Author: adamgfleming

The author lives in Goshen, Indiana with his wife and four children. He is self-employed as a leadership coach working with business executives, writers and other artists, and spiritual leaders. His clients enjoy business growth, increased vision and purpose, work/family lifestyle balance, and freedom from writer’s block.

Los Tres Mundeles

Today was a rest day, a little opportunity to walk downtown with Bill and Charles between 10 and noon. There are pictures on Facebook now.

They are pretty great guys to hang out with. As soon as Bill got back from Kikwit last night we started joking around. His bus made good time and we were glad to see him.

So we went down to the same central area that I blogged about last night; where there’s a perpetual traffic jam. The traffic wasn’t so bad this time; it was day time for one thing. Along our route, we stopped to grab a Coke, then followed Charles down to the river. There was a checkpoint (guarded by two men and three tractor tires, set upright across the space) and Charles wanted to see if a friend of his who runs a fish farm right down on the river was home (the reason its a checkpoint is simply that the river is the border, and if you go down there and find a boat, you could go unguarded over into Congo. The friend wasn’t home and after a bit a woman came up to meet us, but as the man nor his sons were around, Charles said he’d come back later. In the interim, as we were waiting for her, Charles said, everybody’s asking questions here. Charles knows some people, but what has he brought two other mundeles? What is Mundele number two carrying in a bag? [probably millions of dollars] Why is Mundele number three wearing a yellow baseball cap? Are you sure they aren’t Chinese? What do they want?

So we moved on to the square, where Bill was hoping to send money over to his translators in Togo [uh, btw that’s another African country] and the bank he wanted to use (same bank as the one in Togo) turned out not to be a bank at all but just an ATM machine.

Then we went looking for Pastor Birakara Joli, the Veep of CMCO (Mennonite Congolese Church) who attended our training last week. Joli wasn’t home, but we knew it would pay relational dividends because word would get to him that three mundeles had visited his house.

Then we bought two pineapples.

Then we bought some little doughnuts.

Then we bought bananas.

Finally, carrying the makings of a fruit salad and eating the doughnuts (beignets — pronounced more like bay-nyays) we stopped at the Facebook Restaurant.

Funny thing about Facebook here: it’s very popular because with most cell phone plans, you can get a call but not make one if you don’t have pre-paid credits at the moment, which is pretty often. But you can use Facebook for free. The other thing about phones: they create jobs! Here and there are charging stations where you can plug in for a fee. Someone tends those. Then of course there are ubiquitous little umbrellas where you can buy credits, and of course you have to buy a phone now and then too.

So, Facebook for free with your phone plan is a big deal. Selfies abound. People I’ve friended have liked every single post. You can use it without paying for additional credit and you can use it as a texting service. That’s why it makes total sense that a Facebook Restaurant, very modern interior, serves schwarmas and burgers at prices few can afford (I got a schwarma for $4, but Zuckerberg did not get a piece of that action). We sat on a little wall, three mundeles in a row, on a curve in the road, eating our schwarmas, laughing at the fact that every bus that went by was full of people snapping photos of us with their cell phones and laughing at us.

Los Tres Silly mundeles eating in the sun!

Did you notice that none of our three errands were accomplished? I barely noticed myself. In fact, just by going in person and leaving word that we had been there, we built relational capital, and that’s an accomplishment in itself.

The rest of the day was a wash. My stomach did not feel well. I can’t imagine why. Street food in Kinshasa. Mmm-mmm good.

Traffic Jams: Congo Day Eight

Last night I went with Jacques for a walk after dark. I keep my eyes on the ground. The sidewalk (if you can call it that) runs beside a paved trench three or four feet deep and two or three feet wide. It runs downhill toward the river and is for sewage to flow and a pretty sure ankle-break if you step in it. Not to mention going home with your shoes covered in crap. The city teems with energy, the Kinois working late or shopping or going home or whatever else people do when the night is young and their stomachs are not completely full.

