tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5020807004075589252012-01-22T14:56:27.189+01:00teaching and living in congo, loving dance, raising four kids on African music and art and lots of rice.moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.comBlogger1571100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-28448951715740653512012-01-22T14:56:00.000+01:002012-01-22T14:56:27.211+01:00

Last night I went to see this group- which seems to encompass all things I hold dear- the power of art to transform lives, good music and unexpected connections between people that cross surprising boundaries. Staff Benda Bilili is a group made up of street people from Kinshasa. Some handicapped, some tossed out and forgotten, but all talented and capable musicians performing from their very

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-10365138324301086762012-01-13T20:20:00.000+01:002012-01-13T20:20:33.139+01:00

I admit to being a pseudo-blogger. This means that I blog when the mood strikes, and therefore, may end up with news that's not exactly up to the minute. I generally require some time to mull over an idea before I am ready to stumble off to my blog and share my thoughts. Of course, having time to extricate these thoughts requires pulling down one mask at the forfeiture of others (the mommy,

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-83258247602194049092011-12-25T14:06:00.000+01:002011-12-25T14:08:21.602+01:00

They came bearing gifts. I saw two of my street children this afternoon counting a handful of money as they made their way over to me. It couldn't have been more than 500 francs or so, made up of fifties and hundreds. "Ah, so it is you who are rich today," I greeted them. "Oui madame," the older boy replied as he handed me 200 franc. I graciously accepted in exchange for my bag of peanut butter

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-19609039535672746692011-12-22T21:36:00.000+01:002011-12-22T21:36:10.901+01:00

I brought them hotdogs and they asked for water. Bringing food to Kazadi several times a day- as one must do with the hospitals here- has me driving up and down the boulevard a lot. I've decided I can no longer continue to drive past the children sitting in the middle of the road just by Mercedes Circle. They are there all day and night begging handouts from the cars who stop at the newly

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-74469837013819939592011-12-19T21:47:00.001+01:002011-12-19T21:47:31.886+01:00

the world is fragile with these eyes fresh from visions of destruction the ripped and bleeding flesh has seared its image in my mind bits of broken plastic shards of glass glittering on the cement souvenirs of the impact remains that will slowly erode with time as my vision returns to its calloused state only the scars will be left behind to remind us of how fragile the world can suddenly become

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-64355317126878631732011-12-11T08:10:00.001+01:002011-12-11T08:16:38.072+01:00

I generally wake every morning to a certain bird that has a very distinctive call and the far away sounds of city destinations being called out by taxi bus money collectors. "Zando......Zando..." they sing, letting everyone know they are heading off to the large market downtown. This Saturday morning it seemed even the birds were quiet.  Cars could be heard rolling smoothly down the street but

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-50240105589504662552011-12-05T23:36:00.000+01:002011-12-05T23:36:41.802+01:00

Quest for a canvas- adventure #1 School has been closed for days. We had an extra long Thanksgiving weekend due to the Nov. 28 elections and now, due to the government SMS shut down, we are experiencing another near week off from school. Of course, local reaction to the results leaves everything up in the air and open to change. We could be home for awhile. That leaves me with plenty of time to

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-18012892769381643222011-12-01T22:11:00.000+01:002011-12-01T22:11:48.123+01:00

I've been initiated encore. It seems there is no end to the initiation rites here in Congo. I've weathered my first middle school conferences and I can say they left me feeling worlds away from elementary school. I usually spend the year with my 5th graders prepping them for the hectic and perhaps impersonal world of middle school. I tell my parents that this is the last year of the "mother hen"

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-13623567880999279732011-11-29T03:06:00.002+01:002011-11-29T03:48:39.565+01:00

It's 2 am in Congo and for the first time ever I have been awakened by silence. Even the bullfrogs are quiet. Since moving to upper campus, I have found my evenings marred by loud, rumbling trucks as they pass at all hours. Less interruptive is the call of the taxi buses, singing out their destinations as they pass. Sirens also make an odd appearance in the cacophony of late night sounds, and I

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-76766396440136026822011-11-15T22:02:00.000+01:002011-11-15T22:02:14.610+01:00

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moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-56753212811421867262011-10-17T22:43:00.002+01:002011-10-17T23:09:24.691+01:00

     Travel has always held a certain appeal to me. Walking is my standard passion, allowing me to feel in control and on the move. Though I have never felt limited by how far my feet can actually take me, bicycles and automobiles offered a second freedom, opening the roads and highways up to endless destinations. Airports, however, have become the ultimate symbol of converging cities, countries

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-87005623856998210492011-10-16T23:26:00.001+01:002011-10-16T23:37:11.047+01:00

People were staring at the market today. Everywhere I went, it seemed people were eyeing me.  I’ve learned to find some humor in it and simply laugh at the odd feeling it evokes in me.  Most often, it seems people are looking at my clothes. I can’t quite figure it out because I am not the only mondele to wear African fabric. Maybe it happens to everyone else as

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-60933957596430005632011-10-09T21:40:00.000+01:002011-10-09T21:40:29.431+01:00

