One needs only two things to hatch in chicks a classroom: fertilized, fresh eggs and an incubator kept at 99.5 degrees F. But even the most simple of things can be made impossible in Kinshasa. Why?
1. American incubators run on different voltage than what we have in Congo.
2. Even after you rig up transformers like you know what you're doing, you'll realize that the Congolese light bulbs don't fit into the American incubator.
3. Getting light bulbs transported from American to Congo without getting smashed is a very tall order.
4. My French cannot handle the complexities of requesting eggs that come from a hen who has been shacking up with a rooster, eggs that have only exited hen within the last week and which are not speckled with fecal matter, but if they are, sand it off please and for goodness sakes, don't wash the eggs in water!
5. Someone will have thought it a brilliant idea to pack the eggs in a metal can and careen through gargantuan potholes to deliver them to my classroom, leaving us with 8 eggs minus the two smashed ones, minus a third with a hairline crack that we are incubating anyway but will probably dispose of after two weeks lest it explodes (it happens).
6. Bumpy delivery notwithstanding, the eggshells in Congo are incredibly thin and porous. I only hope this does not mirror the bone density of the Congolese.
7. The power is frequently cut, sending the temperature of an incubator plummeting to something way colder than the underside of a hen.
8. When the generator kicks on, electricity buzzes through our outlets with more power than ever. The temperature shoots up causing an impressive array of chick deformities.
9. We are not in America so there is no friendly farm up state but not too far up who will take the chicks back upon hatching. IF they hatch that is.
Battling items 6-8 at the moment on Day #2 of Incubation 2011.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
KinderArt!
Inspired by Congo Week, we learned how a tailor gets down to business... Choosing fabric, designing a pattern, cutting the fabric... Below is a close-up shot. I believe I have seen that very outfit worn on the streets of Kinshasa. True haute couture.
Finger painting that doesn't get your hands messy. Squirt or spoon paint onto paper, lay a piece of plastic wrap on top and bang, mush and gush. Don't mind my messy desk in the corner- it deters the evil eye as one of my former Indian colleagues once told me.
Collage fabric tree inspired by the book Mama Miti by Donna Jo Napoli. We read it while studying Wangari Maathai. A photo of this tree and a letter inviting Ms. Maathai to picnic under the mangosteen tree we planted and closing with, "We hope you like your Nobel Prize" were DHL'd to Kenya.
Where art and math collide. A painting series by the little Mondrians.
Our own Charlotte's Web(s)
Marble painting: classic.
Beaded Sand Castles: Why not?
Body Models from left to right (inner most to out) we have organs (yes that's a rectum there), skeleton, muscles and skin/funky outfit. A few months later we added a nondenominational soul we named Friendly Friend, who is hung to the left of the organ model (whatever that means).
Friday, February 11, 2011
Almost Smart Enough to Know How to Lie Properly
One child to another: Fuck you.
Me: WHAT did you say?!
Child: Fuck two. I said, 'Fuck two.'
Me: WHAT did you say?!
Child: Fuck two. I said, 'Fuck two.'
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
French Screw Ups, Part I
The usefulness of my French is situational. I am able to ask a tailor to make a cap-sleeved wraparound dress with pockets and a snap closure, but I routinely fail at planning my veggie patch with the campus gardener. I care a lot more about vegetables than fashion, but some words just stick better in my mind. For example, I was at an utter loss while explaining to Rattinger's caretaker that he needed a swimsuit every Monday for P.E. The conversation went something like...
Me: Rattinger is needs something.
Confused Caretaker (CC): ?
Me: Something...for....for...for...snowing!
CC: Snowing?!
Me: Dammnit! Not snowing! A thing for .... school.... See every Monday we put the children under water.
CC: Water?
Me: Yes, of course. Under a lot of water. We put them in a box. A box of water.
CC: To clean them?
Me: No, for the exercises them.
CC: Swimming?
Me: Yes, of course! He needs to bring a thing a thing like clothes for swimming! And a....thing like a napkin to...remove the water...after.
So the following Monday, Rattinger arrives with a towel and an extra pair of underwear, camouflage patterned, with "Little Guy" written across the front.
Me: Rattinger is needs something.
Confused Caretaker (CC): ?
Me: Something...for....for...for...snowing!