Jacques has been using my belt for two days — he had to punch an extra hole in it about eight inches tighter than the tightest hole I have. I’m about 38 inches at the waist, Jacques is probably 26. As we find the intersection Jacques says it’s full of people still at 2 AM. I don’t doubt him. It’s now about 8 PM and looks like if you wanted to get your car through this particular intersection it could easily take you six hours to cross a space about seventy-five yards wide. Forty-five minutes is probably a more reasonable amount of time.

There are no rules of the road to speak of, yet somehow people get where they are going. Eventually. The intersection where we end up is a beehive of people. It’s hard to tell from any single vantage point around the intersection how many roads feed into it. Cars blow down roads nearly empty until they come to an intersection like this one, and then wedge in. It is, without a doubt, the worst traffic mess I have ever seen in my entire life. We walk through the cars to the other side and turn. I stop for a moment and turn. I think he wanted to show me the big store behind my back. I barely glance inside, but there are things in well-lit stainless-steel cases, like slices of cake, perhaps like a bakery in another city eight hours flight to the north. It might be a full-on grocery store with all kinds of European items like Toblerone, but I pretty much ignore it. In my pocket is perhaps six dollars in local currency. I am not sure it would buy anything inside. If Jacques is hoping for a treat, he sure doesn’t say anything (it was his idea that I bring money for a taxi ride home, but I feel great and don’t mind keeping the money and walking back. There’s sort of an assumption that whites can’t walk far, and I’d be happy to defy that.)

Looking at the crowd instead of my feet, standing still in front of one of the most modern stores in Kinshasa, I finally catch a vision of what this place is. It’s une foule, as they say, a truly great crowd. At that moment I think of how God loves each person in the intersection, then in the city, 10 million of them or more, (probably more) and each day God knows what they’re doing, what they need and what they dream of.

Kinois dream of big things. As far as “searching for a means” (a euphemism for “looking for money”) goes, it’s really unending. I don’t think this is so much different than people in other cities, though it may be more difficult. Perhaps because I’ve been hanging with a small group of pastors and church leaders all week, I’m aware that the primary dream here is to complete an education. At the very least, you’ll want to have a college degree of some kind, but it can go beyond that and still you’ll be “searching for a means”. That’s because once you land a position of some kind or have become a doctor or architect or nurse or ordained minister, there will be others hoping and expecting that you may be the one they can ask as they are searching for “means”.

If Jacques doesn’t ask that we would buy something to eat, it may be because he’s eaten three times today with us. Breakfast, some papaya and bread and egg. Lunch, rice and fufu (a ball of cooked corn and manioc flour the size and approximate color of a grapefruit, but heavier) and meat and veggies and cake … we are not having supper. We have something like an evening snack. Jacques makes tea for everyone, sort of a self-appointed servant. There are peanuts and some snacks in packages like granola bars Charles brought from the States. And baguettes. Tea and baguettes and peanuts, and the trainees stash their allotment of granola bars to take home to their kids at the end of the week. I am pretty sure Jacques has eaten more calories this week than in any two weeks combined any time recently.

We walk back. Jacques is praying for me. He takes me by the hand. We walk hand in hand in a way that in the States would be phenomenally awkward but is quite normal for two good friends here. He prays his heart out. I can only understand half of what he says because of how he enunciates. He asks me for money; his son needs about $15 for something or other. I’m not sure what it is. I give him 6000 francs, then he says, I just need another $10. So I give him a ten. He’s super happy. I guess his means, or his son’s means, are taken care of for a day.

That was last night. Today we finished our training. I’ll hit that in my blog tomorrow.

Putulu Payer: Thursday in Congo

Last night in a meeting of the team that is assembled for deciding how to disseminate coaching in Congo, (which is about half of the trainees), the trainees decided that it would be best to proceed slowly with the idea. I was relieved. They’re starting to catch on, but translation issues and cultural alike have put us in a position to move quite slowly.