My short story for today involves a scene I chose to participate in outside a pharmacy in the city. As is generally the case, I can't be certain about the true facts, but I choose to believe I had a small influence and feel better about saying something rather than nothing at all. Here is what happened: We pulled up to a relatively quiet parking spot in front of the pharmacy. In the past this

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-6684899979769345082011-10-08T07:12:00.000+01:002011-10-08T07:12:42.045+01:00

I grew up surrounded by apple trees in the fall and the smell of freshly cut grass in the spring. Rain in the air signaled blossoms and growth. It brought hope for warmer weather and renewal of energy. Moving to a new country means adapting to new weather patterns and the feelings they evoke. While I have never missed the winter, autumn and spring are subtle periods of transition that ease my

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-40698975810859043512011-10-01T21:08:00.000+01:002011-10-01T21:08:57.762+01:00

I am impressed by orphans like me that have been flung into this world like leaves scattered into the wind far from the branches that birthed them distant from roots that nourished them leaving behind our trees of biological family I gather these leaves Their colors and textures Pleasing in their differences Rich in their ability to compliment The skills and talents We have obtained through our

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-11185008045606223092011-09-30T21:38:00.001+01:002011-10-01T20:59:19.828+01:00

I've taken more taxis in these past few weeks than in all my years here in Congo. Despite the numerous warnings, I enjoy the taxis. I like learning the calls that will get me where I want to go and being ushered into waiting cars and buses. I find simple pleasure in the way the city streets pass outside my window and the gentle brush of a person sitting next to me. I like the interaction between

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-67686089771994516052011-09-28T21:15:00.001+01:002011-09-28T21:17:51.468+01:00

My neighbors are dying. It started with a man whose name I still cannot remember. I am haunted by this. I first met him as the chauffeur for our superintendent. He was so well respected that we sought to offer him a more prominent position working for the school. Some paperwork issues prevented this and led to his eventual dismissal. He found work for one of our school families instead. I saw him

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-45619707083013722612011-09-23T21:44:00.000+01:002011-09-23T21:44:52.257+01:00

And so begins another year in Kinsahsa....with all of the elements of a true Kinsahsa livelihood- a bit taxing, fast paced, full of colors and confusion, infused with passion and heartache, at times overwhelming in it's generosity and undervalued in potential. I've arrived here changed in many ways. My brief sojourn in the US already feels to be more than a world away. I've returned to Kinshasa

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-45244459208251011212011-07-05T09:56:00.020+01:002011-08-07T14:47:23.075+01:00

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moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-66796113204692536932011-07-01T04:16:00.001+01:002011-07-01T04:19:45.426+01:00

The woman across the desk paused in her writing. "Is he Muslim?" "Yes, we are Muslim," I responded, emphasis on we. At that she cocked her head up and raised an eyebrow at me. I wondered if this was going to be a problem. I was at a lawyers office having some papers drawn up. She was an immigration lawyer of some foreign descent- Pakistani? Indian? She began to ask some questions about when I'd

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-72793861054369566122011-06-15T20:56:00.002+01:002011-06-16T09:02:39.953+01:00

They said things like, “that’s a talented group of people you were with” and “it was entertaining,” which speaks volumes for what they didn’t say. And while I meant to smile and be a show person, it’s definitely something I am working on.  The dance area was small, there were no blinding lights which could send me back to the rehearsals of my memory and the audience was quiet. I almost preferred

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-18849753088924710132011-05-20T18:32:00.000+01:002011-05-20T18:32:49.882+01:00

I wrote this back in early April. Perhaps, being too close at the time, I couldn't post. But now, in the interest of honesty and with some reflection, thought it might be ok to share. <!--[if gte mso 9]> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]> Normal 0 false false false EN-US X-NONE X-NONE

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-67670696490948542712011-05-03T01:07:00.001+01:002011-05-03T01:15:54.834+01:00

Some dreams have a way of sneaking up on you. They’re the kind of dreams you hold onto in the back of your mind, the ones that you visualize before falling asleep or when you’re taking a long ride on a hot and noisy bus. They’re the kind of dreams you recognize in the movies and say, “Yeah, that could be me.”  But it’s not really you even though you’ve been

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-79146027856137813242011-04-19T04:47:00.000+01:002011-04-19T04:47:14.771+01:00

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moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-77724192590285914172011-03-13T21:51:00.003+01:002011-05-03T01:23:51.128+01:00

As I have been watching world events, countries falling to natural disaster, governments crumbling to human resistance, I admit to having hoped that Congo would be next. It is time for a true change to grab the African continent and sweep her clean and clear of the foul debris polluting her for so long. It is time for a new age, a return to golden splendor and wisdom that once flowed from the

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-70420416243878042482011-03-13T21:42:00.002+01:002011-03-13T21:51:06.301+01:00

Spies. Intrigue. The decimation of a culture. My first official lesson in Lingala played something like an action adventure movie, without the stunts of course. The spies and intrigue part I am less inclined to write about just yet, still suffering from the uncomfortableness that comes from knowing people may not be who they seem...and intently so. What I have agreed to do is exchange English

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-17533443823213444812011-02-24T23:18:00.000+01:002011-02-24T23:18:50.104+01:00

