Icons

Red clay of the unfinished walkway. The outside charcoal stove where Maria, Kaswera, and Linda cook. The plastic buckets that we use to carry hot water for bathing. In three very short weeks these have become icons of this place and time.

Red clay, dust, hardpacked earth breaks free here to grow lush vegetation. There is no escaping the red dust. I bathe and wash my hair in the morning only to arrive at school, not two hours later, baptized for the day by this earth. I run my hands through my hair and feel the coating of dust from our drive. My feet are powdered red.

During one of our professional development days, a teacher held out a piece of chalk and explained that it symbolizes teaching here. You can write on the blackboard (a 4' x 6' piece of plywood painted black and mounted on two posts). She explained that you write on the board, erase, and write something else. But the shadows of all the previous writing remain. And the chalk dust clings to your hand. You can't shake the experiences, the interchanges, the conversations. Everything about teaching here stays with you.

The Congolese red clay, burnished and fine, clings to me. Each day when I return home, I am eager to take a bath, even though it's a cold one (hot ones are at night, after the fire has been used to cook our food). I am eager to get clean. I need, no, I want, refreshment from the day. Or do I?

I will miss it--this baptism dust.

The buckets. 20-liter plastic workhorses. We use them to cart bath water and launder clothes. Dishwashing and large loads of laundry are done in deep and wide plastic basins outside in the open passage between the house the outside kitchen. On the road, along the paths, people haul water in big, yellow, rectangular jugs. They must be 40, 50, or more liters. Everyone carries water here. But what irony! There are almost daily deep and drenching rain showers. Rivers and streams are the capillaries and blood vessels that trace, it seems, every valley and crevice. The Congo River is here--a river second only to the Amazon in terms of its flow. So how much personal energy, time, and resources are lost daily as people have to carry their water?

Back to here--the buckets. We share them. They are daily reminders to be humble. They are daily reminders that when I lose touch, step away from my basic needs, rely on systems, processes, other people's labor to meet my basic needs, I too easily neglect to care, to honor, to be grateful. At home I can turn on the shower and let hot water run, fill up the pipes, wash down the drain before even stepping under the shower head. Here, on those nights when I wait to take a hot bath, when the charcoal fire is no longer needed to cook food, when we can enjoy its excess to heat pots of water, I make every preparation first. Lay out clothes, towel, and soap. Check and recheck the drain plug to make sure it's secure. Only then do I go to the kitchen, dip the pitcher into the pot of hot water and pour into my bucket, reaching down into the bucket so as to pour hot water directly, and not lose any of the precious heat in the cooling air. And when I take the bucket into the bathroom and pour it into the tub, I am judicious in adding just enough cool water from the tap.

And the outside charcoal stove where Kaswera, Maria, and Linda cook. It's always a joy to be there and help--peel potatoes, pick through the cassava flour, rinse and sort beans.  Stove, fire, food preparation. It is hard work to cook this way. I do not romanticize this stove and the charcoal fire. But I am gladly branded by its fragrance and the accompanying voices, mostly in Swahili. It is a reminder that living is best when we allow our lives to weave and flow together, unbounded. The charcoal fire wakes me every morning when Kasero (sp?) the night watchman, starts the stove for the day. Subtle yet pungent as incense, it drifts around the corner of the house and into the open window of the bedroom just as light cracks the sky.

Launching the new academic year, Saturday, October 24, 2009

Saturday, October 24, was the official opening of the school year for UCBC. It was a community celebration. A welcome center had been under construction for several weeks--a covered, outdoor space for occasions such as this. During the past two weeks, workmen were diligent to complete the structure. They pounded the dirt floor with timbers to flatten it. They carried stones, hand-dug from the property, to lay as foundation for the floor. On Friday, the day before the opening ceremony, they poured and spread cement.

Saturday morning began with heavy rains that swept in from the south. By mid morning, the skies began to clear. Students had already been busy setting up chairs in the main room of the academic building. They set the welcome center as the main stage and seating area for faculty and guests, hung banners, and started preparing food for the expected crowd of 500.

By the time the ceremony began in the afternoon, we had blue sky and sun. The energy among the staff and students was electric. The Ebenezer Choir, the student-led choir, began our time together with praise and worship music primarily from their own tradition and language.

Students and community members gathered along with family and friends. There were a couple of folks with MONUC insignias, various local leaders and public officials, and local business people.

The day was important not just to mark the start of the academic year, but to live out two guiding values of CI-UCBC: Community and Service. CI-UCBC is committed to opening the doors of knowledge (what is referred to here as science) to the community. CI-UCBC is taking active steps to breach the walls that have kept knowledge and power in the hands of a few. Knowledge/Science in Congo, as David Kasali has reminded me on several occasions, has been locked away. It has been under control of the few and the powerful for personal gain, prestige, and destruction. CI-UCBC is working to redeem knowledge and science so that it is not only available to all, but is used for the common good, to improve life here, transform this country.

So to invite the community, including the neighbors who live along the edges of the property and the workmen who labor on the buildings, is to say, "We are here with you--not just for you. We are here as part of this community for the good of all."

That is one reason why, even though the academic building is not, in American terms, "complete," CI-UCBC has built the welcome center and begun construction of the Community Center. Until Saturday I had been confused and even unsettled at this decision. After all, why wouldn't we want to complete a building, finish, furnish, and outfit it completely before starting on yet another project? It didn't fit my American frame of mind.

On Saturday I understood. After the official ceremony, everyone was invited to look at the master building plans for the university and tour the Community Center, which is very much under construction. Following that was an opportunity to see a slide show of the architect's renderings of the entire CI-UCBC campus. It was clear from the questions and comments that community members were excited, appreciative, eager to see this work move forward. They could see that this place would provide services for them, for the community. It will be a place where community members can come for classes, groups can have meetings, outside organizations can host conferences, where services for women and children can be provided and literacy classes for the neighborhood will be housed.