CC: Snowing?!
Me: Dammnit! Not snowing! A thing for .... school.... See every Monday we put the children under water.
CC: Water?
Me: Yes, of course. Under a lot of water. We put them in a box. A box of water.
CC: To clean them?
Me: No, for the exercises them.
CC: Swimming?
Me: Yes, of course! He needs to bring a thing a thing like clothes for swimming! And a....thing like a napkin to...remove the water...after.
So the following Monday, Rattinger arrives with a towel and an extra pair of underwear, camouflage patterned, with "Little Guy" written across the front.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Zanzibar
The beach...
This appears to be a really interesting fort, but it is in fact now a craft center where 20 women will try to splatter you with henna and a stoned lady keeps sticking scarves in your face
Focus on the small blob at the top of the trunk- the heroic coconut retriever.
I miss the juice.
Kite surfing. Crazy.
We thought we were going to the reef to snorkel. Nope we were going to the reef to hike. Bring your walking sticks, girls.
Low tide does strange things.
And people do strange things in low tide...
Oh yeah, the water is greeeeen
Here and There, in Malawi
I spent the last week of 2010 traveling slowly up the northern shores of Lake Malawi and overland into Tanzania. On the long bus ride along the length of Malawi, I stepped off at a road block looking for a private spot in the bush to relieve myself. When the driver saw my surveying, he suggested asking the police to use their toilet. At first I thought that was a preposterous idea, until I remembered that Malawi is not Congo and the police are far less corrupt and can even be helpful. Right, I thought, Malawi is a normal country, and I tried not to pause and consider too much how somewhere along the way a place like Malawi became normal to a white girl from Jersey.
I stopped at Mwaya Beach where I used to volunteer as a nursery teacher to bring Christmas gifts to my teaching colleagues and check in on all of the staff. Thankfully everyone is still alive since my last visit. I found this remarkable because several people had died between the end of my volunteering and my last visit there, and because many if not most of them are HIV positive. When I got to the beach, I found myself totally alone in the bush, as it was in the evening and everyone had gone home. I had sent an email I was coming, but internet is less useful in these parts than the bush telegraph and I ended up spending a couple of pitch black hours in the sand before obtaining shelter.
I spent Christmas on Makuzi Beach, tranquil and secluded and fancy in a sandy sort of way. Christmas morning gingerbread cookies, miniature pies and coffee were delivered to my door and I spent Christmas dinner under the wings of three highly educated Malawian women and the henpecked British husband of one. We chatted about books, geography and public transportation. A German family passed around their traditional Christmas cake after dinner and the Italians at the table thanked them by singing Silent Night in German. The Malawians joined in in Chechewa and the South Africans in English. I kept my mouth shut since I only know the first 2 lines and I'm not much of a carroller. But despite being an irrelegious Jew, dozens of voices singing a Christmas song in 3 languages gave me the chills. Full of Christmas cake squeezed beside a huge dinner, we all staggered down to the beach were the Germans gave us our second treat of the evening: fireworks set off along the lake, exploding brilliantly against the stars.
After a quick, harassed stay in Nkhata Bay, I said goodbye to Lake Malawi, added bilharzia screening to my To-Do list and headed up to my favorite spot. WAY up. After a 10k hike uphill in midday Malawian heat with a 30 lb backpack, I was happy to rest my legs at Mushroom Farm. Not usually much of a planner, I made sure to request the second story of the brick and thatch hut weeks in advance. It is set on the edge of a cliff with only 3 walls so you can lie in bed watching the sunrise and the sunset, the night sky thick with stars or cut up by lightening.
From there I began the 4 day journey over land and sea to Zanziabar. I stopped in a couple of towns along the way to spend the night, all unremarkable save for occasional oddities like the restaurant in Mbeya where the cook, perhaps hearing of muzugues hesitance to eat uncooked, unpeeled vegetables, served me a microwaved salad. But for the most part, it was long days spent in hot, over-crowded buses held together by duct tape.
