Hi!

Girls And Boys Soccer. Tanganyika vs. Kifungo
(The two schools where I teach.)

The mosquito whines in my ear, every night. The new frogs rattle from the flooded field. I saw Vincent kill the hen with a knife, accidentally through my bedroom window. I heard the universal, barnyard cluck drawn into a final moan. I memorized these sounds according to their appearance, so that, when the next chicken died, I saw its neck severed without looking. When the panicked chirp became a long siren.

I think of bombs falling and people running into a building that will collapse on them.

My soar foot kickstarts the bike. My left hand slowly comes off the clutch, but my right forgets what it's doing and slackens. I jolt into stillness. Maddening. "Pole, pole" they say. All hands in the air, on imaginary handlebars, demonstrative. I cuss them in English and the bike jerks forward. We laugh, but I speed away from them.

Saidi sits behind me this time. "Troisieme!" And I navigate the dirt like a frozen lake. So cold that the waves stopped, mid-climb, mid-fall.

The gray morning. A day amidst days that can't rain, but only give the signs of rain. Clouds like lint balls cleaned out of washer. Vincent and I take motos to the market. My leg stings from touching the exhaust. Skies like this allude to a secret everything keeps. A secret of water, crystal, transparency undetectable when the sun is out. I think of Oregon. (Back seat, cold seatbelt, perfect droplets on the window-- to the library, TCBY, bagel place, to the waterfall. Grandma and her spearmint gum. Emily and I are tiny and we play pre-school computer games in the Grisham library.) Dismount and enter the market labyrinth.

"But, after all, nothing is true that forces one to exclude. Isolated beauty ends up simpering; solitary justice ends up opressing. Whoever aims to serve one exclusive of the other serves no one, not even himself, and eventually serves injustice twice." (Albert Camus, Return to Tipasa)

Past and present intertwine. Siddartha's river-- the mountain stream, the shoreline mouth, the ocean trench, all at once. I belong to the world.

The rain melange, still in the day, slides underfoot, and I recall your face and hair. And invisible honeysuckles bend over me, with a scent so calm.

I am split across the sewer trench. Ridged chest, tiny and firm in my hands-- I dangle you over the waste and we make a perfect triangle.

All the little ones, I can feel on my fingers, when you are a giggling rocket in my hands. Soft stomachs behind thin, muddy t-shirts.

Pushing the white van, pushing with my hands. Pushing with my weight, and yours also. Why can't it be like this, always? One in the same.

Cold amber and blue, plastic chair. Nodding to bed, nodding awake, I walk out to the sun and we start a new day.

But not a new way, I tell Mama "Bonjour" and slurp my creamed corn.

Now, kids' shadows converge and I feel them with scorn. An old "friend" is a nuisance, and young men are relentless. Tear the shirt from my back and birds come take my flesh. Bones in the sun, let them whisper away and fall down on anyone who ever asked.

"Yes!" you can take what you want. "Yes." as I am empty at last, and may now hold out my hand. Would you deny me my life? Cause me such strife, bewildered, deranged, verging insane with hunger in my eyes. And all would be right.

Do for the least. I will lessen myself, to cancel the burden and beg someone else.

But mud from a thousand rains is caked on my feet-- roads I never walked lay at my heels.

Coming up the banks, from the sleeping waves. My clothes are drying in the sun, so I feel less heavy. Not grudgingly trudging, nor cursing my sunrise alarm.

Who holds the measuring stick? I've asked myself that question a few times. Increments of inches, meters, miles (God forbid)? There is undoubtedly a "fire beneath my seat", and I don't know whether to curse it and stamp it out or feed it and savor the sweet sting that sends me howling upward/downward. It is a sourceless pressure; yet, whenever something seems without origin, I am, likely, that origin-- the pressure to produce, to be productive. Nothing seems enough or up to snuff, yet I do not know where all the struggle is leading. Yes, it keeps me moving. Keeps me "self-aware", keeps me guilty. But then, it's just absurd. Who am I trying to satisfy? What ancient deficit am I trying to appease?

Hah. I'm not living so bewildered and stupefied with life. Not like it seems, above. But that is life, and its puzzlings have a reserved spot at the forefront of my mind. So while I scratch my pitiful sacrifice into this infinite desert, I am aware of the pitifulness. That being said, I'm back to teaching Englishes classes at a couple of Kalemie High Schools. Trying to use my deeply-unfounded attempt at teaching as a medium for new relationships and my own learning. While I don't know whether the students will truly benefit from my "lesson plans", I know that I am indeed learning a great deal and making many new friends. So teaching seems the means --flings green beans-- to other unforeseen fruits. Maybe that's why a person's "call" in life can seem so absurd. The pressure to move forward and to do more. It's because it is truly absurd, perhaps meaningless. But the direction "matters not", when an undetectable treasure lies at the end of a long, looping, angular, spotted, checkered rainbow.


Not sure if there's anything pertinent to report on. I watch the news every morning, open-mouthed. So much suffering. People are screaming (terrible screams that we'll never hear). Somewhere, people live against a background of blood and smoke. But not here, not where I am. I hear only the faintest remnant of their cries, like a chilling whisper.

There are other things, actually. Vincent, the qualified cook from Bukavu, arrived surprisingly a couple of days ago. And now I find myself blessed with coconut-adorned goat meat and delicious potatoes. I'm so glad to have him here, providing me with a balanced diet. Frozen fruit in the mornings, big meals in the afternoons, and soup and salad at night. I actually feel energized by it.

Other, simpler pleasures. Keith left me with a Nerds bag deceptively filled with Life-Savers mints. If I have a breast pocket on my shirt, you'll likely find one in there. I love how they're individually wrapped. I wonder if anyone's ever accused the guys at Life-Savers of being arrogant for sanctioning their fleeting little sweets with individual abodes. Well, I think it turns the process of eating a mint into a special ritual. Eating a Life-Saver requires more skill and forethought than, say... an Altoid. Maybe I should say "taking a Life-Saver" like "taking tea".

I also just found a sealed stick of cherry chap stick in one of the medical Ziploc bags I've had stowed away. What a perfect time in my stay to find something I'd forgotten about! It's true that I am nearing the end. Conversations with my family and friends have turned slowly towards my homecoming. And while I lay reading, behind my mosquito-netted Congo display, I smell that cherry chap stick (my lips aren't dry) and think about home.

I wanted to include something about my developing interest in linguistics. I don't think I've mentioned it here, yet. This experience has given me an acute awareness of my unfilled capacity for knowledge/skill/specialization. Now, I am truly excited to continue my education and feel driven to do so. I'm extremely interested in studying language, and have been fascinated during my research of it, here. While there is still time for further development and mind-changing, I can seriously see myself entering college en-route to becoming a linguist.

Thanks for reading!

Happy New Year!