Somehow I'm sorry to be intermittent in writing and updating the blog, but continuity in things is not one of my strong points. I know I need to get inspiration to write, and inspiration is a tank: when you empty it of all the words and emotions, it requires some time before returning to fill up again. Some other times, instead, I feel I lose myself in the flow of things to the point of being unable to stop me, put aside and collect my thoughts. This is the risk of everyday life, or of routine. Lost time that won’t come back.
What I want to write about is again the story of Maman Flor, which has evolved in unpredictable ways.
A few days after our first intervention, two events have disrupted everything and we begin to realize that help is by no means simple as it seems at first sight.
Her landlord, Meda, after having seen us at her house, has given her a letter of immediate eviction if she would not paid the three months' rent arrears. With this letter she came to us and Alice, perhaps without considering well the consequences, has lent her some money.
A few days later, Flor has found Merveille, her first child who since a few months has been living on the street, and brought him back home. She wished that we knew him, hoping that we could help his recovery.
When they came to us, Merveille kept his eyes down all the time and answered in monosyllables. He was frightened, he was in front of me but it too far away at the same time. To establish a minimal contact for me was impossible. When I asked him why he left his family, he answered without hesitation: "because my father is gone." Suddenly, for a moment, he has been there, clear as pure water, but in front of his wound I was unable to say anything. Before they left, we managed to wring a promise that he would resume the school until June, and then we would find a way to pay his training as a carpenter, his stated desire, who knows how much to him and how much to his mother.
The next day, left alone at home by the owner to watch TV (and here the story does not sound clear at all), Merveille steals a video camera carried to Meda to be sold, and the money that his mother had saved to buy a new bag of foufou. From that moment, Merveille disappeared once again.
The owner of the camera claims his money, and the head of the neighbourhood has determined. like king Solomon did, that Flor and Meda must share the responsibility and the payment of damages. Now Flor doesn’t know what to do: she lost everything again and hope for our new help. What should we do?
In the last days, I have reached the idea that the root of these events is our presence, of mundelé that have the colour of money. We are the foreign element of a small universe of variables that is generating unexpected dynamics.
Meda, despite he works and has no economic problems, wants to beat the nail and claims his right to share the luckiness happened to maman Flor, who has the help of whites. I fear that lend more money to Flor is good for nothing, that new problems will arise and that the requests end up only increasing. We all have the idea that she is victim of what happened, but I do not feel to exclude at all that there is not even a minimal participation from her in the whole affair. We took a few days to decide what to do, but there is not much time for; in the meanwhile Flor can not work.
About Merveille, he has lost an opportunity that he was unable or unwilling to grasp. He will continue to seek his way on the road or, since his father has abandoned him, he prefers the street because the word “home” has lost meaning for him.
I know it's wrong and illogical in many ways but somewhere, inside me, I hope that with the money made with the theft Merveille has gone to Pointe Noire to find his father. Maybe he won’t find it, but it could help him to find himself.
About us, we are slowly learning how to move in this new world. And we don’t have to be disappointed if things follow unimaginable and misleading trajectories. I tell myself that the learning process can sometimes be a bit painful, like when we discover that things are not like the pictures we had of it and the alarm clock of reality breaks into a thousand pieces the world we were dreaming about. As every time when we realize that the world continues his tour, regardless of our small actions. Or worse, when we discover that our small actions can create more problems than the ones they would like to solve. These circumstances given, perhaps it was unavoidable that all this happened. It’s sad, but it helps us to show us where we are, what we are doing, in what ways we can help. And in what others ways we only risk to do harm.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Mission in the forest #1
For the first time I go on mission in the forest, in the small village of Likouala.
My journey does not begin with good omens: father Ruffino, the priest who will accompany and will host us at his mission in Zanaga (a town 25 km from the village) doesn’t want me to leave without my passport. The problem is that my passport is lying at the immigration office for a month, waiting for the visa renewal. I can not get out of Brazzaville without my passport, unless to pay all the cops who I’ll meet on the road. The solution is maman Odile, a policewoman who works at the airport and has good contacts to the immigration office. She can retrieve my passport in one day. I find that I risk of having to remain at home only the day before: my attempt becomes a race against time. The flight to Dolisie, frome where I will then reach Zanaga by jeep, is at 11.30. Early in the morning I reach Father Ruffino, but at 10 I’m still in front of maman Odile’s house waiting for her to go together to the immigration office. By coincidence, the President of Burundi is arriving for an official visit to Brazzaville. Every time President Sassou moves, the city gets stuck: military and police close the access to roads where the presidential procession will pass. For the visit of a foreign head of State is the same story. This case takes away my little hope of being able to get to the airport on time, and instead it will reveal to be my salvation.
I arrive at the office with maman Odile that's almost 11. The director, who must affix his signature on the visa, is still not there. While Odile exchanges pleasantries and jokes with her colleagues, I sit on a bench at the reception. This room on the ground floor, badly lit and rather dirty, reminds me vaguely of a betting agency on Monday afternoon. I look up to the window in front of me that faces the street and I see the big statue of Pierre Savorgnan de Brazza, the Franco-Italian missionary that founded the town. The office where I am is just opposite the memorial where are placed the ashes of the man who for some is the mythical founding father, while for others he’s just one of the many other unscrupulous settlers who plagued Africa. I notice a strange discrepancy in the monument, which is far from being a masterpiece: the head is too big in relation to the body. With a little self-pity I think that only one hundred years ago it was enough to arm yourself with courage and recklessness to explore the world. Today, the infernal machine of bureaucracy will not let me do my job, unless oiling the gears with a few thousand francs. To some too much and to some others nothing, I tell myself. This gives me frustration, and meanwhile time passes, Savorgnan is always there with his head too big and I start trying to get me one reason why I missed the plane. While these thoughts are crossing my mind, maman Odile remembers me and comes and sits on my right. She smiles kindly: her expression seems to say, “I'm sorry but here it works like that, but everything has its remedy.” This is what I read on her face at least, or just this is what I continue to think for an hour. I watch her better, I try to divert my thoughts: she is a big middle-aged woman vaguely insecure and mother-looking . She tells me she is sorry and she’s doing everything possible. Just to change subject, I tell her that we live in the same neighborhood, and she asks me what I do in Congo. I explain her briefly and in the meanwhile it comes to my mind that even to come to Congo though I seriously risked to lose my plane in Paris, because of a problem arosen at the last moment. Suddenly her eyes undress insecurity to explain me the origin of my troubles: all about my horoscope, no doubt.
