a couple of years ago of the 'Angola sickness,' an illness that many men who travel to Angola fall victim to there and then bring back and transmit to their wives. This little boy's uncle, my aunt and uncle's friend, has incurred the costs of all of these funerals. He does not have a job because there are no jobs to be had and he does not have the means to become self-sufficient in any entrepreneurial capacity, as so much of Congo's population does to make ends meet. Because there are no jobs. It takes money to make money. My family want so much to help him acquire the start-up capital he needs to begin raising chickens and rabbits, but the recent deaths in his life have redirected the financial support that they are able to offer. They really do all that they can for their friend.

"Fais tout ce que tu peux faire tel que tu es (do everything you can as you are).
Fais tout ce que tu peux faire avec ce que tu as (do everything you can with what you have).
Fais tout ce que tu peux faire là ou tu es (do everything you can where you are)."

These words hang on the wall in the little CPLB office, which is about the size of my bedroom; Jean Claude wrote them when he was in Zambia working on his masters thesis last year. Anything is possible in Congo. This is what everyone in Congo says at least once per day and I immediately picked up on it. Jean Claude's words embody the souls of the people of this country. Truly, anything is possible. Taxis have no mirrors, bumpers, doors, shocks, and various other pretty important parts and still operate all day and most of the night every day. On fumes. Women with no ovens sell fresh bread every morning. Men push 500 lb wagons for miles on end around Kin (you can pick them out of crowds - they're built like brick shithouses). Other men pound sheets of corrugated metal into sheets of flat metal with nothing but their bare hands and the inside rims of tires on the side of the road (these guys are also fairly sized). Families of eleven with unreliable incomes of $100-150 USD per month manage to eat once, twice, even three times per day. And still, they give everything they possibly can to others in need. Walk an hour in 39° weather instead of taking a 500 franc taxi ride (the exchange rate has been floating around in between 700-900 Congolese francs to $1 USD for months now). And laugh every day. Sincerely and heartily.

Anything is possible in Congo.

On my flight from Paris to Kin, the plane had a camera underneath it so you could watch everything you flew over throughout the entire duration. Although much of it was just white, once we reached Africa the clouds parted beneath us. I was able to see the burnt orange/red rippled sand of the Sahara as we flew over it, and the shadows of the few and sparse little clouds on the ground. As we continued on to sub-Saharan Africa, the clouds returned for a while and I switched channels on the satellite TV for a while, periodically checking back. After about six hours on the plane I couldn't concentrate on anything anymore and I just switched back and stared at the white screen... and then we reached the DRC. I could tell because through openings in the clouds, I caught glimpses of the Congo River. Although there are many large rivers that flow through Congo and really, it could have been any of them, somehow I just knew that what I saw was the river. I have been studying this country for two years, as most of you know, and no academic work is without mention of this river. It is the very lifeblood of Congo; a source of food and water, transportation, exploitation through brutal colonial methods of forced labour for resource extraction, and of life. I just knew it when I saw it. As we continued to descend and reached Kinshasa; I could see the river winding around and through the city. What I felt was simply indescribable. I, Megan Christine, was and still am at a complete loss for words. So inarticulate. A surge of energy, a wave of hope, a profound sense of awe just rocketed through my body. The river. Last night, my aunt and uncle took me for a walk along the river, where it separates the borders of Congo-Kinshasa and Congo-Brazzaville. I finlly got to see the river up close!! The path they took me to along the river is marvelous - lush green and full of the sounds of birds, the scents and sights of blossoms I've never seen before, and the branches of absolutely massive mango trees hanging over the walls of the courtyards along the path. It was calm and quiet. The sun was setting on the river in an explosion of pink and orange fire. It was magnificent.

Somehow, the physical beauty of the scenery last night both embodies and yet does not come close to touching the absolute beauty of Congolese resilience. Resilience in the face of desparity is something so beautiful as to evade accurate description. But the river is truly an incarnation of Congolese resilience.

Ah, le monde culturel.