Though I have been feeling more in sync with the spirit of Congo these last few weeks, there remains a memory that lingers. It has merged with the special effects of a movie scene, in the way that memories often do, hazing the line between the reality of what was and what appeared to be. As it lingers in my memory, it carries with it the soft scent of Guinea, country of my heart. I was wandering

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-43824379175524799862011-02-13T19:56:00.001+01:002011-05-03T01:20:23.698+01:00

I've been a bit stuck, these last few months. It's become a trap of writing nothing or exploring the same kinds of events over and over. I am grateful that I haven't become complacent. I'm left with finding simple ways to inject some humanity into my daily life---asking someone's name, sharing a windfall of avocados from my storm blown tree, offering a smile, a listening ear, complimenting a

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-15509770602177105902011-01-13T21:54:00.001+01:002011-05-03T01:02:41.485+01:00

It was bound to happen. Time and place and lack of commitment. I was reading some posts from earlier in the whole Congo-Kinshasa adventure and find the recent ones to be lacking. There's been a change. Actually, there's been quite a few changes. I've lost some friends- a common theme in this transient kind of lifestyle. But along with them I've lost some connections. My friend from the small

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-84322866873453028152010-12-30T11:48:00.003+01:002010-12-30T15:40:57.964+01:00

“Remember what Bilbo used to say: ‘It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”” — J.R.R. TolkienAs a child, I followed Bilbo's adventures never knowing that I might be closer to his reality one day than I could ever imagine. Stepping out the door in Congo is always certain to

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-11342627346482922432010-12-29T15:19:00.000+01:002010-12-29T15:19:14.319+01:00

I've resisted writing for a number of reasons, though lack of material cannot be counted among them. I've been searching this third year for the Congo that I have thus far only read about, heard about from Congolese abroad or dreamt about as I envision the work others are doing. Sara Rich seems to have found a perfectly beautiful niche working with children in Goma. Long breaks from school remind

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-89733408565549896602010-12-13T22:44:00.000+01:002010-12-13T22:44:42.604+01:00

It's been a long time coming....this particular post. And I'm not quite sure I'll get it right. However, I do think it's time to try and put some words to what I've been grappling with and what anyone who lives here already knows. It's too easy to get caught up in a stream of complaints about living in Kinshasa and doesn't make for interesting reading surely. If the second year was all about

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-63455217478327369712010-12-04T23:55:00.000+01:002010-12-04T23:55:36.327+01:00

It took me awhile to approach this book. It found me in the way that good books often do, sneaking up when I am least aware. I'd heard about A Thousand Sisters by Lisa Shannon often enough, living in Congo and trying to keep up with the current state of affairs. I'd put off reading it for a variety of reason, the first of which, I must admit, was the title. Sisters....growing up in the

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-60823933868180186252010-10-21T19:49:00.004+01:002010-10-21T20:06:16.887+01:00

While the general pace of our lives tends to leave us each absorbed in our own microcogisms, lately I see I've spent an unusual amount of time peering out to my world from behind one set of wall or another. It is a world marked by the slow moving pace of security guards blending in with shadows. It's a world filled with sterile beauty and composed with pieces from a not so distant past. I wonder

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-70342844628221826412010-10-17T20:25:00.000+01:002010-10-17T20:25:59.888+01:00

because i can't be a touristi don't build those memoriesthat people collectand store away like photographs picture perfect snapshots of moments that never really existed music that plays to create a false atmosphere i look behind the curtain because i can't be tourist i wander around searching for something real seeing only beauty in the blemishes that mark a daily life its a photo full of

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-22913776198455869272010-10-17T11:29:00.001+01:002010-10-17T11:31:05.101+01:00

I surprise myself With the things I've accomplished by myself I want to need you Have my soul Cry out for you I want to look out for each other Satisfy my longing Reach out to each other But behind these walls It is only I behind these walls

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-51797667559693617372010-09-11T08:47:00.000+01:002010-09-11T08:47:01.814+01:00

Following a crash in the US, police usually gather and try to determine exactly what happened. They may interview several witnesses, receive a variety of stories and spend some time analyzing tire tracks, paint smudges and other informational clues. In the critical seconds just after an accident, witnesses may turn into heroes or helpers as they dial 911 and provide any assistance they know how.

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-3646534122420281142010-09-05T06:21:00.002+01:002010-09-05T06:29:53.661+01:00

I have discovered a favorite new fabric store. Well, perhaps favorite is a strong word, but it is defintielty a useful new fabric store. I have two now and I always visit them together. Lambada is what I consider a conservative store. It is the tried and true, steadfast friend you can call in the middle of the night if you need something and be certain to be helped. This store has many styles of

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-84044531877849597552010-08-20T14:54:00.000+01:002010-08-20T14:54:17.081+01:00

I've received my latest update from the United States Department of State Bureau of Consular Affairs. It is a lengthy caution about the risks of traveling as an American citizen. Apparently, many peoples of the world would like to do me in based upon my nationality. I receive many of these emails and texts messages from the American embassy here in Congo as well. They generally restate the fact

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-6846594709868272512010-07-17T22:12:00.001+01:002010-08-14T21:57:23.982+01:00