This morning I put on my new Congolese shirt, a “wax” or a shirt made with colorful material used for making ladies’ pagnes and men’s shirts. So as Leonard went by our room after brushing his teeth, he said “Putulu” a Lingala word which which means something akin to “lookin good man!” and when Charles laughed, Leonard said “payer!” (The French verb ‘to pay’) which means “lookin’ good … now gimme a buck for saying so!” At breakfast I went over to Leonard and said “Brother Leonard, because you said Putulu to me now I must pay you!” And so I slapped down a 500 franc note (fifty cents). That got me a huge laugh from the entire table that was worth the money I spent to make people laugh.

During a discussion on the difference between authentic encouragement vs. flattery this morning, the Putulu Payer concept came up again. I said, “Isn’t Putulu Payer basically a flattery?” And they said NO NO! You can say Putulu and really mean it! But if you add Payer, then it’s flattery!

There’s a fine line between an authentic compliment for encouragement and a flattery, and yet flattery is easy to spot: what do you stand to gain? If you stand to gain something, there’s a good chance you’re saying PAYER to your friend.

Opportunities for Training in Listening Skills

While I’m leading a four-day training for leaders in Congo right now, I want to let you know about some great opportunities to get some training in motivational listening back in the USA. I hope that if you have referrals you will leave a comment or email me.

These courses are great for those who want to build their listening skills. Usually the first impact people see is improved relationships in their family life, and the second is in their work. Where else would you like to improve your listening skills? Asking powerful questions? Areas where you have leadership responsibility — of course!

First, there’s a Level 2 training coming up September 24 & 25 in Indianapolis hosted by Evergreen Leaders. There is a prerequisite that you take a basic course like the one in the next paragraph; you know who you are. Registration ends September 20 or so. This is a two-day on-site course with no follow up teleclasses or anything. It’s just two days of hard practice. Cost is $395

Second, on October 2 we kick off a Level 1 training, with one day on-site and eight weeks of follow up tele-classes, Indianapolis and possibly in Elkhart, IN as well. Cost is $195.

Third, CMI FOCOS 2016 has a registration deadline of Dec 1. This course is a year long, much more intensive, it is for people who are quite sure they’ll want coaching skills for their work.  We’ll have teleclasses, you get eight personal coaching sessions, six mentor coaching sessions, a week on site in Elkhart, IN (last week of April) evaluations and more. The cost for this course ranges from about $900 for cross-cultural mission workers to $1200 for non-mission workers. It’s absolutely the best value on the market, anywhere. Other places that offer this sort of training would cost at least three times what CMI charges.

All these courses have a Christian-faith based component.

Congo: Listening in the old days, marriages

Perhaps the most poignant thing I’ve heard any of our trainees say this week is that the elderly in the villages can sit and listen to someone and then repeat back verbatim what the other person has said. The impression I got was that people had this skill to such a degree that they could also repeat entire accounts much later. In other words, they had a mental method of note-keeping that didn’t require paper.

This is an important and perhaps often overlooked skill set for coaches that was apparently deeply ingrained in oral culture here in the Congo, only to be lost to urbanization, and it is the first window into cultural contextualization of the modern conversational tool known as leadership coaching that our trainees brought to the table. It’s not surprising that someone can still identify the oral-information cultural background, but what’s even more exciting is to see that at least that one particular trainee who brought it to the foreground (and others too) immediately picked up on it and saw its value. There’s a little anthropology going on here! Whenever you can tap into a cultural element in training, you can really capture peoples’ vision that this skill is something they can utilize in a culturally appropriate way. It’s a thrilling discovery for me; it’s an anchor for our work.

Today we’ll be presenting on two major pieces: encouragement (which is not an obvious thing, at least in the Congolese Mennonite Church, according to sources close to this author) and we’ll do some marriage coaching exercises with the married couples here — there will be five of them.