Last week I heard David say, "The Congolese have said, 'We have heard. We want to see.' " By starting the Community Center, by inviting the community to the celebration, CI-UCBC was able to show in action, visibly, concretely, that CI-UCBC is living out a vision for its students, for the community, and for the nation.

David shared another powerful story recently. Two or three years ago, when CI-UCBC had only land and the whispers of construction activity, David met with a local businessman to tell him the vision of CI-UCBC and ask for his support. The man listened and indicated that perhaps he would do something. A year passed without David hearing anything more from this businessman. They met again sometime later at a meeting. The workshop was completed, the academic building was up and in use, and ground was being dug for the Community Center. The businessman admitted that after his first meeting with David, he laughed to himself, certain that nothing would come of the plans David had laid out. But now, at this meeting, the businessman was ready to admit he was wrong. That he was contributing 10 bags of cement that day (a significant contribution) and would be donating another 10 bags very soon after.

"Ten bags of cement?" you might query. "What's so great about that?" It's not only critical, material contributions to the work. It is a statement that affirms, "We have heard. We have also seen. We are part of this community and this service."

Preparing to transition

Perhaps my body is preparing to return home. Today is the first time in three weeks that I'm hungry and want something to eat. It's noontime, and approximately 5 hours since breakfast. Actually, this is early to even think about lunch. Usually we don't have lunch until close to 3:00 in the afternoon, almost 8 hours later than breakfast. In these three weeks, I've never felt hungry, tired, or wilting from low blood sugar between breakfast and lunch, 8 hours later. But today is different.

This is a good reminder that there are so many, not just here at UCBC, not just in Congo or Africa, but around the world, even in our wealthy nation of the U.S., that many people do go hungry. That students go to school without breakfast, manage through the day without lunch, are lucky to have anything at all before bed.

This is not new information. Let it be a reminder when I am back home and comfortable, when I live in excess, even though I try to live in enough and sufficient, that I am my sister's and my brother's keeper.

Humility is a good teacher

Today was day 1 of professional development/retreat day for UCBC faculty. I have spent the last week and a half planning, reading, talking to students and teachers, re-planning, agonizing, reviewing, revising. Work that used to be second nature to me--facilitating staff development--has been sitting on the shelf for the past several years. In addition, I didn't come here with PD books, resources, readings, or handouts.

Thankfully, this group of 15 was most kind, flexible, and gracious. I'm afraid that I stretched and twisted them far more than is pedagogically appropriate and healthy. But they hung in.

This is the first time I've led professional development in a cross-cultural setting. The mention of a "fishbowl" exercise, was met with laughter from the Americans and quizzical looks from the Congolese. Pets in Congo? And have you every tried to explain why and how someone would keep pet fish in a glass bowl of water? It is an absurd concept!

We did have an "animal" experience today, though. Two goats wandered into the building and bleated and baahed their way through the hallway until someone herded them back outside.

Amazing that even though I thought I understood the context, the experiences, the background, I still missed the mark in some places. Thank goodness for tomorrow and the possibility of redemption.

Although the young men who set up the room today were unsettled when I asked them to change the room set-up, they did oblige kindly. They had arranged the tables in a square--the typical board/meeting room arrangement. I wanted 4 tables in a herringbone pattern, so folks could work around the table, yet see the board. Unable to explain with gestures, I drew out the room arrangement.

We did play a game today. Wasn't sure how it would be received. But "bumpity-bump-bump-bump" was met with great laughter. Ndonga, who teaches the history of African philosophy, among other courses, said that the game helped us to "Not just be teachers."

Am exhausted but fueled with enough adrenaline to figure out plan for tomorrow.

"Give back to me my beautiful words"

There are many things about UCBC that are amazing, audacious, bold, and necessary. Aside from being bilingual, the university is committed to a manner of teaching that is radically different from the traditional Congolese system. The university is promoting learning that is collaborative, that promotes thinking, problem-solving, and discourse. What UCBC is doing is what my American friends would say is just plain good teaching and learning--engaging students with their learning, helping them to think, problem-solve, take ownership for their learning so they recognize their self-efficacy. This methodology, this philosophy of education is in stark contrast to the Congolese education system. It is a radically new approach for the students at UCBC and for many of their teachers, who themselves have come up through the traditional system.

My teachers here at UCBC (faculty, staff, students at UCBC) repeatedly remind me that the Congolese system of education is based on a Belgium system that was instituted during colonial times. It is a system that maintains a power structure where teacher is the ultimate authority and the learner is merely a recipient of knowledge. The teacher is the expert, the all-knowing. The teacher's responsibility is to give out information. The student's responsibility is to take down, memorize, and give back on an exam. The method is lecture and repeat back. Not even lecture, digest, think about, then respond.

In order to pass exams, students must memorize, and in some cases, repeat the actual words in their exams. Honore (apologies: there is an aigu/accent mark over the e in Honore's name. Can't figure out how to do that in this blog), the Academic Dean at UCBC tells a story that captures it all. He remembers a geography professor who, at the time of the exam, instructed the students, "Now give back to me my beautiful words."

Honore's experience is not an isolated, extreme event.

There are many ramifications--a topic for another entry. But here is just one: University graduates face significant challenges in their quest to continue their education as masters or doctoral students. It may take as much as 10 years or more for someone to attain a doctorate. This is not because their is a extensive preparation period, but because professors of that rank are reluctant to allow others to join them. They stall the process, delay reading theses, and generally thwart anyone working to attain that degree.

But back to UCBC and undergraduates. Students come to UCBC from a primary and secondary background that supports the receive/return approach to learning. They have been taught to memorize and repeat. They have not learned how to dialogue, how to have their own opinions and support them. They have not learned how to analyze, synthesize, explore. By their own acknowledgement, they do not know how to problem-solve. Many have told me that they have grown up and been taught in such a way as to believe that they canNOT do anything to make changes in their community.