The euphoria from my most recent teacher training is beginning to wear off.....but there is an image that has stayed with me. It sneaks up in unexpected places---drives in the car, over the stove while I am cooking dinner, or flickering across the screen as I browse late night TV. It seems to occupy a place in the very back of my thoughts churning and tumbling in an effort to take form. A sign

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-63561120970621095312010-07-16T02:40:00.000+01:002010-07-16T02:40:13.733+01:00

I've come to recognize these trips to the US as one long assault on my emotional memory. I spend the time in a series of adjustments. First I am reacquainting myself with the life I lived here, the material comforts and ease of navigating about the daily business of life. I remember how to make consumer choices in stores and ignore the extraneous fluff- something my children are not as good at -

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-75263112665561851782010-06-26T21:47:00.000+01:002010-06-26T21:47:16.789+01:00

Doritos. Almond Hershey Bars. Cookie Dough Ice Cream. These are the things I think I miss when I am cruising down the small, tightly packed but choice limited grocery aisles in Kinshasa. I fantasize about going back to the US and buying a whole entire bag of chips to eat by myself, in one sitting. It gets me through the craving. Upon arrival however, I find the last thing I want is junk food. I

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-85833258793161601382010-06-12T21:34:00.000+01:002010-06-12T21:34:26.839+01:00

I tend to be a bit behind the times. It’s a purposeful lateness that I can’t quite explain. I just know that I am immediately skeptical about all things on the bestseller list or that receive major media attention. Usually, I let the furor die down before I cautiously approach to see what all the hype was about. And so it was no surprise that I came to be seated in the TASOK Cultural Arts Center

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-15782057819759597922010-06-03T18:27:00.001+01:002010-06-03T18:37:08.667+01:00

The nights have become cool and crisp, blowing gentle breezes that make me reach for a sweater or some kind of light wrap. I could never really understand how Africa could be cold, though I'd heard many people suggest it. I guess you must live here to experience it. Of course, it is not the bone chilling, raw winter wind whipping across your cheeks kind of cold, but it is shiver inducing

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-88190875148399411182010-05-20T11:04:00.000+01:002010-05-20T11:04:06.807+01:00

I stumble out into the warmth of the African sun. I’ve been surrounded by a fog, thick and deep and all consuming. I am still not sure if I can trust the day, with its bright, potentially misleading, sunshine (a line from my daughter that I love.) It is a civil war raging within and I am shell shocked from its ravages, suddenly faced with images of a future and possibilities I couldn’t imagine

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-63264943255576185892010-04-19T16:37:00.001+01:002010-04-19T16:41:31.904+01:00

I met him in Lubumbashi A boy from the village of Mwene Ditu Where they live 60 kilometers From the diamond mines But don't have running water Inside, No electricity Where bicycles run Like cars I met him in Lubumbashi Selling cases of Coke Primus, Skol and Fanta from a run down depot with a broken window and a metal door his cot rolled up behind He arrived in the capital Kinshasa with just

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-56410468347937622862010-04-09T22:47:00.001+01:002010-04-09T22:54:02.328+01:00

ESL is a fact of life in Congo. Everywhere people are learning English, speaking broken, accented English or that careful, proper English that uses words native speakers hardly ever do. For the U.S. citizen, reference points are all wrong, even in our American school, because the students are coming from around the world with their own reference points. That is how I found myself reading an essay

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-13709800093993154582010-04-04T22:21:00.003+01:002010-04-04T22:32:43.127+01:00

When I first arrived at school, we were given an interesting orientation task. The staff was divided into groups and each group had to find something that all members had in common. A typical community building, ice breaking type of exercise. In general, groups came up with forgettable responses that did not truly get to the heart of the matter- unifying us as educators, neighbors, and colleagues

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-41637265048848755052010-03-11T10:26:00.001+01:002010-03-11T10:29:46.038+01:00

Today I am ready for the self indulgance of America. A day  like this creeps up on me every so often here. I become indignant and righteous. I forget everything I have learned and turn my head from the complicated facts confronting me daily. On a day like today, when I return to my car parked alonog the main road, I refuse to give money to the small crowd of boys surrounding it. They eye me as I

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-19886310844622982672010-03-10T21:20:00.001+01:002010-03-10T21:27:34.492+01:00

The school year is about to begin its annual rollar coaster build up and slamming descent to the final day. I am home enjoying "spring break" and trying to prepare for what I know will be a messy blur until the jolting moment when I realize its actually all over. School is out. Long before this set upon us, however, I began an experiential learning project with my fifth graders that has us out

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-39038571151240114852010-02-15T21:45:00.001+01:002010-02-15T21:45:50.839+01:00

A list of real, recent Top Ten reasons to be late or absent from school.......they range in order from the most common to the most unique, but ALL have been offered up to me by fifth graders or their parents: 10. It rained and/or traffic. 9. I had malaria. 8. My nanny didn't wake me up on time. 7. I am still on extended vacation with my parents in South Africa. 6. I moved back to South Africa (

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-55627603055299219932010-02-12T21:02:00.001+01:002010-02-12T21:05:12.893+01:00