I sat and talked with Albert last night (if you’ve been following the blog, this is the same guy I talked about a few days ago — I went to their house for dinner with Charles and Jeanette). I’ve been observing Albert and his wife Aberty, and I see that they do everything together in a way that’s very counter-cultural here. Even at the meals, they sit across from each other and put the fufu on the plate in front of Albert and the sauce on the plate in front of Aberty, then each reaches across to eat from the other’s plate the whole time. In a culture where men usually eat alone while the wife eats off to the side with her children, this sort of routine affection, and the deeper stuff they do like go together and minister together makes a profound impact. Albert said that even when people come to him for counsel, Aberty sits in, and he asks her for input. Then, he says, men will say, ‘oh, why does your wife always have to be here’ and yet, he says, they always come back. So, even though they act like it’s a deal-breaker, it’s not. Instead, it’s an example. I think married couples around the world, and in fact I myself, can take a lesson from Albert and Aberty.

Congo Day Whatever, Intensity Deepens

It’s Wednesday already, and we’re about half way though our training.

We’ve done The Heart of a Coach, Biblical Precedence, Active Listening, Powerful Questions, and bits and pieces of some other stuff. Generally as questions from the trainees come up we just address them. Perhaps we ought to be asking our trainees first what they think when a question comes up but usually we are simply answering the questions. I mean there’s still a discussion format, but its such a huge paradigm shift, and then too we’re working in a second language or through translation whenever our words escape us, so this default is perhaps a little easier.

There hasn’t been time for much else since Monday at noon or so when people began arriving. I was so tired last night that perhaps I was a llittle relieved that they internet wasn’t working and I couldn’t Skype with my family, or blog or anything.

Robert and I took a taxi last night over to a market to find bananas for the group. That was an adventure in itself. The traffic here is some of the worst you’ll find in the world, it’s a constant snarl at any intersection. Driving anywhere is a constant negotiation for the driver, but the passengers also shout out encouragements to drivers of other vehicles, etc. It can take an hour at rush hour to go six kilometers. We did get bananas for the group.

I’ve been leading the demo coaching sessions, which means that I’m listening in French and even attempting to formulate great questions in French. Happily, the guy I’m coaching in those demos is also our key translator, so if I’m stuck I just revert to English. Of course this means that he has to not only be coached but also switch mentally over to translating. It’s pretty wild. Basically we’re both doing double cognitive duty. It’s fun but mentally exhausting.

I have an hour for a nap and feel that I should use the time for exactly that.

USA: Muzak to my ears

Written August 24: I’m writing blogs in advance because I’m not sure how easy it will be to get online and post from Congo.

Megan and I went out to Culver’s for a sundae. We like ice cream.

She wanted to do a “marriage check in” and that starts with the things we appreciate about each other.

She launched into a bunch of things she appreciated about me and after a while she paused and said something like “Sorry I’m talking so much, but I appreciate you listening!”

Well, she was just talking on and on about things she appreciates about me. So I said, “This is easy listening. All this appreciation is muzak to my ears!”

It is easy to listen when we are being appreciated. If you want to improve listening with those you love the most, start by asking them to listen carefully to how much you appreciate them. It’s a great way to start a date off right!

Congo: September 7. Day 1 of Training

This morning was full of what trainers do before a training. We set up the room, taking care to think about how to arrange tables and chairs and presentation area.

When we were done, I laughed, because in the States, I knew that the size of the room (maybe 10’x25′) vs. the number of people attending plus trainers (16) would be considered a tight squeeze. Feedback after the training would tell us to find a bigger room, if we were in the States. I’ve had that happen with about the same amount of people in a room twice as big.

At supper last night a missionary was telling a story about how he was on a bus sitting in a row with three chairs, and six people (one of whom was an obese mama who wanted her little boy to sit on the missionary’s lap). People are used to crowding into smaller spaces here, and our arrangement will be more than adequate.

We pulled tables out of storage that had a thin layer of dust on them, black as charcoal. I mean, black FROM charcoal dust in the air. One of the helpers at the Guesthouse (maintenance man) cleaned up the tables.