UCBC is committed to teaching in a way that completely transforms students--how they think about themselves, their country, and their responsibility. The university is committed to developing and nurturing strong, ethical leaders who are transformed, so that they can, in turn, "transform their communities and the nation of the Democratic Republic of Congo." UCBC is committed to teaching in such a way to develop students' thinking skills, analytical skills, problem-solving skills. Students understand not only that this is different, but that this is necessary. Adelphine, a G1 (Year 1) student, recently said, "Congolese people do not know how to solve their national problems. We must learn how to solve our own problems. This is why I am at UCBC."

This nation has huge challenges. But this nation is exceedingly rich in resources of all types: human, cultural, mineral, water, timber, wildlife. It has deep and wide wealth and great opportunity.

Students also recognize that their country groans under the burden of corruption and that leadership in Congo, historically, is about power and personal gain. But what UCBC students proclaim consistently in every conversation (no exaggeration) is a desire to make changes. They desire to change, no transform, systems, ways of doing business, ways of living, ways of doing politics. Even more significant is their deep commitment to do so for the good of their country and their people. Their focus is on others, on the common good of Congo. In all my conversations to date, I have not heard students talk about "making money," "owning a house," "having a big car." They consistently talk about transforming their communities and their country. They recognize the need and are recognizing, through their education here, that they can do something.

Audacious? Bold? Visionary? Yes. But changes only occur when people are willing to be bold and live into a vision of something better.

PS:Want to be part of this transformation? Check out Kipepeo Partners.

Some personal learning

I hate the expression, "out of your/my comfort zone." I don't like the implication of defined spaces. In and Out. Reflection of my approach to life? My thinking/learning style? I prefer the gray places, the fuzzy edges. I've never been completely comfortable with straight answers and clear-cut rules. Interesting the adjectives, straight and clear-cut. It was always one of my challenges as a parent, and one of the challenges in my second marriage. My kids seem to have survived. The marriage did not. But for other reasons and another story.

So, back to "out of your comfort zone." I understand that there is something about human nature, perhaps all of nature, that calls us to be where it's comfortable. We gather with people we know. We live in neighborhoods where others look like us and presumably have the same level of economic security and education as we do, and where our neighbors share (for the most part) our color, our values, our culture. We work to make our daily existence easy. We engage in "debate" with those who are like-minded. We listen to and read the pundits, journalists, publications that support our way of thinking, our ideals and values.

I am guilty. I can also defend and justify these behaviors on a number of fronts. I have begun to wonder more about what we/I lose by living this way.

There is something in biology or ecology about the richest, most vital part of an ecological system is in the edges. That is where the most biologically diverse activity occurs.

Whenever I have been in a new place and with people who, in my first glance, appear to be different from me, I have learned, grown, been challenged, stretched. Sometimes I have learned new things about myself, or come to admit things about myself that I had been able to deny previously. Always I have learned new truths, realities, and ideas.

Here is something I've learned recently as a result of my engagement with CI-UCBC and this first time in Congo. I have been guilty of objectifying poverty (and I hate even to name the it as poverty). In my comfort zone, within my boundaries, my safe, middle class (and evangelical Christian) context, poverty has been "out there." It is something outside my "comfort zone." As such, it has been easy to treat is as other, as an object. It is something to be solved, addressed. It is something to which I respond briefly and episodically. I can give money. I can give my cast-offs to it. Help out on a weekly or quarterly basis. I can even take pictures of it (for which I offer a public apology). Always, though, poverty is outside my comfort zone. Always I can and do step safely back into my comfort zone.

I don't think that Jesus said, "The poor you will have with you always," to exonerate us from helping the poor. I'm beginning to wonder about the other messages in this statement--the metamessages.

Perhaps this statement is an exhortation to be with the poor. To live among and with--and not just to be able to help, educate, contribute economically or financially. But to learn from and live in parity with. Scary thought. Very scary.

What might I learn from living in and among those who are poor, as defined by my experience? My community of middle class, Americans (including middle class, American, Christians)? That I'm NOT in control. That all I own is grass that withers in the sun. That peace comes not from my surroundings, but from my heart. That sufficient is enough, and, sadly, my definition of enough has been more than enough, it is excess. That death and life are constant realities. (Within my first 8 days in Congo, there have been 2 deaths in families that are friends and/or relatives within this tight knit community. And, as David Kasali reminds me, death is part of the reality of this place).

And once I've learned these and other lessons, how might I act differently? Live differently? How might my actions, my choices, my behaviors contribute to the common good rather than to my own? How must I act differently, live differently now?

Driving Home in the Dark - Monday night, 10.19.09

We are driving home from the school, six of us in an old Izuzu (sp?) Trooper that has to be jump started each time. Well, maybe it isn't old. It's just weary and worn from working so hard in this place. The driver has to make sure to park the vehicle heading out, and preferably down a slight incline. . I don't know which of the gauges on the dashboard work and which do not, with the exception of the gas gauge. It always registers Empty. David Kasali is driving tonight.

It is 6:30, or 7:00 or 7:30 and the night sky has covered this part of Congo. Time is a different, more friendly construct here. There are some stars, but swaths of cloud mask the moon. The first few miles of our drive is along a 3-mile stretch of road that is part of a longer road the Chinese are paving. Well, they are providing the materials. The Congolese are providing the cash and the labor. Some have said that Congo will be indebted to the Chinese for years for this road. But that's something for another time.

A road under construction here is not a road under construction in the U.S. For one thing, in the 9 days or so that I've been here, no tar has been laid down on the road. The surface is hard-packed gravel. Already the rains are beginning to rut the surface in places. Perhaps later on there will be tar.

This is an example of why the work and vision of UCBC are so vital. Without national leaders, politicians, business people, policy-makers to engage in international relations for the benefit of this country, other interests will take advantage. Secure contracts to deliver the much-needed services and infrastructure, but without the oversight to ensure quality work.

But back to the drive.