With repetition comes experience and knowledge. I felt I knew what to expect for the ride back to Conakry, which, while not exactly comforting, at least put me in a slightly better position than when I was riding up to Kankan. I planned to leave at night, hoping most of our journey would be spent with the boys sleeping. Then we could arrive sometime mid-morning and be of less disturbance to

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-2652546530826951782010-02-08T07:08:00.000+01:002010-02-08T07:08:34.897+01:00

Pounding pondu, weaving Bas Luba welcome arbs and singing the Congolese national anthem. I've just spent an hour or so of 'professional collaboration' time trying to plan a week of Congo-related activies for our elementary students. I found aspects of it deeply disturbing. Being a transplant comes with certain built -in quirks. Before moving to Africa, I was fairly addicted to reading about

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-41987586056117617702010-01-29T20:05:00.000+01:002010-01-29T20:05:56.285+01:00

The real trouble with travel is that you must return. Things happen during travel that have the potential to change your entire perspective. You return home with new eyes and new expectations. Inevitably, when returning to Kinshasa especially, there is a period of readjustment and reacclimation. And so its been upon return from Guinee. I am left questioning many facts of life here as I find my

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-8867183229735279722009-11-29T15:00:00.001+01:002009-11-29T15:04:18.149+01:00

"She's living out of a suitcase. She had all of her stuff shipped back home." The conversation came on the heels of a premonition someone on campus felt about the security of life for us ex-pats in the DRC. I was catapaulted into a state of shock for entirely different reasons. Congo is full of aid workers and 'helping' agencies. I've been reading and learning a lot about the real effect this

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-70982880144167206932009-10-24T18:24:00.003+01:002010-02-12T21:06:27.654+01:00

We sped to the airport at 100 mph (ok, so maybe it was 100 kph,) but it seemed as though the car itself were about to take off. At 5:30 am the streets were empty. I harboured plenty of doubts about whether the car was equipped with working brakes but I suddenly felt certain I would make the plane on time...provided of course there were no potholes or unexpected pedestrians to throw the car into a

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-9691580238894551242009-10-10T22:31:00.001+01:002009-10-10T23:51:45.899+01:00

This is the kind of day that has me repeating to myself, 'I really love my life.' The fact of the matter is I have never felt this way before. I am cognizant each and every minute of the pleasure my life brings. The gratefulness to which I approach everything is a drastic turn from the previous me who was, basically, a shouting, raving lunatic- completely stressed out and unaware of how to

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-3451665777567480382009-10-10T00:05:00.000+01:002009-10-10T00:05:59.489+01:00

I am sure I would have noticed the armed guard even if Mohamed hadn't said, on the way out of the gate, "You see? Noah's security men have guns."  Guns? Weapons was a more accurate word from my perspective. A gun is something small that you can fit in your hand or the waistband of your pants. This was slung over the guard's shoulder and at least as long as his arm, from shoulder to fingertips-

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-87509942973709684822009-09-27T13:59:00.000+01:002009-09-27T13:59:40.699+01:00

I returned minus one pair of scissors. I am trying to figure out if I should be grateful or indignant. I did begin with 12. It could easily have appeared to the untrained eye that I had plenty to spare. I am forever battling this concept of poverty versus prosperity. It actually began when I dropped Mohamed off at a birthday party. A new restaurant has opened in Kintambo which has left everyone

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-63255179064433019122009-09-20T10:57:00.000+01:002009-09-20T10:57:53.316+01:00

completely unsatisfied with my most recent entry but unsure of how to change it...i decided just to invite you to sample the random, swirling thoughts that fill my head each day from which i try to construct coherent, interesting and descriptive sentences.   i could have written about a dancing pig the 23 year old who left it all to learn swahili and start a school how completely unimportant and

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-84875464138701327512009-09-19T12:03:00.007+01:002009-09-20T07:36:07.839+01:00

It all started with a song. A song and an energetic yet sensual video. Sometimes these things just have to catch you at the right moment. This one did. The basic premise of this love song, set to a rhythm and blues beat backed by a vocal quartet, was 'tell me what you want.' Presumably, the sexy young singer was ready to accomodate.But its all about timing and this particular evening, I saw much

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-91226542384869895152009-08-29T19:30:00.007+01:002009-08-29T22:11:48.712+01:00

This is nearly my 100th post, and I'm still not sure if I've captured Kin the way I see it. Surely it is a monumental task. Adding to it is the fact that there isn't a consistent image or experience. Life here seems viewed through a fluid, molten mask that offers an ever changing perspective based upon so many arbitrary details.What I noticed most about my return was the darkness. As we drove

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-6185995324854924862009-08-22T21:39:00.003+01:002009-08-22T21:53:35.898+01:00

Returning to Africa was nothing like I expected it to be. I stayed in New York for four weeks and it wasn’t until the ride to the airport that I began to wonder if I could just melt back into that world. As I watched families on vacation towing eight foot campers stacked with bicycles and other symbols of leisure, I seriously began to consider the possibility of blending in to this lifestyle…

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-43849418281393806512009-06-30T10:08:00.008+01:002009-06-30T11:07:34.730+01:00