Charles, Jeanette and I had a long conversation about how to conduct the training. We’ve been circling for weeks, and we finally have a plan — for the first two days. I’ll be presenting Tuesday afternoon; Charles has everything up to that point. It’s now about 1:30 and our trainees are due to arrive in about half an hour. We’ll be sharing our room with Jacques, so we tidied up before he arrives (we had crap splayed all over the place). Grabbed a power bar and some jerky for lunch: our meal plan includes breakfast and supper today, the rest of the week only breakfast and lunch. We are pretty much foregoing one meal each day so that we are eating when the trainees eat.

I still haven’t changed any US dollars for Congolese Francs. I will probably ask Jacques to go with me this afternoon to help me change money. I want to buy some roasted peanuts to have in our room and I’ll need some Francs for that. I’ll probably pay Jacques 1000 Francs to help me change $20, which is to say he’ll get about a 5% fee. I brought 10 baseball caps I’ll give him and ask him if he wants to sell them. An opportunity to clean our closet results in some income for my brother…

IMG_2371 hibiscus.

EVENING:

Training off to a good start. The trainees trickled in from 2 PM until maybe as late at 5 but eventually everyone was here. Tonight my brain is a little like that egg on drugs. Scrambled. I’ve been using my French at my max capacity all day and I can’t even speak anymore this evening without jumbling my words up. Jacques has joined us and I spoke with him for a while here in our room, but eventually I had to tell him I just can’t speak anymore French today. The reality is I’m actually getting along pretty well and I’ve been asked before if I can coach in French. I think I might say next time “yes” because really I feel like if I can follow someone’s accent I should be able to handle 95% of the vocabulary. We’ll see about that later. Perhaps if I coach one or two of these guys after I go home a few times we’ll see how that goes.

We had an interesting conversation about the word “accountability” and its French counterpart. Accountability has usually had a negative connotation in English, but the French word we’re using does not have that. I’m glad for that.

I watched the guys eat at supper. There are some hungry trainees here. I know these guys, who are mostly pastors, are probably feeding others before they eat. Or they may not have eaten all day! I was glad they had a place where they could really chow down. I thought we’d get Congolese food tonight, but instead we had a very American meal indeed: spaghetti (which the Congolese call macaroni) and meat sauce, garlic bread, salad. Supper was really important. Really, tomorrow we are offering to feed them lunch. There isn’t money in the budget for supper so I won’t be eating supper either. We brought some granola bars and jerky and that’s going to be our supper for the next three days. Food is important here. Really I thought that Robert could have eaten twice as much spaghetti. The dude is hungry. Here in the middle of training, guys are hungry. I mean it can permeate your thinking in a way most of my readers aren’t used to. So I’m praying that our lunches will be robust and that they’ll really carry us through the afternoon and evening training sessions.

Congo, Sunday September 6

The Drama.

We go to Nouvelle Alliance Mennonite, as they say here, “to pray” (as in, they don’t ask “where do you go to church,” they ask “where do you go to pray?”)

The singing is robust. Robert knows that we will be on a tight schedule to get to pick up my bags from Brussels Airlines by 3 PM, so as he calls group after group to come up and sing, he tells them, hurry hurry you have two minutes.

The young men

The children

The young women

and so forth, everyone has a sort of impromptu choir. Each group leads a song. There is a great deal of clapping and dancing. I mean you would love the energy. I think even my atheist friends would love the energy, dancing and clapping. This group knows how to rejoice. Life is good for a few hours under the shade of a tarp in a rented courtyard.

The leader pushes his people. If they don’t say AMEN loud enough, he exclaims ALLELUIA again. We are giving it UP.

We are in a neighborhood, the houses packed in tight, courtyards ramble here and there. Robert came to pick us up around 10 AM, with a van borrowed from a pastor friend and driven by the pastor’s son. We get to the service around 11, Robert is the man who planted this little congregation in this part of the city two years ago. it is a really BIG DEAL for him that we are visiting. Robert is not ordained, so while he leads the service for the most part, there is also a pastor complete with suit and collar. Now, about 100 people are packed in here, and our van is parked on the soccer field.