We bump along in complete darkness. Absolute darkness. The kind of darkness you only experience if you are completely out in the wilderness or deep in rural America, far away from the glow of commerce. The only lights are from the stars, the feeble headlights on the Trooper, the occasional vehicle we pass or meet along the way, and the darting single headlight and red taillight of the "motos" that weave in and around. These "motos" and the ubiquitous black bicycle are the public transportation of at least this part of Congo.

There are no traffic lanes or shoulders. In general, vehicles stay on the right of the road. But is perfectly acceptable to pass any truck or moto or van that you come upon and that isn't moving as fast as you'd like. The only rule of the road I've picked up is, "Honk if you come upon someone on a bike or moto or on foot who you might hit if they didn't move."

Did I mention that there are no streetlights? No traffic lights? No gas stations, CVS stores or Krogers to light the way? But there are people everywhere. It is still early evening. People on the move. Men, women, children. Going home. Going to places of work. Going about life. People carrying water. People carrying jugs of petrol lashed to their bikes. People hauling bags, the size of square hay bales, filled with charcoal. The road is furiously busy with people. People appear out of the dark, just barely in front of our headlights. We didn't have rain today, so the dust is thick. The light from our vehicle scatters in it, making it even more difficult to see and steer clear of the people in the road.

Along the road are dwellings and businesses. Some shed a glow of orange, yellow, or white out the tiny openings that are windows, or out their open doors.

We come to the place where we turn off the main road into our quarter of town, Ndoni. It is a busy 3-way intersection. There are usually vendors of various fruits, vegetables, and fuel. This evening is no different. I am stunned, though, as the turnoff appears so suddenly out of the dark.

The roads through Ndoni are not under construction. They are hard-packed, red clay whose surface is under constant onslaught by rain and vehicles. The roads are also narrow. Two vehicles can pass, but must navigate the people and vendors who line the edges of the road.

Paul Robinson has referred to Congo as a "fractured and beautiful place." Every day, every new sight and sound confirms that to me. Tonight is no different.

It is still dark. There are no traffic lights or streetlights here, either. David sings a hymn softly in his resonant baritone. It is a tune I recognize, but cannot call up. When I ask David the title, he says, "Ah...I do not know. I'm singing French, Swahili, and Lingala. That is how confused mind is tonight."

We arrive home. Park the car. David claims with reverence, "Thank you, Jesus."

The swaths of cloud are receding, and the sky is rich in stars.

Professional Development in the Congo

Today (Monday) we had our first professional development day here at UCBC. This isn't to suggest that it's UCBC's first PD day, but that it was the first of this year.

The session was with the teachers who taught the 2-week English language institute that just concluded. The teachers were, for the most part, young Americans who are here at UCBC for a variety of reasons. There were a couple of Congolese teachers in our group as well, along with Honore, the Academic Dean here at UCBC.

First, it is important to note that UCBC being bilingual (French and English) is unique here in the DRC. French is the national language, although many students do not develop good French even in school. Swahili, Lingala, or one of the other tribal languages are what are spoken in most homes. So even though French is taught in secondary school, it may only be taught at a minimal level. English is not taught.

So, why English here at UCBC? Kaza, a staff person here, educated me yesterday that the Congo is bordered by 9 African countries. Of those 9, most (sorry, I forget exact number) are NOT French speaking. They are English speaking. Additionally, French is somewhere around 6th or 7th in the list of most used languages in the world.

In order for Congo to be able to engage substantively on the national level, its leaders, its people, entrepreneurs, politicians, policy-makers, professionals at every level need to be able to communicate effectively in English. In order for Congo to engage effectively with its neighbors, its people, its leaders need to be able to communicate in English.

That UCBC has made a commitment to develop its students' English skills and fluency is just one of the audacious, but vital goals of this university.

Imagine the challenges to teach what amounts to a 3rd language (English) when many of the students do not have enough grasp of their national language (French) to engage in academic discourse. AND committing to develop their English skills so they can engage in academic discourse in English? HUGE!!! But there is success.

David Kasali, the President and Rector of UCBC told a story at the end of our pd session this afternoon (will maybe describe the pd session in another post?). He was walking the property the other day when one of the workmen working on the community center (under construction) said he knows there is something good going on here. "How do you know that?" David asked.

"Because your students, the boys and the girls, speak English. I do not understand what they are saying. But I know they are speaking English. And that is good."

So...while there is still internet, a little bit about our PD session.

We began with an overview of our day, outcomes, and the process by which we were going to go about our work together: using the experiential learning cycle, reflective practice, modeling professional learning community. I gathered random items for a first activity: empty water bottle, bits of brick, pieces of stone, some leaves and flowers, a dictionary, mug, rubber band, bit of string. I asked the folks to each pick up an item that provided a snapshot of the previous two weeks. Each of the 12 had taught separate classes. Some of the folks had done some planning together, others not. So I wanted everyone to have a chance to hear a little bit about each other's experience, and also to get back thinking about the two weeks.

I always love this kind of activity. There are always surprises. People pick objects and assign meaning that surprise and delight. Here are a couple of things that emerged:

Chris picked the empty water bottle. He said when he was a kid he always wondered how people got those ships inside those bottles. It was a mystery. He could imagine starting to build a boat inside a bottle, but not how it could every be completed. The bottle reminded him that these two weeks, when he was with the preparatory students, he couldn't imagine that they would ever develop strong English language ability. But then he looks at the G2 and G3 (year 2 and 3) students, hears their conversations, and realizes that something happens. They DO learn. And to him, as a first-time teacher here, and someone without teaching experience, it's a mystery.

He also pointed out that often in class his students would ask for a drink of water from his water bottle. He knew that for many of the UCBC students, they go all day without a drink of water. Some go all day without a meal--only eating breakfast and something for dinner at the end of the day when they return home. The commitment, dedication of these students is beyond what I can explain. No...right now there is no running water here at UCBC. But this is a university that is bilingual.