I was so disoriented from heat and sun and sweaty car insides that when I finally reached Dar es Saalam, I wondered at the peculiarity of the bus depot where I was going to catch a quick ride to my lodgings for the night. It was the weirdest bus depot I had ever seen. There were no buses and I couldn't figure out how they got in or out. It wasn't until the ferry pulled up that the lightbulb went off. I spent the night on the beach to detox from car exhaust before boarding the island bound boat. I had heard vomitious horror stories about the ferry to Zanzibar. I shocked myself by not being ill, and I was able to ignore the retching around me by keeping my eyes straight ahead on the Jackie Chan movies.
Zanzibar was great, but the best part was arriving.
I stopped at Mwaya Beach where I used to volunteer as a nursery teacher to bring Christmas gifts to my teaching colleagues and check in on all of the staff. Thankfully everyone is still alive since my last visit. I found this remarkable because several people had died between the end of my volunteering and my last visit there, and because many if not most of them are HIV positive. When I got to the beach, I found myself totally alone in the bush, as it was in the evening and everyone had gone home. I had sent an email I was coming, but internet is less useful in these parts than the bush telegraph and I ended up spending a couple of pitch black hours in the sand before obtaining shelter.
I spent Christmas on Makuzi Beach, tranquil and secluded and fancy in a sandy sort of way. Christmas morning gingerbread cookies, miniature pies and coffee were delivered to my door and I spent Christmas dinner under the wings of three highly educated Malawian women and the henpecked British husband of one. We chatted about books, geography and public transportation. A German family passed around their traditional Christmas cake after dinner and the Italians at the table thanked them by singing Silent Night in German. The Malawians joined in in Chechewa and the South Africans in English. I kept my mouth shut since I only know the first 2 lines and I'm not much of a carroller. But despite being an irrelegious Jew, dozens of voices singing a Christmas song in 3 languages gave me the chills. Full of Christmas cake squeezed beside a huge dinner, we all staggered down to the beach were the Germans gave us our second treat of the evening: fireworks set off along the lake, exploding brilliantly against the stars.
After a quick, harassed stay in Nkhata Bay, I said goodbye to Lake Malawi, added bilharzia screening to my To-Do list and headed up to my favorite spot. WAY up. After a 10k hike uphill in midday Malawian heat with a 30 lb backpack, I was happy to rest my legs at Mushroom Farm. Not usually much of a planner, I made sure to request the second story of the brick and thatch hut weeks in advance. It is set on the edge of a cliff with only 3 walls so you can lie in bed watching the sunrise and the sunset, the night sky thick with stars or cut up by lightening.
View from my bed
From there I began the 4 day journey over land and sea to Zanziabar. I stopped in a couple of towns along the way to spend the night, all unremarkable save for occasional oddities like the restaurant in Mbeya where the cook, perhaps hearing of muzugues hesitance to eat uncooked, unpeeled vegetables, served me a microwaved salad. But for the most part, it was long days spent in hot, over-crowded buses held together by duct tape.
I was so disoriented from heat and sun and sweaty car insides that when I finally reached Dar es Saalam, I wondered at the peculiarity of the bus depot where I was going to catch a quick ride to my lodgings for the night. It was the weirdest bus depot I had ever seen. There were no buses and I couldn't figure out how they got in or out. It wasn't until the ferry pulled up that the lightbulb went off. I spent the night on the beach to detox from car exhaust before boarding the island bound boat. I had heard vomitious horror stories about the ferry to Zanzibar. I shocked myself by not being ill, and I was able to ignore the retching around me by keeping my eyes straight ahead on the Jackie Chan movies.
Zanzibar was great, but the best part was arriving.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Malawi Revisited
I spent my first days of my third time in "the warm heart of Africa" in Zomba plateau visiting friends from Lesotho (a former student and her parents). They had kindly purchased me a bus ticket from Lilongwe to Blantyre, several hours away, where we would meet. They also kindly arranged for friends in Lilongwe to bring me the ticket and transport me from the airport to the bus depot. Ethiopia airlines also kindly waited for late passengers to board my connecting flight in Addis Ababa, effectively eating away most of the 2 hour window I should have had to catch my bus. When I found no one in the airport was waiting for me, and realizing I had no phone number or address for my friends who lived a day's journey away, I put on my game face, texted my host's sister-in-law in Lesotho, crossed my fingers and hailed a cab to town. My plan was to head to Zomba and wonder around asking for an Indian professor and dentist.