The singing lasts at least an hour. Then Charles is asked to speak, and he preaches in French with a Lingala translator. He talks for 45 minutes. Jeanette and I are asked to speak. Jeanette takes about two minutes, I take maybe five. We encourage the little congregation without their own building.

We MUST stay for food. There really isn’t a choice. We walk down a ways, not far. Robert’s wife was not at church because she was preparing our meal. Oh my. Here we go again, fufu AND rice AND plantain (essentially three starches) and spicy beans and greens and grilled fish and the ubiquitous hot pepper paste which people call “L’ami de Charles” or Charles’ Friend. And a huge bottle of water, 1.5 litres of Canadian Pure. (Charles eats a tablespoon of the hot stuff, I eat a tenth of what he does.) It’s all really good. Yes, the head is on the fish. Why would it not be? I do not look my fish in the eye, I focus on removing his filet from his ribs. He doesn’t need it any more.

We are in more of a hurry than anyone wants. It would be best if we could stay after the meal for at least an hour if not two. But I am wolfing down my food as fast as I can at 2 PM. We will need to get to the Brussels Airline’s baggage depot by 3 or I don’t get my suitcase. Tomorrow we don’t have time to go down there, and it’s pretty well along the way home anyway. We excuse ourselves almost too rapidly and head for the van.

The soccer players have busted out the rear window on the passenger side. Robert goes to try to find someone to pay for the damages, but the soccer teams disappear quickly when they realize he wants someone to take responsibility. Robert told the driver and van owner’s son that parking on the soccer field was a bad idea. Robert’s three year old boy Obed climbs in the back with me. I have been teaching him to give me five. He wants to ride along. An older sister comes and says you cannot go. I ask him if he wants to get out by the window or the door (since the window is now busted this is a legitimate option.) Robert does his best to find someone who will pay, but there really isn’t much hope for that. It looks as though Robert is going to be the fall guy, because everyone else, including the driver, seems to be passing the buck. I wonder if there is a hope that we will bail them out but part of what we hope to exude is the coaching value of people taking responsibility for their own lives. If we shell out bucks for the window, we’re reinforcing an old assumption that the whites will pay for any problems.

We get to the baggage claim with 18 minutes to spare before closing. But there is no line, and my bags are there, intact. We are in and out in two minutes and back to the Guesthouse by 3 PM. Along the way we see an SUV that has just been drilled in the highway. As we ease past, forty people lift the SUV manually back on it’s wheels. (This is where in the USA the EMTs and firemen would say “don’t move the driver” but they just pick it up and heave it over so they can drive away.) We don’t see much but Robert says the driver of the SUV which flipped was a white woman. Not a situation I want to be in here! We could see that the side airbag deployed so hopefully all is well.

I take a nap and a walk in the garden out back before supper to shoot photos and enjoy the quiet at dusk, and find a few fallen mangoes which prove to be ripe and delicious.

I talk to my wife and kids in late evening. My oldest son tells me that I don’t go on adventures, I just go on these trips where I primarily just talk to people (or, listen to them) and I can’t disagree with that; this isn’t tourism in the shoot-the-rapids-and-climb-the-mountain sort of way. But there’s always plenty of drama. I’ll get some photos up on the blog soon. There are photos already on my Facebook page as others post them.

Congo: End of First Full Day

Saturday, my first full day in Congo. I wake up with the sun, or maybe a little after, 6:45. Cars are *klaxon*ing in the street and the city is in full swing. I am refreshed and don’t really feel the jet-lag at all.

I take a walk in the back garden; the hibiscus are in bloom, bright red atop long-leaved stems, and bananas small and green but already propped up with a piece of bamboo so they don’t topple the banana tree. (Bananas aren’t really a tree and a good hearty bunch can topple the long stem before it’s ripe.) I take pictures and return to my room to download them, only then realizing that I don’t have my cable to hitch my camera to my tablet.

After breakfast, I have a long meeting with Charles and Jeanette, interrupted multiple times by phone calls from Robert who was working very hard to get Bill on the bus to Kikwit. The bus was “full” but somehow Robert got him a seat; there is always a way to get something done. We talked for several hours about how to lead coach training and the cultural sensitivities around teaching coaching values. It was a good meeting and I think we’re going to be as ready as we can be.