Chelsea picked up a piece of brick for her snapshot. She said going into to her class, she thought she knew what she needed to teach. Just like she knew this brick. It was solid. No doubt. She soon learned that no matter how well she knew the brick, how hard she pounded that brick on the floor, it wasn't what her students needed. What she was so prepared to teach was not what her students were ready and able to learn.

Cele (I promise, not everyone's name begins with C!) chose a ruler. He is one of the Congolese teachers. He said that the students often need visual aids--concrete ways to look at and think about the topic. One day there was confusion in his class about rules and ruler and the different pronunciation. His students were calling a ruler a rules. He came into class with the ruler to show them that this was a different word.

Need to run. Will finish tomorrow. It's now completely dark here at UCBC. The electricity is off, but internet still working (solar battery, I'm told??).

Prayers of the People

My experience and definition of Prayers of the People is expanding. We Episcopalians share in the Prayers of the People each time we gather for Eucharist. Some people (often those outside the Episcopal, Anglican, or Roman traditions) criticize this. "You're just saying the same things each week" (which isn't true, as there are 6 forms from which to choose!). Or, "If you're saying the same thing then it loses it's meaning." I relish that point in the service when a lay person leads the congregation in collective, corporate prayer. I try to participate with deep intention. Sometimes I'm more successful than others. The Prayers of the People guide me to pray widely--not just for my concerns and my needs--but for the needs and concerns of others. And I need help, regular prodding and reminders to look beyond myself and my concerns.

I've experienced prayer here at UCBC in a way that is new for me and is expanding my personal definition of Prayers of the People.

Corporate prayer as I'm used to it in the U.S. is where one person prays out loud, and the rest of us listen silently, paying attention to the words, taking them to heart, perhaps pinning our own prayers to the leader's. In chapel at UCBC, some prayer is this way, "led" by individuals. But there is also prayer when everyone begins to speak out loud, praying confidently and loudly--not shouting, but as in conversation. At first I assumed these prayers were a mixture of praises and petitions, rejoicing and lamenting, requests and thanksgivings. Individuals speaking their words to God in public.

Then Kaswera set me straight (for which I'm grateful). "This is an African way of praying," she explained. People are praying either on the topic that has just been talked about, or that the leader has just prayed about. As everyone prays out loud on that topic, it's a way of applying that to their own lives and experiences. As I understand it, making the lesson personal, talking to God about that topic. At other times the prayers might be for a specific individual. Instead of just one person praying in front of the group, everyone is a participant, praying for that individual.

What power in those combined voices.

Perhaps we westerners, we reserved, white, suburban American Christians (especially we Episcopalians!) could learn from this practice of prayer. Might we better ingest and learn to live what we have heard from the sermon or the scripture reading? Might our prayers for each other be more powerful if we were to lift our voices together?

Or, what if we Episcopalians began simply by naming out loud the specifics at each pause during the Prayers of the People? What if, when we came to, "For this community, the nation, and world" (Form VI), we each named out loud, simultaneously, those specifics that God has placed on our hearts:
- People in this town who are out of work
- Heal the division between the national parties so that our politicians would work together for the common good
- Bring peace to Afghanistan and Iraq, Palestine and Israel
- Bring healing and health to Congo

Yes, that part of the service would last much longer. But would it be worth it? What might we see as a result? What power of the spirit might we unleash?

A few snapshots and ruminations - Friday, October 16, 2009

A few snapshots and ruminations from the past few days, not in any particular order.

This is a place of lush vegetation, nourished by sun and drenching rain. The three rainstorms I've witnessed to date have been fabulous downpours out of broad, dark clouds. The gardens are boisterous and wild. Maize (which looks like corn to me) seems to shoot up in the middle of tall grasses. Spreads of cassava plants appear in the middle of the bush. Walking the UCBC property yesterday, I spied a half-dollar size, white and violet blossom that looked like an orchid. Workmen on the property seem to be in a marathon to keep back the grasses that grow tall and fast. I've read that plants and grasses grow as much as 2" in a day in Congo's jungle.

On Sunday, seven of us walked through the bush from UCBC back to the Kasali residence--a 4-mile trek. Grant, one of the American volunteers, was our guide. He said of the four or five times he has made the walk, it has never looked the same because of the rapid growth in vegetation. He also said he has not, nor is he willing to do the walk in reverse by himself yet because the landscape varies so quickly.

So a little bit about that walk: We followed a red ribbon of a footpath, weaving in and out of this green expanse. Sometimes I could only see the few feet in front of me, the grasses were so tall and path winding. At other times, we'd come out into a small clearing dotted with trees of various types. Our path joined and split from other footpaths along the way. Isn't wasn't too long and I knew there was no way I could retrace the way alone! Occasionally we would come upon spreads of cassava--4'-high plants with mahogany-red-to-green leaves that spread like an open hand. We came across clusters of dwellings here and there--neighborhoods of sorts. I later discovered that at those places, we were nearer the road.

We crossed streams and rivulets along the way. And as the afternoon was rolling in, I admit I began to get anxious to arrive at home in time--before dark dropped in on us and the mosquitoes came out. We did. Sadly, in my growing anxiety, I lost sight of the beauty around us. I hope to make the trek back yet before my time is over. Will definitely do it with someone who knows the way!

"Ne naenda nyumbani"

"I go home" (I hope I've spelled it correctly). My nyumbani here in Beni is David and Kaswera Kasali's home, about 6-8 miles from UCBC. The Kasalis seem to be the Josstle of UCBC. Right now, in addition to David, Kaswera, and two of their sons who are here from the U.S., there are four other Americans staying here: 3 Wheaton grads who will be teaching at UCBC for the year, and a family friend of David and Kaswera's. I share a room with Linda, David's younger niece who is a student at UCBC. Two other Americans, Kara and Rachel Robinson, also Kasali family friends, had been staying at Kasalis for the last week (they are on their way back to Kenya today). Also in the home is David's mother, Maria.