I've lost another friend this week. She was a distant friend, to be sure. Having made her home in the uppermost corner of my bathroom ceiling, we never came into close contact. I did gaze in her direction several times a day, checking to be sure she was still in presence (and also, I admit, that she wasn't about to fall on me, being right over the doorway as she was.) She did come down once or

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-57346974366636878302009-06-29T19:00:00.005+01:002009-06-29T20:54:22.860+01:00

As with all good journeys, there must be a return. As we draw ever closer to our return, I find I am completely unprepared. I have become used to thinking in a myraid of languages and using whichever word pops into mind at the time. I enjoy the peaceful calm that comes from knowing exactly how I do not belong. And I have come to approach every situation with an equal mix of curiosity,

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-69824647003069273112009-06-29T12:39:00.003+01:002009-06-29T12:56:16.170+01:00

Ever in search of clean water, I was on my way to buy more PUR packets for distribution to Vero. I thought that, since she has a tap of running water in her yard and I’ve seen some neighbors come to get water as well as the soda and pop she sells, if I could get her hooked on using the packets, it might benefit the whole neighborhood. (I’ve since come down from my lofty cloud but you know, it

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-75469745359609413812009-06-20T19:03:00.003+01:002009-06-20T19:46:47.989+01:00

The minature pink buckets were perfectly designed for holding crayons. I cannot begin to guess what their real purpose might be but it seemed they were designed for us. There was a little black handle which made it convenient for passing (though I noticed today that no one actually did) and the lids made them perfect for travel.The ride to the Center was cool and energizing. There is nothing

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-58118918293555180412009-06-13T16:29:00.004+01:002009-06-20T19:47:53.167+01:00

A few boys have come out into the street to show off their moves. They are rapping and dancing to music pulsating from behind two steel doors. The doors are painted a deep blue with orange diamonds in the middle. It is a small but busy street. A family has taken up residence in a nearby driveway overgrown with weeds. A fire burns down the road and at the end, across the street, I have a vision of

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-6074251998193411842009-06-05T12:32:00.002+01:002009-06-05T13:11:34.347+01:00

It is official. I have survived my first year teaching in Congo. I'm sitting in my class now feeling strangely let down. The children have all flown off to their exotic locale or been spirited away by drivers and nannies. It is a different world from the final days of past where the staff gathered to cheer and wave as the buses carted students off to their summer vacations spent in farm fields

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-75540855312601965682009-05-23T04:47:00.003+01:002009-05-23T06:15:48.438+01:00

It's 4:30 am. I've been up for an hour and a half. I may have gone to bed too early. For me, this means something in the 8:30 or 9:00 range. I am finding my rhythms of sleep have become deeply disturbed. I realize the days and nights that I manage to I rise and fall in harmony with everyone else are really deviations from the pattern rather than a return to normal life.Maybe being single again

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-56098826256095196302009-05-14T20:23:00.002+01:002009-05-15T14:10:52.525+01:00

The children have it bad. It is even infecting me. With only three weeks left to go, we're all dreaming of summer. Even as I take time to reflect, I am caught up in the changes that are swirling around us. The migration beings. This morning I received a letter indicating that this week would be the last week for a student. Today is Thursday. This week is practically over. I see tears forming just

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-28063431535148563072009-05-05T21:21:00.006+01:002009-05-06T23:29:14.471+01:00

I have been imploring my students for months to open with a good beginning, a hook. In the interest of practicing my own preachings, I set out to find a number....a large number, the estimated population of Kinshasa. I stumbled upon an amazing account of life in Kinshasa written by Mayamba Thierry NLANDU, Professor of English Literature at the University of Kinshasa (Congo) http://i-p-o.org/

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-46404029596811701222009-04-28T17:43:00.003+01:002009-04-28T18:13:39.829+01:00

I enjoy navigating the roads of Kinshasa, never knowing for sure how a trek through a 'puddle' might turn out. I don't drive to the village, however, as it is quite a distance and appears to require some careful negotiations. There are some areas where the road narrows and police sit in plastic chairs, manning each side. I have noticed the driver, Charles, and others in the car nodding and

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-21206328048523033672009-04-27T21:53:00.010+01:002009-04-28T17:40:41.301+01:00

Things never work out the way you thought. Or more accurately, most often things have a specific way of working out and that may or may not be the way you wanted. It is getting slightly easier to adjust to this perspective. But it does take concentration and a certain conviction to do so. I have to work at it.The last few days have been such a kaleidoscope of emotions that I can't really pick

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-49921253783694634232009-04-25T07:04:00.003+01:002009-04-25T07:41:43.849+01:00

It's finally happened. I caught myself holding up a box of cereal and remarking, "It was only $6." After my friend responded, rather dryly, "A real bargain," I had to stop and consider.I guess I've changed. I feel such a loss of the small things, fresh fruits and vegetables, that I am now willing to pay for $6 for 4 oranges or a box of Honeycombs (they were worth every penny! yummmm!) I find

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-61530905636202486042009-04-10T12:36:00.005+01:002009-04-12T19:04:34.702+01:00

At first I thought it was a bird. The air is constantly filled with the sounds of chirping, calling, singing, whistling birds. I've recognized the call of pigeons and parrots. I've heard one bird that seems to sing the scales and it becomes clear where all of our inspiration for music comes from.But the sound went on, coming closer until it passed my classroom windows. No bird, this. The notes

