The Art of Slow Living in the Midst of One Hundred "To-Dos"

Motor bike helmets here, are really more of a suggestion than a safety precaution. Sometimes in an attempt to offer the passenger maximum comfort, the helmet becomes so filled with woollen lining (with no intention of creating optimum breeding ground for sweaty itchiness – praise the Lord for scarves) that the helmet simply perches on the top of your head; turning your neck-head shadow into a toadstool.  We have learnt to remain seated on the bikes when the lava rock bumpiness and the boys-will-be-boys speediness offers plenty chance to be airborne, all the while clutching the bag carrying your now fully-charged electronics, a little bag of market shopping, and your free hand busied by keeping the helmet on. Seldom are you surprised with a helmet that clips beneath your chin tightly enough to keep it in position on your crown.

After a full day of admin yesterday, still feeling rather mucous-y (that should be a real word) and fighting a wheezing chest I hopped onto the back of a bike, mumbling my destination and bargaining a price in unconscious Swahili. As I readied myself: sunglasses on and scarf draped over my clean(ish) hair, the elderly driver turned around and gently tied my helmet on. All the while explaining to the drivers around us that I was Congomani (a Congolese) because I spoke Swahili. It warmed my heart.

As we weaved our way through rush-hour traffic, I marvelled at his cat-like reflexes - we managed not to ‘nudge’ anyone and to be hit by no-one. I smiled beneath my scarf as Cher’s question, “Do you believe in life after love?” blared from two massive speakers at the door of a small barbershop called, ‘Self-Control’… I fear that the speakers might have filled the space completely, hence their doormen status. It warmed my heart.

The simplest of things. The things we can so often overlook in the hustle and bustle of a day as we strive to check things off a list. Don’t get me wrong, I love the feeling of an ever-shortening list as one checks the “to-do’s” off one at a time. But I love the slow motion moments, the moments where one becomes acutely attuned to the sights and sounds and smells, that if not breathed in deeply, will be forever lost before you’ve ever had a chance to fully appreciate them or learn from them or grow through them.

A perfect example. Stroll with me through my last Thursday. A response I suppose, to the frequently asked question about a normal day in DRC.

With an incredible all men’s team from South Africa (now safely back home with a new appreciation for running water and red meat) we hosted day 2 of our Marriage/Family Conference. Pouring into the lives of individuals and breathing fresh perspective into marriage and family. We worshipped. We taught. We learnt. We fed all who attended – giant bread rolls and sodas in glass bottles  (anyone who has ever done missions in Africa just closed their eyes and licked their lips in remembrance of this thirst quenching, temperature subduing made-with-real-sugar treat)– the best kind of conference food (both elements of this odd sounding meal, SUCH a treat within the Congolese culture). I managed to sneak a few of our bought-for-dinner carrots to some of the children who asked so politely for the vegetables they had perceived through the stretched-thin black plastic bag they had seen me carry. We sang songs and entertained the neighbouring kids, some of the city’s poorest, with silly dance moves and then squashed 6 fairly big guys, 3 women and two empty soda crates into a vehicle. Homeward bound for a cup of tea before heading over to the lake for a shower. A seemingly ordinary day. Everything going according to plan though we might be an hour or two(ish) behind schedule. Ahhhh schedules… pieces of paper filled with good ideas which we encourage visitors to hold very loosely and then to celebrate any changes in times… or ideas, altogether. Flexibility is merely one of the keys to a happy life in central Africa.

Service with a Smile

And here is where I start to live my afternoon in slow motion.

Tired of squatting, knees tucked somewhere behind their ears to wash the dishes, the South African men blessed team Justice Rising Congo with a table. A table upon which to place the two grey basins in which dishes are washed and rinsed, laundry is done and legs are occasionally shaved. Judge not. Fear not. We make sure to rinse them out good and proper.

Because one can’t simply buy a table, I headed off with Pastor to place an order to have a table made. “We’ll go into town, we’ll have more options there. We’ll be home in maybe 1 hour.” Holding onto this schedule loosely, I wished that I’d brought my scarf – the dry season can be SO dusty! The dust, combined with my open window over which I had no control made me long for my scarf as I felt the dust settling between my brow and on my nose and lips. I could feel the sand art developing on my face. But we chatted and laughed and discussed. And then stopped. Nowhere near a carpenter’s shop.

First stop – to pick up his gorgeous wife from a hospital conference she’d had to attend for work. We ADORE her. She’s too kind for words and beyond generous. Her early morning knock to deliver medication to last night’s cougher or the early morning splutterer reinforces our status as family rather than guests. We love it. And then we’re off. To buy a table.