The house is spacious, with plenty of open windows (except for mosquito hours). Even with the heat, there have been plenty of breezes. Meals are served at a large round table. Kaswera and Maria seem to be in charge of meal preparation, but there are others who come to help in the house. Because we only have electricity for a few hours at night when the generator is on, meals are prepared in a sort of "summer kitchen" with a coal or wood-burning stove (don't know which). Evening meals are hearty and savory. Breakfasts a delightful surprise and new each day. Today we had fresh papaya juice, pieces of papaya, slices of cheese, tomatoes, rolls. Another morning we had bread dipped in egg and friend (French toast sans syrup), avocado slices, and bananas. Peanut butter and jelly are always on the lazy Susan.

Kaswera prepares a hot meal that is brought to us at UCBC. We've had rice, steamed bananas, boiled potatoes, local spinach (don't remember the Swahili) that is chopped and cooked with garlic--butamo (delicious).

Evenings are brief, as the sun sets suddenly here near the Equator. We seem to go from light to dark within about 60-90 minutes. The generator is turned on soon after dark, and we have power for a couple of hours. Bedtime comes at just the right time for me--about 9 or 9:30. Actually, I've been ready to go to bed soon after dark!

Last night we had quite a sudden late night surprise. Loud singing with drums and loud praying woke us up at 12:30 am. There is a small "revival" church next door, and the congregation practices lively worship. The service continued for about 2 hours, alternating between singing and loud praying (where everyone engages vociferously and simultaneously). This morning's breakfast conversation began with queries about who was awake and who slept through it all. Wish I could have been one of those who said, "What noise?"

Early experiences at UCBC, Sunday and Monday, Oct. 11 and 12

My first visit to the UCBC campus occurred Sunday. The students have a worship service on Sunday afternoons which is open to the community. We were a small gathering, because this was the first Sunday afternoon service of the new school year. Joel, a vivacious student, led the worship. I later discovered that he leads worship for all (most?) of the chapel services at UCBC. The choir, comprised of about eight students, a keyboardist, drummer, and two guitarists, led us in three songs--two that I recognized from my Vineyard experiences (Above All, and I've forgotten the other), and a Swahili song. The sound was rich with overtones and joy. I closed my eyes several times to swallow the music whole.

The service was only an hour--uncharacteristically short for an African worship service, I understand. Daniel, one of the UCBC, staff members, delivered a sermon. We concluded with another song. Everyone seemed eager to greet each other. There were warm handshakes, women greeting with the customary double-cheek kiss. Many introductions, and names that spilled out of my arms as soon as they were offered, I'm sorry to say.

UCBC sits on a knoll, back maybe 200 yards from the road. Currently there is an academic building, a welcome center under construction, and a large community center under construction (See pictures at www.congoinitiative.org). Most of the school's activity occurs in the academic building right now--classes, the Sunday worship service, offices. There will be two rooms completed in the community center for additional classrooms in time for the opening of school.

On Monday I spent the entire day here. This is the second week of English classes for the students. The day began, for me, with an hour or so with David Kasali, the Rector of UCBC. He gave me my first formal tutorial which included a survey of Congo's history (from Leopold through to the 2006 elections), an overview of his life and the history of UCBC and CI. While I have been reading and in conversations to learn some of this over the past months, it was helpful to hear David's narrative--to have his voice in my memory.

We went to chapel at 10:00. The meeting room was packed with students and staff. Joel and the choir (now perhaps 20 singers), led us in songs. Again, I drank in the sounds of joy. It is always hard for me not to look at other people during worship (always has been, I admit). This chapel was no different. I noticed that students were well-dressed. The young men in long pants and dress shirts, many of them with polished leather shoes that look clean in spite of the omniscient red clay dust (including the unfinished floor here int he academic building). Most of the young women wear long dresses, customary of the region, bright colors, bold prints, impeccable tailoring. Many wear high heels, others nice sandals. But what fascinated me more were the faces of joyous worship, intent. They were focused only on worship, while I, the interloper, gave into temptation. I had to close my eyes to remember the reason for this gathering.

Bunia to Beni

Bunia is our point of entry in Congo. I struggle to find words to describe the scene. So I will digress a bit and explain the dilemma.

Yes, things are different in this part of Africa from what I know in my part of the U.S. My lens, my language is that of a white, middle-class American who has know privilege (because of my color), comfort, and, for the most part, efficient systems and processes (or at least systems and processes that are put in place to improve efficiency). I live in a culture that values wealth possessions, accomplishments, and "orderliness." And that is where the contras or tension lies. My vocabulary and lens can too-quickly present life in this part of Africa as "less than" or "not as good as." And I don't want to do that. I have no right to make or imply such judgments. And life here is NOT "less than." It is different. The resources are different. The history is different. The culture, the values are different. So...how do I describe the airport, the terminal, the processes here? They are what they are.

We walk the 100 yards to a blue building where we passengers are ushered into the immigration room--a room roughly 10' share where a man and woman sit at an oilcloth covered table. Each has a blank notebook and pen. These must be the immigration officials, although there is nothing "official-looking" about their clothing: no name tag, hat, uniform, insignia.

They examine each passport, record information on their pads. Those of us who are not African nationals have additional questions to answer. I am the only one who has to fill out the "first time entry" form, so event though i am second in line to begin the process, I am the last to leave.

The form is in French, and my seatmate, who had helped me through check-in in Entebbe, is nowhere to be seen! I get "nom" and a few other directions, but am otherwise mystified as to what information goes on each line. Neither of the officials offers to assist. Thankfully, there is another American on the flight who speaks French, and he translates while negotiating his own entrance with the officials.

The woman examines the form. By this time, I'm the only passenger left in the immigration room. She asks for my picture. I don't have one. She is dismayed at this. An airport attendant comes in and motions vehemently to me to hurry and get back to the plane. The woman asks again and points to the place where she needs to attach my picture. The attendant motions again. His face registering increasing irritation.