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-67613912816983721602009-04-02T21:15:00.004+01:002009-04-02T21:57:20.172+01:00

Last night I talked to someone online for two hours. I laughed until I cried. I found the conversation witty and intelligent. And for just a moment I wondered what it would be like to really know someone that way. To know someone like me- who could read my words and understand, or debate, or hunger for more.Just a moment before reality comes crashing back in, reigning glass and chunks of rubble

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-61535966495513342752009-03-31T20:52:00.002+01:002009-03-31T21:15:52.272+01:00

I've been walking around in a cotton candy dazehead stuffed fuller than an old couchpopping its cushionsyellow foam explodingfrom the half closed zipperschildren bouncing up and downshrieking as the couch springscreak and moan with agemy age, feeling so much morethan the girl I used to beweighed down with pain andmisery from this sicknessthat's got a hold of meI stumble stare through the doorRx

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-65585595133693291162009-03-17T18:20:00.002+01:002009-03-17T18:39:29.978+01:00

We finally made it today to the orphanage. It was a group trip which was not as weird as I’d thought it might be. The orphanage turned out to be typical in many ways that I expected but I also came away with some welcome and surprising revelations.The area itself was quite beautiful. The grounds are spacious and well maintained. It was relatively clean and organized. It is quite large and has

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-89375614862224298212009-03-15T18:21:00.008+01:002009-03-17T18:19:34.824+01:00

It was the soccer game that got me thinking. It began with the declaration of a legal holiday. Congo won the African Championship for the first time since 1974. (Most) schools were closed and people everywhere were given the day off. And then the rumors began. After school activites were cancelled in anticipation of the team's return. Better to be safe at home than stuck in traffic with an

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-55704364144079196442009-03-05T18:40:00.008+01:002009-03-09T22:38:39.355+01:00

It was about 4:30 when I received one text message on my phone. I don't get a lot of phone calls or messges so it was a fairly exciting event. (That statement alone may give a more definitive perspective of Congo than anything else I could write in this blog.)It was a forwarded message. Unlike FWD: emails, forwarded messages are usually important. They come from the US Embassy. Who was advising

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-33488679890589644582009-02-22T19:48:00.006+01:002009-02-22T20:50:30.707+01:00

...unless of course you're having a sack race on the soccer field. We spent the day in the village of Ngana Peo. It rates up there with one of the more bizarre experiences, equally fraught with the complexities of opposing emotions. The project is from a small Italian aid group working in Kinshasa. This particular day was an organization of fun and games in a village where several former street

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-77701357273581875472009-02-14T19:14:00.004+01:002009-02-14T20:00:54.932+01:00

I suppose it is nothing that would turn a seasoned mountain climber's eye. Just a guy in a tree. This is the guy from downtown, still working on cutting the tree down after several weeks. From the looks of his machete (versus the girth of the tree) I think he has enough work lined up for several months. I can only hope he is getting paid by the day and not by tree. He has more ropes than the

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-10909919730569188052009-02-09T18:47:00.004+01:002009-02-10T11:59:57.751+01:00

I've been dancing with Jolie; she is a fierce dancer. She can look so relaxed and disinterested one minute and be full of expression and movement in the next. I am ceaselessly amazed at how much emotion she conveys with the slightest movement. I’ve been trying to pinpoint the difference between the Guinea dance, which I miss and crave so much, and the Congolese, which occasionally satisfies my

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-51880067796185251102009-02-01T10:48:00.002+01:002009-02-01T10:53:03.877+01:00

Jan 31, 2009I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sight, though I toyed with the idea of running home to get my camera. Too far. I also considered texting my neighbor to see if she was coming to the pool, bring the camera, but I had left without the phone. There is no way to describe the sight in a manner that will truly describe the incident. I bring my camera everywhere, but not today. Of

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-1465853223977075942009-02-01T10:46:00.003+01:002009-02-01T10:54:18.488+01:00

Jan. 31, 2009Since the beginning of time, the story of Abraham has terrified me. For awhile, it was my excuse for aversion to religion. I did not believe I could pass such a test, nor did I want to be involved with a God who would command one. But of course, we are all involved with God , through our acceptance or denial, and I’ve yet to come to terms with such a test but continue to struggle in

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-32590192493182750992009-01-26T20:40:00.004+01:002009-01-26T21:43:13.117+01:00

One of those moments that works out exactly as planned, though it wasn't even.We began a focus on leadership today and as a simple exercise, I divided the board in half and labeled one, Qualities and the other, Examples. I handed out red and black markers, asking the students to contribute to each. Of course the examples came easy, filling up quickly with greats like Obama and JFK. Some

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-75153383811956440892009-01-18T10:01:00.009+01:002009-01-18T11:07:39.374+01:00

We’re just walking along when the road suddenly stops. The iron bars crossing the way do little to ease the tension. The sandbags are gray and dirty and small. They seem like a cheap movie prop against the dramatic backdrop of the gorge behind them. Houses appear perched on the very edge, as if a misplaced sofa might throw enough weight in the wrong direction to send the whole structure toppling