On a short break while Robert is arranging Bill’s life, I chat with the man who sells carvings and paintings in the foyer of the guesthouse. As with many markets there are well-carved and aesthetically crafted items alongside some which have less appeal. I will end up buying a few things from him, it’s very convenient and we won’t have time to travel to a tourist market if indeed there still is one here (which I suspect there is).

Charles explains very carefully, three or four or five times, to Robert that we cannot stay long after church tomorrow. Robert would like us to … he has a grocery list of things he’d like us to do. Go see some fields, meet this group or that. Charles explains that if we are not at the baggage pickup tomorrow by 2:30 in the afternoon there is a good chance I will never get my luggage. He explains that I have nothing. (Indeed, I am washing a pair of underwear and socks every day, glad I have a second pair to wear while the other dries out.)

We say good-bye to Bill. He is very adventurous to go to Kikwit by bus, although everyone says that the “Double-V” line is really well organized and he’ll be fine. He will arrive at midnight or one in the morning. All the baggage will stay atop the bus until morning light. I suspect this is so that nobody can be accused of stealing anything while it’s dark. Most of the travelers will stay and sleep (probably on the ground) at the bus station. Bill’s host will probably go get him, then they’ll return in the morning. Such are the travel challenges.

After a nap this afternoon, which I sort of need but I’m not desperate for, at about 3:00 PM, we set out to walk about 3 kilometers to Albert and Aberti’s house. Well, I should say, their childrens’ house. Albert and Aberti don’t live there most of the time. They leave their eight kids in Kinshasa while they work Albert is an Education Extension Instructor, which means he’s training pastors off-campus if I’ve got it right (which I might not) and that means he travels; they have a house in Tshikapa I think. The oldest of their children is perhaps 26 years old, the youngest about nine, he’s in second grade. If he’s only seven, he’s very tall for seven. The father and several of the children are quite tall; the two young ladies have an inch or two on me I think. I am ahead of myself here.

As we approach the house, what a reception they send. First the youngest, a boy, and the fourth child (the younger of two daughters, a young lady I should say of perhaps 19 years old) come running to meet us as we walked along the street. Big smiles for Charles, whom they already know. Slightly shier smiles for Jeanette and me, but smiles nonetheless. The daughter, a very classy who hopes to work in the hospitality industry, kisses everyone three times in the European fashion (press cheeks, un, deux, trois). We walk a little farther and the oldest daughter greets us, then finally the oldest son is sent as we draw nearer the house, he also greets us. This greeting us as we come near is done in stages, and has a dramatic effect of showing us that perhaps they can hardly wait for us to get there. (And perhaps that is so.) Charles has not met the oldest son before but was eager to see the entire family together.

We walk down into a valley. Charles remembers as a boy that the valley was his playground before the city had grown this far; now, it’s completely packed with a sprawling neighborhood, little alleyways leading this way and that. We hop a stream on two stones, then up a little to where Papa Albert and the rest of the family greets us. There are 10 chairs, most likely rented for the occasion, blue plastic lawn chairs that look exactly like the ones we have. Everyone is wearing their absolute best clothes. We sit in a circle and the second son prays thanks over our visit. We are under a mango tree, the fruit is mid-ripening, the shade is plentiful and the sun drifts toward the Atlantic and a breeze blows through. We relax. We are among Charles’ friends, so … we are among friends.

At Charles’ invitation we ask to hear what the dreams of each of the children are. The oldest son would like to be a musician but struggles to find a producer. The oldest daughter has completed beauty school (she is an “aesthetician”) and would like to set up a shop, but doesn’t have the money for equipment. (Oh, for a micro-lending organization!) And so on, each one with a dream but  also a challenge, for the school kids the challenges are typically “I have to pass the test to go to the next grade” (which isn’t easy) or “I need money for tuition” (probably more difficult). Until we reach the youngest, who says he would like to study math/physics or, if that doesn’t work out, study theology like Papa. This is met with a great deal of enthusiasm (which makes me wonder if he’s well aware of what reaction that can get him!) but I also don’t sense falsehood in him. In fact, I’m a little surprised none of the others have mentioned theology. Then it is Mama’s turn, and she holds back. Albert says that one of his dreams is to learn more about coaching.