The woman relents. She does need to collect $20 for my entrance fee. While she writes out the receipt, the attendant takes a step toward the door, continuing to gesticulate that I must hurry. I must be holding up the plane! I'm not about to offend the immigration officials, however, or leave my passport, so I wait, wishing (foolishly) that she would intervene and explain to the attendant the she is completing business with me. Another minute, and she hands me my passport.

I follow the attendant outside to discover that the other passengers are waiting just in front of the terminal building while some large boxes are being offloaded from the plane onto a pushcart. It is another 7-8 minutes before we board the plane.

The flight to Beni takes another 30 minutes, and it is during this leg that we fly over vast expanses of forest. Congo has been called the "second lung of the world" for its great rain forests. It may well be the "first lung," given the deforestation that has occurred in the Amazon. But that's for another time.

For most of the flight, all that is visible is the forest. It extends beyond my site horizon. It is lush, deep, amazing. I begin to wonder about life under this canopy--the people who live there, the wildlife, the ecology. The books I've read about Congo fuel my imagination.

Soon Beni comes into view. We descend, circle, and soon land on a red, hard-packed earth runway. Our pilot has done his job well. I am sorry to have had to beat down my middle-class, American sensibilities about what is appropriate, right, and fitting for a pilot.

Observations: Entebbe to Beni via Bunia

The inn driver takes me to the Entebbe airport 3 hours before departure, as instructed by Mr. Charles of TMK (the Congo airline). A line of Bangladeshi UN soldiers is checking in perhaps heading home after their tour of duty?

There are three security checks, an immigration booth and final passport and ticket check before the plane. We are a group of 16 civilian passengers on a small prop. Luggage is stowed in the cabin, and takes up two rows of seats at the back. We passengers fill the remaining seats. The pilot and co-pilot are completely accessible. The cockpit is open, and the pilot turns around to greet and give instructions He is gregarious, and even speaks directly to the passenger sitting behind him during the flight. Occasionally he leans his arm against the windowsill. I want him to take this flying job more seriously.

I sit beside a handsome, older (he's probably younger than me) gentleman with a dignified yet gracious bearing. He had provided me assistance navigating the check-in procedure. I hope he might guide me through maneuvers in Bunia (our first landing in Congo).

We wait on the plane for perhaps 10 minutes before taking off. The heat builds inside the cabin. The air vents are unwilling or unable to provide relief. Our pilot rests his arm out his window. What relief (physically and emotionally) when air begins to pour out once we're airborne.

For the first 15-20 minutes of the flight I pay attention to the landscape below: first broad Lake Victoria, then the plains and hills, green and lush, sprinkled here and there with a thread of red road.

Bunia is our point of entry in Congo. I struggle to find words to describe the scene. (finish later)

Overnight in Entebbe

Arrival in Entebbe was smooth. Lines were long at immigration booths, but my time in front of the officer was short, and my bags were circling patiently in the claims area.

I was one of the lucky ones ushered to the "green" customs area, which meant I simply walked out to the waiting area where the driver to the Central Inn was standing. I am taking Paul Robinson's advice to heart to simply watch, listen, take in. Some of my observations? Smiles on faces. Drivers appear to know each other--they chat together, laugh, kindly greet their passengers. Arriving passengers greeted by loved ones. Hugs, kisses, embraces. Evening warmth.

Dark sky. No stars visible. Outside, electric lights less than in U.S. public places. Parking lot lit only by ambient light from airport terminal, a few scattered light poles around the premises, and passing headlights of vehicles. No interior lights in our transport vehicle-- a comfortable, modern mini-van. When the driver stops on my behalf to purchase a sim card, I rely on the pocket light that one of the other passengers has, to find my cash. The night dark. The roads lit only by vehicle headlights. For a period of time we are one a paved road. Speeding along. I'm fascinated by this drive in the dark. It is only 9:00 or 9:30 at night, but it feels like midnight. We come upon groups of pedestrians. They suddenly appear out of the dark as our headlights catch them.

As we get into town the road changes to packed earth. Red? We weave around neighborhoods. Pass houses. People out on the streets, visiting, heading home?

Arrive at Central Inn. A modest, clean, lodging. CNN plays on the TV. A young woman is called to the desk and checks each of us in. Two staff members carry my luggage up the steps to my room. I trip (ah...that American!) on the steps. I'm used to a taller rise. I want to take two steps at a time, but slow myself down.

My room is as the picture on the Central Inn website presents. Spacious and spare. Clean and comfortable in the sense of meeting needs. (Interesting subject to explore later: how do we define comfort? Certainly this room is not comfortable in the Westin 5-start sense of the word, or in terms of U.S. middle class expectations. But...for another time).

There is a white box on the night table. Hmmm...a box of chocolates, perhaps? Sweets? Facial tissues? No. "100 lubricated condoms. Made in Korea." I open the box, and sure enough, neat rows of condoms. I don't bother to confirm the count. Certainly every room has these? My mind and wondering can go off in wild pursuit. But I restrain myself and move to other, more important matters to me. Phone and internet.

I insert my new sim card and try to figure out how to dial, send an SMS to my family and to Paul Robinson. I'm not able to "make it work," and remind myself to slow down. I can ask for help. And I do. A young woman downstairs kindly responds to my request for help. She is patient and kind, shows me my new number, confirms how to dial Uganda and DRC phone numbers, smiles, and sends me on my way.

The bed is welcome after 2 long flights (in spite of my business class respite!).

Morning seems to have come suddenly--dark then quickly light. I have been sitting outside here most of the morning. Fascinated by the birds--so many different kinds. Paul, one of the inn's "attendants" and a student in hotel management, graciously answers my queries about the birds. Identifies the weaver bird--a green/yellow bird that builds a hanging nest. Paul points out some of the weaver birds' nests in the trees here on the property. When I don't see the one he quickly finds and points out to me, he is patient as I search for the unfamiliar that eludes me because my vision is limited by inexperience in this context.