Today I have been in Congo for one week and one day. One week! I feel like I have been here for at least a month. Can you say cultural adjustment? Yep. You bet. I have felt like a bull in a china shop for most of my time so far. A perfect example is Friday. A little background is necessary:

One of the things I will be doing this summer is observing and perhaps teaching a peer mediation course that Pascal is teaching/facilitating for two classes at UC Kin; one class made up of primary school kids from all levels, and one made up of secondary school kids of all levels (there is a primary and a secondary school on the university campus). Wednesday was my first day of work, and I spent it at UC Kin for a few hours and sat in on and observed Pascal in his first interaction with the kids and listened to him give an introduction to this course. I have arrived just in time for him to start this course, and it will last until around the middle of July. When the kids complete the course they will receive certificates from Pascal's CPLB in peer mediation. It's a really fantastic initiative, and I am so glad that I arrived just in time for the beginning of the course. So this is what I'll be doing each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday around midday.

Because I had already visited UC Kin on Wednesday, when I arrived back on the campus I was feeling a little confident because I was in a familiar place. I actually felt confident as I walked down the hall with Jean Claude and even remembered how to get to Pascal's office! Now, on the fifteen minute walk over to the university from Pascal's house, I told Jean Claude that although I have no experience teaching and may not be very helpful yet in that arena, I would like to help him out to the best of my ability in any way I can. I just wanted to put that out there because I was feeling a little useless (more about that later).

Well.

In the first class - the secondary students - things weren't going quite as well for Claude as they had gone for Pascal on Wednesay; the students were unresponsive and not listening and just generally being teenagers, and I could tell that Claude was a little bit at a loss for how to engage them. I would have felt exactly the same way! I am much better with elementary-aged kids than I am with teen-aged kids. So can you guess what his solution was?

There is a buzzer sounding for everyone who guessed anything other than that he told the kids that at that point I was going to get up and ask them some questions.

Oh yes. That's right. "Now, she is going to ask you some questions and speak to you about mediators." You're kidding. This is some sort of joke. I honestly thought that I had misunderstood him. I stayed in my seat in the corner of the room. He turns to me and motions for me to get up and stand in front of the class! I do not get up; instead, I say to him that I am not sure what he wants me to do. "Just talk to them a bit. Go." So... I start to sweat because that is just what I do in Africa. I sweat.

I get up there and stutter out some question in broken French that I am desperately trying to connect with the topic Claude was addressing (which, by the way, I am not entirely understanding at this point in the morning); the kids really don't get what I am talking about and no one raises a hand but they are polite and don't give me a hard time and I thank them and sit back down as absolutely quickly as I can feeling, once again, totally out of my element and unsure of myself. Ego check completed.

Then I broke the door handle to the bathroom off. Pulled it straight off. Broken in three pieces with the key stuck through the keyhole, even though the actual lock was still in the door.

Voila; this was what my whole week was like. One episode after another. I have essentially spent the past six days laughing at myself, one blunder after another.

However, on Friday when my aunt Charity came by to pick me up for the weekend, Christelle told me that they would miss me until my return with a sad face, and then
Maman Jeanne told Charity that she was not allowed to take me away because I now belong to them. Bless her little heart, as Alex would so fondly say. I almost cried when I heard these two statements one after the other! They came as a surprise and a relief. As I've already mentioned, the Kulungu family has taken me into their home with open arms. They've been overwhelmingly hospitable and accommodating all week. I have barely lifted a finger. Don't get me wrong because I feel immeasurably grateful and appreciative for everything they've done and will continue to do for me, but by Friday morning I was at the point where I was beginning to feel some frustration at being waited on and sitting around completely uselessly... as well as a sense of guilt that has swallowed me like a cloud of smoke since I arrived at my immense privilege. I began to worry that they would resent me terribly by the end of the summer if they felt like they had to continue to serve me as they are. I tried time and again to help clear the dishes after dinner; to wash the floor in the morning; to fetch water from their reserves for my own bathing purposes... but they insisted that I not do these things myself.