We share about our dreams too. I tell them about my four children.

The kids cannot believe Jeanette is 60, because she has all her teeth.

We take pictures before we lose the sunlight. Several of the older kids have cell phones, and they are adept selfie-takers; I am hugged and selfied a lot. Charles also takes photos with his good camera. I will soon have new Facebook friends. I especially enjoy taking photos with the youngest two boys. I am thinking of my boys.

We are seated for dinner, three guests, Papa and Mama. The children will eat after us. The girls hold soap and water so we can wash. I am asked to pray, and decide to do so in English, though I’m really doing pretty well in French and understanding most of the conversations, able to share about my family and my work with them, etc. There is FOOD. Fufu, which is a ball of manioc (that’s the stuff we make tapioca out of) and corn meal pounded and pounded and pounded until it is smooth. This is the best fufu I’ve had. I don’t remember liking it as a boy; today it went down very well. You can eat about a piece the size of your fist. If you eat much more you will feel like there’s a rock in your stomach for twelve hours (I think that is considered a bonus here, to have your belly full for so long). There were also a smoked fish dish, a salted fish dish, and grilled fish, please count them, my friends, THREE kinds of fish at one meal, as well as two kinds of greens and a bowl of red pepper paste (piment) which will shred you from the day you import it until the day you export it, and it will also make you feel as though, just maybe, if you can conquer it, you can conquer the world. I think (tongue in cheek) that piment is why Congolese have families with eight children. Wow, kapow! That’s hot!

It’s clear they are disappointed that the lights have gone out in the neighborhood. Because they are renting there isn’t much they can do to improve the house; (like put in a generator for times like this) and they are apologetic. We eat by flashlight and our wits. Silverware is provided; none of us use it. Fufu is meant to be eaten with the hand. Roll a ball, make a divot, catch some fish sauce or greens in the divot. The food is so good. All of it. Without a single doubt in my mind, this family has prepared the best food they could afford, cooked it with every bit of care they could muster, served it with love and pride. I can’t see the fish bones too well so I just crunch them up. It’s for the better. I can barely see where my pile of piment is, so I end up with mouthfuls inadvertently. Mama is congratulating Jeanette on how well she eats fufu. She says “felicitations” which actually means “congratulations”. My mouth is on fire and I eat just enough, I am satisfied and I have eaten some of every dish and my whole lump of fufu. They serve us oranges for dessert. They are sweet, the very outside layer peeled with a knife to leave you an edible rind. Mama trims a circle and you can suck the juices out.

Over dessert, Mama decides to share her dreams with us. She does so in Lingala, her heart language, and Charles translates for us. It’s a powerful and intimate moment. I’ve decided to keep this to my chest and not write it, it is between the five of us who sat at the table. She has shared the deepest desires of her heart, and it has taken her some time. But she has spoken it. She does not cry, but I sort of want to.

Everyone files in to say good-bye. We shake hands, they ask for my Facebook handle. We walk back up the hill with Papa and Mama, and hail a taxi. It’s 7:15 and dark; best not to walk through the city in the dark. The visit with this family is an authentic slice of Congo, from the walk through the city, to the meal, to the hopes and dreams a family has shared with us, not so unlike the dreams you might hear at home, children who want to do well in school and get good jobs or start a business, parents whose hearts want nothing but the best for their children.

So we did all these things. We talked, we ate, we took photos, we shared our dreams, but in the middle of all this doing, we simply honored each others’ presence in the world. We built a bridge.

Bridges are meant for walking across, even if they consist of nothing more than a few stones high enough to step upon. So I must come back again some day to walk across this bridge again.