He shows me the mango tree, and explains that the young fruit, now only 3-4" long, will grow to as large as his two hands.

Back to the birds...so many. I want to know their names. There is a black bird, a little larger and with a back darker than the American robin. But its breast a brilliant red. A shore bird with slender, sloped and pointed bill. A large black bird with white stripe across its shoulders and a call like a crow's call. A few pigeons show up in the mix.

Breakfast is simple and satisfying. The server asks me what I would like. Since there isn't a menu, I don't know my choices! So, I ask. "What do you have?"

"Eggs, toast, sausage," he replies. I ask for scarmbled eggs and toast.

The kitchen is just behind the serving area, and I can hear someone whisking eggs in a bowl. My immediate thought...another reminder that in the U.S. we are removed from our food that in "fine" restaurants we don't see or hear our food being prepared. Again...something to consider for another time. Back to observations here.

The server, another young man (all the staff appear young to me--in their twenties?) brings me grapefruit (?) juice, a couple of small wedges of watermelon, half a banana, and a slice of pineapple. The juice and fruit are welcome, as my mouth is dry, and I crave the large glasses of water and deep cups of coffee that are my familiar start to the day at home. He soon brings me a salad-size plate of toast topped with scrambled eggs. Sufficient and delicious.

I've been writing here on the front porch (have yet to see if I can take pictures). It will soon be time to head back to the airport and catch my plane to Beni.

So much for which to be joyful. So much for which to be thankful. So much beauty.

Early travel experiences

Travel to Entebbe went well (well...almost). Connections worked out. Visa and entrance no problem. Luggage arrived. Transport to guesthouse here in Entebbe smooth. Slept well. Up and have had breakfast and have a couple of hours before heading back to airport and fly to Congo.

So much input. I can't do justice to it all in my meager attempts at "output"!

So, I'll begin with the "almost" part of the travel. I got to spend some time stretched out in business class between Detroit and Amsterdam! Wonderful break from the not-quite-leaning back, size small seats in coach (where I travel). No...no upgrades or random act of kindness on the part of some other passenger. No...just a minor medical situation. Dinner was over, I was, like the rest of my coach travelers, trying to get some rest. I had been dozing when I began to feel faint and sweaty--that "PLEASE GOD! DON'T LET ME GET SICK!" feeling. You know the panic. Had I eaten something bad? What was going on? I just wanted desperately to lie down.

Hit the call button. Mercifully, the attendant arrived quickly. It didn't take much to convince her that I needed to lay down anywhere...on the floor, in the aisle. Didn't matter. Just lie down!!

My seatmate, who had been sound asleep, graciously allowed me out of the row, and the attendant took me to the galley area where I lay down on the floor. Ah...great relief. Pillow, blanket, oxygen mask, 2 more attendants and purser later, the dizziness began to subside. They ushered me to a business class recliner (wasn't hard to decline that offer!) then put out the all-call for "a doctor or medical personnel on the plane." I was feeling just lousy enough that I didn't care to be the reason for an all-call. I also knew there was nothing terribly wrong--that this would pass. I've been in other situations where strange events have caused me to pass out (stories for other times). And I had had a similar experience during flight to South Africa two years ago. I actually wondered if it had something to do with the glass of wine I had at dinner.

Two ER docs soon joined the attendants. The short story is that my pulse and blood pressure were both very low (pulse: 28; bp: 80). The docs kept monitoring me and were initially concerned that neither came back up as quickly as the would have expected, given my general good health. At one point they encouraged me to stop over in Amsterdam to get checked out. Nah...that wasn't going to happen. But I didn't argue at that moment.

By the time we were 30 minutes out of Amsterdam, pulse and bp were up to normal ranges; I was feeling just fine. And the docs were mystified.

My diagnosis? A glass of wine at dinner was just enough depressant (suppressant?) to trigger this chain of events. Everything else has gone smoothly. No bouts of fainting between Amsterdam and Entebbe (no wine, either!).

But next time I want to stretch out in business class (or on the floor) I know what to do!

On the way

Sitting here at Columbus airport ready for first leg of the trip to Beni, DRC.

Short skip to Detroit, then on to Amsterdam, Entebbe (and an overnight at the Central Inn). On Saturday, a flight on TMK from Entebbe to Beni (or maybe Butembo, via Bunia).

I am at that place of "relaxed alertness," where learning occurs, where there is "low threat and high challenge." (Caine and Caine)

Thoughts on "The Future of Teaching"

One of the messages in my inbox this morning came from the Center for Teaching Quality (CTQ). The item announced the inauguration of TeacherSolutions 2030--an initiative to explore and help shape teaching as a "student-centered profession." There were references and links to the most recent blog posts at the Future of Teaching blog. Two that caught my eye were "Do You See What I See?" and "Medicine and Education."

"Do You See What I See?" reminds us that we must continue to fight for equity in education--equity in all aspects and across all borders. That took me to the question: What if in our attention to public education in the U.S. we also paid attention to, advocated for, and worked to ensure educational access for girls and women in cultures that consider females as property only; OR comprehensive primary education for ALL children across this globe--goal #2 of the MDGs? The current U.S. administration reminds us to think about and act on behalf of the common good. And isn't the common good wider than U.S. borders?

"Medicine and Education" picks up on the theme of advocating for what's right. All of us, not just educators, must be vigilant to speak out for quality, for education and for allocating ever-diminishing resources (and they've been diminishing since the beginning of time, haven't they??) for education. I, of course, jump to the larger discussion, and think, "Yes, and again...let's look beyond our borders. Let's look to the common good and strive to meet the needs of all who are denied voice and power. A lofty and unrealistic goal? Yes. But I suspect that the early advocates for civil rights in the U.S., the visionaries who imagined democracy in India, and William Wilberforce and William Lloyd Garrison were criticized for their lofty visions and unreachable goals.