In Pascal's words earlier in the week regarding an entirely unrelated topic, 'Ah, le monde culturel.' I expressed this frustration to my fam on Friday evening. I can't go all summer like this!I mean really, if I had a guest staying with me for a week, chances are that I would do the exact same. I would want to make their stay in my home as comfortable as possible for the short time they were there and let them leave with warm thoughts and feelings about our visit. But for three months forget it. Pull your own weight! Make yourself at home means that you can get your own glass of water. However, in Tshokwe (correct spelling of Chokwe) culture, explained my aunt and uncle, it is a joy and a privilege to have guests and to serve them. They would treat their own family the exact same way, even if the stay were as long as six months or a year. Huh. Ok, well, huh. So I needn't fret...? Really? This is soooo different. And interesting and inspiring. To find joy in service is certainly not a popular Western notion, but is one that to me reflects a profound sense of connectedness to our fellow persons' well being. A vested interest in the wellness of those around us. It's beautiful and is something that I feel like I've been searching and longing for in a world that I've been increasingly feeling is run by violent and hurtful processes that can be likened to a type of global social Darwinism lately. So I will try to understand this value, and try to respect and honour it instead of feeling guilt about my great privilege; guilt: that useless and self-destructive non-emotion that serves no one. This is a tiny little nutshell version of what's been on my mind since my descent on Kin and stepping off the plane into this marvelous country. Lol.

I have so much more to say, but I am pecking away at this French keyboard upon which a bunch of letters are jumbled around in different places and this has actually taken me about an hour to type and I just don't really feel like typing anymore. Sorry folks! I will either pick it back up later this evening, or around mid-week.

Bon, jusqu'a maintenant...

...which means good then, thus far:

My trip here was just fine. Mundane airplanes and airports. I was beginning to feel very small, after having transferred through Toronto and through Paris with their gigantic airports in which I had to take shuttle buses to get to the right terminals, until I arrived in Kinshasa. Aside from the fact that we walked off the plane and across the tarmac to get inside the airport, I kind of felt right at home. I think the Kin airport may be smaller than that of Winnipeg. Small enough to be totally manageable, or so I thought when we first landed. A little more chaotic, though.

Oh, and the brick wall of heat and humidity that I walked into when I stepped off the plane was really nothing like Winnipeg at all.

My UN escort at the airport was not just any old UN escort, but in fact the MONUC (UN mission in Congo concerned with the war) Protocol for Kinshasa. Wow. He (figuratively) scooped me up and ushered me over to the "Diplomates Officiels" line to enter the country, and then ushered me through the line, visa was stamped, and then that was it. I had arrived. Officially and diplomatically. Unreal.

I proceeded to sweat my ass off waiting for my bags for the next hour and a half or so. Lol. This heat is something else. It's been in the high +30s since I arrived. And I'm sooooo white.

I proceeded to sleep for practically the next two days. Here in Kin, we are six hours ahead of Winnipeg. So when people are getting out of bed here, it's midnight back at home. I haven't had much trouble at all falling asleep six hours earlier than normal, but my body doesn't want to wake up after seven or eight hours. Nope, I seem to want twelve to fourteen hours of sleep. I don't remember the last time I slept this well. At my aunt and uncle's place, wrapped in my pink mosquito net-cocoon with the A/C blasting I'm on another planet :)

I digress.

My aunt and uncle live in a beautiful little 'villa' inside their company's headquarters compound. Their back yard is a little like the eye of a hurricane - while outside you hear the city bustling, people yelling, diesel trucks motoring along the Poids Lourds ('heavy load;' they live on Kin's main trucking route), their little courtyard is full of green and lush. There's a massive tree near the centre that looks like something straight out of the rainforest, and a number of other small trees with all sorts of different types and colours of blossoms on them. Yellow buttercup-looking flowers, this fantastic coral orange, and about four different shades of pink. All kinds of birds and little and big gecko/lizards with varying splashes and patterns of colour on them. Yesterday morning (well, actually afternoon) I sat on their verandah with my coffee and felt totally spoiled rotten. I took some pictures and will attempt to post them next weekend.

That's another thing - taking pictures is complicated here. As a matter of fact, you can be thrown in jail for being caught in public with a camera. With such a history of exploitation, no one wants their poverty further exploited by having pictures of desperation and raw life posted all over the internet or spread around other cities. Liken it to organizations like the Christian Children's Fund and/or World Vision and the way they slap the most heart-wrenching shots of kids with distended bellies and flies in their eyes in your face to guilt you into giving them money. Think about how humiliating that might be for those people who are actually suffering. That's why no pictures, and I have absolutely no issue and the utmost respect for that.