I stop for a moment. Then I say, not to disappoint her, yes it could be. After that, the conversation inevitably dies, indeed calling into question the stars is a blow to my already frustrated moral of this slow morning of early February. It's almost 11:30, I say that okay, I will join the others in Dolisie the next day with the first flight. Then, suddenly, an all dressed up boy occurs in the office, with a little pile of passports and yellow preprinted forms under his arm.
Maman Odile looks at me and her face opens on a big smile: she tells me that my passport has arrived, it’s enough just to put a stamp. At about the same moment, from the airport arrive some encouraging news: the flight is late and nobody know yet what time is scheduled for takeoff. The arrival of the President of Burundi knocked Mayamaya. Thank you, President.
After a race car (luckily without crossing any barrier of the police) I succeed to arrive on time and I also have to wait about an hour before boarding a 30-seat twin-engine, that to Laura looks like a toy, but that it worthy offer its service and that after 40 minutes of flight over the thick Congolese vegetation, lands in Dolisie, first step of this trip.
My journey does not begin with good omens: father Ruffino, the priest who will accompany and will host us at his mission in Zanaga (a town 25 km from the village) doesn’t want me to leave without my passport. The problem is that my passport is lying at the immigration office for a month, waiting for the visa renewal. I can not get out of Brazzaville without my passport, unless to pay all the cops who I’ll meet on the road. The solution is maman Odile, a policewoman who works at the airport and has good contacts to the immigration office. She can retrieve my passport in one day. I find that I risk of having to remain at home only the day before: my attempt becomes a race against time. The flight to Dolisie, frome where I will then reach Zanaga by jeep, is at 11.30. Early in the morning I reach Father Ruffino, but at 10 I’m still in front of maman Odile’s house waiting for her to go together to the immigration office. By coincidence, the President of Burundi is arriving for an official visit to Brazzaville. Every time President Sassou moves, the city gets stuck: military and police close the access to roads where the presidential procession will pass. For the visit of a foreign head of State is the same story. This case takes away my little hope of being able to get to the airport on time, and instead it will reveal to be my salvation.
I arrive at the office with maman Odile that's almost 11. The director, who must affix his signature on the visa, is still not there. While Odile exchanges pleasantries and jokes with her colleagues, I sit on a bench at the reception. This room on the ground floor, badly lit and rather dirty, reminds me vaguely of a betting agency on Monday afternoon. I look up to the window in front of me that faces the street and I see the big statue of Pierre Savorgnan de Brazza, the Franco-Italian missionary that founded the town. The office where I am is just opposite the memorial where are placed the ashes of the man who for some is the mythical founding father, while for others he’s just one of the many other unscrupulous settlers who plagued Africa. I notice a strange discrepancy in the monument, which is far from being a masterpiece: the head is too big in relation to the body. With a little self-pity I think that only one hundred years ago it was enough to arm yourself with courage and recklessness to explore the world. Today, the infernal machine of bureaucracy will not let me do my job, unless oiling the gears with a few thousand francs. To some too much and to some others nothing, I tell myself. This gives me frustration, and meanwhile time passes, Savorgnan is always there with his head too big and I start trying to get me one reason why I missed the plane. While these thoughts are crossing my mind, maman Odile remembers me and comes and sits on my right. She smiles kindly: her expression seems to say, “I'm sorry but here it works like that, but everything has its remedy.” This is what I read on her face at least, or just this is what I continue to think for an hour. I watch her better, I try to divert my thoughts: she is a big middle-aged woman vaguely insecure and mother-looking . She tells me she is sorry and she’s doing everything possible. Just to change subject, I tell her that we live in the same neighborhood, and she asks me what I do in Congo. I explain her briefly and in the meanwhile it comes to my mind that even to come to Congo though I seriously risked to lose my plane in Paris, because of a problem arosen at the last moment. Suddenly her eyes undress insecurity to explain me the origin of my troubles: all about my horoscope, no doubt.
I stop for a moment. Then I say, not to disappoint her, yes it could be. After that, the conversation inevitably dies, indeed calling into question the stars is a blow to my already frustrated moral of this slow morning of early February. It's almost 11:30, I say that okay, I will join the others in Dolisie the next day with the first flight. Then, suddenly, an all dressed up boy occurs in the office, with a little pile of passports and yellow preprinted forms under his arm.
Maman Odile looks at me and her face opens on a big smile: she tells me that my passport has arrived, it’s enough just to put a stamp. At about the same moment, from the airport arrive some encouraging news: the flight is late and nobody know yet what time is scheduled for takeoff. The arrival of the President of Burundi knocked Mayamaya. Thank you, President.
After a race car (luckily without crossing any barrier of the police) I succeed to arrive on time and I also have to wait about an hour before boarding a 30-seat twin-engine, that to Laura looks like a toy, but that it worthy offer its service and that after 40 minutes of flight over the thick Congolese vegetation, lands in Dolisie, first step of this trip.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)