Next stop – to check on whether or not Pastor’s television has been repaired. The bulbs blown by the surging power delivered by the infrequent generator, we gather that the repairs will require a few more days of “in-patient care”. Close to the market, Mama dashes off to pick up vegetables and other essentials for her family whilst Pastor and I, complete with paper and a pen stand on the side of the road in the cloud of dust kicked up by passing traffic for an impromptu English lesson. Having just been on a little hunt for a cast iron pot (our SA team desperately wanting to treat us all to a potjie – only one of South Africa’s yummiest traditional dishes) we discuss the differences between fat and thin and thick and thin and before I know it, I am explaining the differences between dung and droppings and poop. As I giggle inwardly, I secretly wish our teams would choose their language more carefully as I have, on numerous occasions been called upon to explain new (and sometimes too inappropriate for me to feel comfortable with) terms with our studious, English-learning locals. Mama returns, numerous packets in hand – women all over the world… And we’re off again. To buy a table.

Instruments from Paint Drums

But first – we stop to price drums. Yes. Drums. We take pictures of all our options. Bargain down prices. But leave empty-handed as we’re still not certain. And we’re off. To buy a table. And we do… We place an order, pay a deposit and I know that the men are going to be very happy, even if the table will only arrive after their departure. Already two hours behind schedule . We headed towards home. Except that we really didn’t.

We drive into one of the military camps. I am given a full history lesson of the area and I love it. I wave at little bare-bottomed babes and throw thumbs up at the cuties that line the streets calling out at the Mzungu. Oh wait. That’s me. I forget sometimes… Before I know it, we’ve pulled into the military hospital. A hospital, which provides care to the soldiers injured on the front-lines

except that there is no medication to provide care beyond a sheet-less beds. My heart breaks for these men who wave their sticks in the faces of young innocence trying to collect water from the only tap in the area and who speak harshly to each other and to all around them. My heart breaks at the thought that they’ve become imprisoned by anger and hatred and bitterness. My heart breaks at the thought that they are held captive by the torturous memories of too many wars and too much bloodshed. My heart breaks that all this turmoil bubbles up at spews from them onto unassuming bystanders. And suddenly our vehicle is bursting at the seams. 12 people. One overfull suitcase. A blue baby bath. Two buckets. And a newborn that we’re about to drive home for the very first time. Fingers and toes safely tucked in, the doors are forced shut. I gather we’re not going straight home.

Before I know it. We’re seated in the dimply lit home of the new parents. Two days old this little new born is being celebrated with a homecoming party (the way it’s done here). The mother of the new-born jumps straight into gathering sodas and ensuring that everyone’s hands are washed while the baby is passed person to person amidst the ooooos and ahhhhhhs. The husband stands at the door receiving congratulations from everyone in the vicinity who has heard the whispers of the birth. From a communal plate, with a hungry kitten circling like a shark, we share a meal in celebration. Fish and thickly cut French fries. The perfect opportunity to recap the afternoon’s lesson on ‘thick and thin’. Here I am. A complete stranger. Being welcomed into somebody’s home to celebrate new life. I marvel at the way life is celebrated here in a place where death through conflict is so common. Everyone has loss at least one family member to war. But everybody celebrates new life. There is always Hope. After an hour or so of small talk and laughter and prayers of blessing over the family. We bid farewell and, in the pitch dark I am now totally convinced that heading home. For the first time that afternoon, I was right.

As I climbed into the vehicle, table paid for and heart full. Pastor nudges me, “It’s a good thing that you’re African. You understand that in Africa we don’t have time… We have circumstances.”

In that moment, I was completely thankful for my afternoon. For the time I had been able to spend with Pastor and his wife and everyone else whose paths crossed ours that afternoon. As we rolled into the yard, 4 hours later than I had expected, I was eternally grateful that I had tossed the afternoon’s schedule out of the open window 4 hours earlier and that it had been swallowed up by the dust. My afternoon had looked nothing like it was supposed to. I sat in the Upperroom, the dusty among the clean, having missed the opportunity to lake shower, but my heart was happy and my cheeks ached from the silent giggles I had enjoyed in the darkness of the back seat.

Slow motion moments are merely opportunities for your senses to fully engage in life and love around you regardless of whether you get anything checked off your list or not. They’re moments where one’s life is governed by circumstances and not time. Where relationships are treasured over ‘to do’s’ and where you allow your motor bike driver to gently secure your helmet on your head.