I love this city already. Despite the roads being so bad that it takes on average an extra half hour to 45 minutes to get anywhere, this city is alive in a way that no other North American city I've ever visited is alive. It pulsates with energy, life, laughter, and need. It is full of colour - women's clothing, goods in the roadside markets, the advertisements painted all along the compound walls that enclose just about everything - which has had my senses on overdrive every time I've been out. There is garbage strewn all over; the city and country have no infrastructure to speak of. If you've seen Slumdog Millionaire and the streets of Bombay/Mumbai, you've got a sense of it. But I've seen people making use of the garbage, picking it up and recycling it (plastic bags, for instance), in ingenius ways. The air is thick with the smell of humidity that I just don't know how to describe. It's fantastic.

I moved in with my host family yesterday. I visited first on Sunday and was astounded at the warm welcome I received. Two of the four girls, Claudia (who is Pascal's wife Therese's sister) and Julianna (sp?), Pascal's brother Marcel, and his parents were here to greet me. They all live here. Maman Jeanne, Pascal's mother, is absolutely darling. She was so excited that I was there and all she did was laugh, practically jump up and down, and raise my hands in thei air above our heads in celebration, an act that is extremely culturally significant. I am overwhelmed at their hospitality and how happy they are to have me here. I really thought that it would just have been me who felt that way - I'm not sure why - so this is incredible.

When I arrived yesterday evening and my aunt left it got a little awkward. My language skills are sure to improve over the next few weeks and make things a lot easier, but for now they suck too much to initiate or maintain any long or meaningful conversation. The french is quite different in this part of the world. For example, in Canada, ninety is quatre (four) - veingt (twenty) - dix (ten). Four times twenty plus ten. Here, ninety is nonante. That's just the tip of the iceberg. Not to mention the accents. So, although the french I do have is much better than none at all, it's not as helpful as I had imagined it would be! But like I said, I'm sure it will just be a couple or three weeks and I'll be right up to speed and able to fill in the awkward silences. Additionally, right now they're all being so incredibly hospitable. I've not lifted a finger in the past twenty-four hours. It's wonderful, but I'm looking forward to our being a little more comfortable with each other, helping out with cooking and cleaning, and having the language to be able to converse more freely with them all.

The power was on and off all night last night. We also had an unbelievable torrential downpour. No one was phased by it so I tried to be as nonchalant as possible, but the only time I've ever seen anything like that before was when we first arrived in Bombay at the end of the monsoon. Power has only been off so far today once and only for about five minutes, but shortly before that happened the water stopped running. This was, so thankfully, after I had had the chance to wash yesterday's heat off and start fresh. Lol. I've never smelled this bad in my life and the materiel my clothes are made of is mostly incredibly inappropriate for this climate. I didn't pack much. I asked the girls yesterday if they could help me buy some materiel and see their tailor sometime later this week or next. One thing I am really looking forward to doing again is bargaining - I loved it in India and got pretty good. Little twelve-year-old Canadian Megan could hold her own among the best rough-edged Indian vendors :) (There I go referring to myself in the third person. I blame Facebook.)

Maman Therese wants me to teach her to cook Canadian food. Bahaha. I warned her that I've always been lazy when it comes to cooking so I'm not a very good cook, but if she will teach me some Congolese cuisine I will be happy to show her how to ruin a perfectly good Canadian dish. Recipe suggestions are more than welcome.

En tous cas, I believe I will start working tomorrow. It looks like I'll actually be doing a fair bit of teaching, both in a high school that Pascal teaches at as well as possibly teach some english at UC Kin, the Christian University of Kinshasa. As well as possibly take a two week trip to do an informal evaluation of a peace curriculum that is currently being taught in public schools. As well as observe some mediations that Pascal is doing through his centre (the Centre for Peacebuilding, Leadership, and Good Governance in Congo, or CPLB in french). As well as work with my aunt and uncle and their organization. Still not entirely sure. Not even bothered anymore by the fact that I'm not sure, though. Anything I am able to do will be fantastic.

A bientot, I'll try to write again this weekend.

In KIN CITY baby

Just wanted to let you all know that I'm safe and sound in Kinshasa. Exhausted and really hot and totally thrilled. I will give you a proper update as soon as I can :)

I'M HERE AT LAST!!!!! HURRAH!!!!