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-74840080589609728412009-01-15T19:02:00.002+01:002009-01-15T19:13:48.995+01:00

"Is there a bad God?" Mohamed tilts his head as he asks me this over dinner."No." I think about it only for a minute, trying to figure out what he's heard lately, wondering if he is referring to a devil."Kagiso doesn't believe with Adam." I am patient as he talks about his classmates. I know eventually the story will come together, revealed in bits and pieces with clarity only at the end."Kagiso

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-38451463745193127302009-01-13T22:28:00.004+01:002009-01-13T23:19:18.320+01:00

Lately, I've been feeling my age. I haven't been feeling it actually, I've been obsessing over it. It's the kind of thing that just pops into my mind every so often, the number, just to remind me that while I've been busy hesitating, regretting and otherwise bumbling through life, time is passing. Logically, I understand this year's number is not especially grand nor a milestone of any kind, but

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-62694587237702815092009-01-07T19:29:00.003+01:002009-01-07T19:45:09.783+01:00

The students return in dribs and trickles, jet-lagged and over-tired. On Monday, the energy level was sooooo low. By Tuesday I had them doing morning exercises. Three weeks is an immense amount of time.I look at the process I go through as a teacher and understand it must be doubly hard on the students. It is too easy to forget how much I love teaching. Now that we are almost back to a full

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-62716854758424681032009-01-05T19:14:00.010+01:002009-01-06T00:44:40.507+01:00

For 2009, I've decided to stop apologizing for being me. In the spirit of this, some works from Congo. Nabih has knocked out the camera so, awaiting a better photo:Headlines from DRCupper text: Afghanistan Iraq Israel Ukraine Pakistan Zimbabwe Sudan Rwanda India Myanmar Jordan Guinea Ethipoia Liberia Sierra Leone Chad Nigeria Somalia Armenia Nepal Cuba Ecuador Korea Haiti Iran Columbia Tibet

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-47453252961306875012009-01-02T18:49:00.004+01:002009-01-02T23:16:14.056+01:00

Like a long lost lover, memories of guinee come back, gently caressing me awake from my 8 year slumber.It could be trying to learn lingala and thinking only of sousouit could be every time I turn on the radio, I hear the rhythms of west africait could be dance awakening my soulit could be torturous regret, cutting deep and turning savagelyit could be news from home, shutting down all

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-91985414220776376582008-12-26T17:36:00.003+01:002008-12-26T19:21:35.677+01:00

Nazali yekola na Lingala. I am studying Lingala.I have happened upon a (rather ancient) book and so begin my studies. It is, amazingly, a translation from English to Lingala, which is ever helpful. I have no doubt I could continue with one from French to Lingala but this version serves as a great beginning. I can spend my time trying to remember the Lingala and not worrying if I've gotten the

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-14259505523162196862008-12-20T13:06:00.003+01:002008-12-20T19:43:17.305+01:00

As my vacation continues on, I'm finding it filled with little adventure, or those that hold much promise but little reality. I'm trying my hardest to relax and do nothing, as one is supposed to with a good vacation. The closest I can get to this is reading. I've stumbled across a series of books that manage to transport me to different times and places, each in their own way. The last school I

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-33989527652175907432008-12-18T09:04:00.004+01:002008-12-18T11:32:10.046+01:00

the reason I am not a political blogger (aside from the fact that I need things reduced to their simplest terms for adequate comprehension) is the fact that I am very bad at citing remarks. I can never seem to remember where I heard something, only that I did. My reading goal this year was to improve my memory of author names. I am improving in that area and suppose it is time to generalize and

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-78509082085333731092008-12-16T19:54:00.003+01:002008-12-16T19:58:41.180+01:00

Sometimes you just read something and suddenly, the obvious becomes apparent.......Emin Pasha- blogging at www.congoresources.com-"Indulge my half-baked ideas as I play political sociologist of the longue duree. The notion that the government exists to serve the people--rather than the other way around--was one of the deepest and most wide-ranging transformations in Western thinking. It came

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-79717373147461656982008-12-16T19:40:00.002+01:002008-12-17T08:14:28.245+01:00

shedding some light on the state of women in eastern congo:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UX8X6b7q7s8it was the part when she said, 'I have three children from the rapes, including the one in my arms...'

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-43967971280640962732008-12-16T09:09:00.002+01:002008-12-16T09:14:44.381+01:00

Today was a perfectly great example of an ordinary day. One of my students invited me to his birthday party, so we all went, Mohamed, Nabih and I and one other teacher from school. There is a very sweet little place not far from campus that is built for children’s entertainment. During our day, I had time to reflect.Yesterday during our shopping trip I noticed a bowl of beetles laying amongst the

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-502080700407558925.post-71225433846590113592008-12-16T09:07:00.002+01:002008-12-18T11:31:23.207+01:00

as in Dorothy, we're not....? ? 50, 30, ? As we near the middle of a marking period, I scan my grades to check on general progress. That is what I came across in the math section of my record book. It is a student I have been struggling to reach. He clearly has some intensive special education needs. I’ve seen some small progress in the area of writing but math remains a mystery. In a class of

moratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17691040777698448243noreply@blogger.com0