While I would have been bemused by the idea of stumbling around rural Malawi searching for my friends, I was lucky that a message got through and they were able to meet in Blantyre as planned a few hours later than we had originally anticipated.
In Zomba I enjoyed magnificent rainstorms, picturesque runs in back country and Indian hospitality. I suppose the latter was both a blessing and a curse, which I should have suspected from experiences with the other half of their family in Maseru. As the father put it, in his culture, guests are sent from god and are treated as such. Doing so much as bringing my glass from the table to the sink was met with discomfort from my hosts. It took me two days to insist to them that I like to walk instead of being driven. Mealtimes became a battle much like open-air market haggling. They would scoff at the piece of chambo I put on my plate and insist on adding another, larger one. I would concede only if I could return my original choice. They would insist I eat both, the very thought of which made me feel painfully full. Finally they would allow me to put the smaller piece back. We shake on it and in the process of returning my chosen fish to the plate, it slips and splashes into my water glass. I profusely apologize only to be told that they like pre moistened lake fish. They practically thank me dropping their lunch in ice water. Indeed that I had water in my glass at all instead of soda or juice disturbed my hosts, as did my preference to drink my tea black and unsweetened and eat my food unadorned with globby condiments or plasticky dressings, all of which they took as signs I was uncomfortable in their home and they were bad hosts. I spent meals using my hand to shield host attacks of ketchup, salad dressing and second and third helpings flung in layered masses on to my plate while the first helping I was struggling to finish became buried underneath.
As my hosts were both working during much of stay, they shuffled me over to a Filipino doctor to take me hiking and to the botanical gardens. He had no fewer than 37 stuffed animal toys adorning his walls. I found it rather disconcerting but luckily we spent more time in the great outdoors than in his freaky living room. He was a shockingly fast hiker for his rather spherical frame. We hiked and plucked raspberries from their bushes- light orange in color but still remarkably sweet.
On my final day in Zomba, like a child you feel guilty for not spending enough time with, my hosts sent me to the market with the maid to get a dress tailored form local fabric. I packed it up in my backpack, said goodbye and boarded a bus to the north.
While I would have been bemused by the idea of stumbling around rural Malawi searching for my friends, I was lucky that a message got through and they were able to meet in Blantyre as planned a few hours later than we had originally anticipated.
In Zomba I enjoyed magnificent rainstorms, picturesque runs in back country and Indian hospitality. I suppose the latter was both a blessing and a curse, which I should have suspected from experiences with the other half of their family in Maseru. As the father put it, in his culture, guests are sent from god and are treated as such. Doing so much as bringing my glass from the table to the sink was met with discomfort from my hosts. It took me two days to insist to them that I like to walk instead of being driven. Mealtimes became a battle much like open-air market haggling. They would scoff at the piece of chambo I put on my plate and insist on adding another, larger one. I would concede only if I could return my original choice. They would insist I eat both, the very thought of which made me feel painfully full. Finally they would allow me to put the smaller piece back. We shake on it and in the process of returning my chosen fish to the plate, it slips and splashes into my water glass. I profusely apologize only to be told that they like pre moistened lake fish. They practically thank me dropping their lunch in ice water. Indeed that I had water in my glass at all instead of soda or juice disturbed my hosts, as did my preference to drink my tea black and unsweetened and eat my food unadorned with globby condiments or plasticky dressings, all of which they took as signs I was uncomfortable in their home and they were bad hosts. I spent meals using my hand to shield host attacks of ketchup, salad dressing and second and third helpings flung in layered masses on to my plate while the first helping I was struggling to finish became buried underneath.
As my hosts were both working during much of stay, they shuffled me over to a Filipino doctor to take me hiking and to the botanical gardens. He had no fewer than 37 stuffed animal toys adorning his walls. I found it rather disconcerting but luckily we spent more time in the great outdoors than in his freaky living room. He was a shockingly fast hiker for his rather spherical frame. We hiked and plucked raspberries from their bushes- light orange in color but still remarkably sweet.
On my final day in Zomba, like a child you feel guilty for not spending enough time with, my hosts sent me to the market with the maid to get a dress tailored form local fabric. I packed it up in my backpack, said goodbye and boarded a bus to the north.
Who knew you could make a horse-shaped swing out of a tire?! A Malawian, that's who!
Rainbowed Plateau
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