Mama Youyou's asking for our help. Who's in?

Over the years we've heard from readers asking how they can contribute to help with some of the issues we've talked about. We've directed you to organizations doing related work, including great groups supporting Congolese women. It's kind of amazing how many times we've gotten unsolicited offers to give something. Here's another option...

Remember Mama Youyou? We've written a lot about her.




She climbs trees with her best friend.


She talks honestly about finding love and growing old in the Congo.


She finds skinny people shameful.




She learned how to swim.




She taught me the greatest lesson I've ever learned about the lottery of life.


And she's an all around better mother than I'll ever hope to be. I still take my mama cues from her.




She's one of the main reasons we started this blog in the first place. We wanted to tell stories about her and other African women just like her. She's brave, she's smart, she's funny, she bosses her husband around. All my favorite qualities in a woman.

Lately, school fees have been going up and she lives in the poorest country in the world, so yeah. Times are tough. But unsurprisingly, she has an excellent plan.

She wants to start a chicken and egg farm. 

This, I know she can do. She's raised chickens since before we knew her. She's good at it. She's got the space at her house and she wants to turn it into something sustainable.

So she approached a friend, who set her up with one of those newfangled websites to help raise money. Here it is. Give $5. Give $15. Give more. You don't get charged unless she reaches her goal. Consider it. I cannot think of a more direct and effective way to support a Congolese woman.

If you're still not convinced, this idea of direct cash giving is quickly becoming one of the most studied and chosen solutions to global poverty.  Read more about it here. Or look up one of the hundreds of scholarly articles supporting giving cash directly.


P.S. Hey, Sister-of-mine, remember when she made all your bridesmaid's dresses from J Crew pictures (and battled the Congolese police on your behalf)? You are especially obligated.





Here's that website again: Mama Youyou's Chicken and Egg Farm in DRCongo.

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Africans Don't Swim*

I'm going to make a very broad generalization, but I'll qualify by starting with: By and large - In my experience - Of the people I know (so please don't send me angry letters)...Africans don't swim. They just don't. I mean think of what they were probably doing when you were a kid taking swimming lessons at the Y.

(Read more about it here: Why Africans Don't Swim.)

Our girls happened to learn to swim at a strangely young age. They love to swim. They dive down, they tread water, they are completely comfortable. This is something that is very scary for our Congolese friends to witness. Your baby just jumped in the pool! Help her! Help her! By the time our children come up for air, everyone poolside is clutching their chests.

When I was pregnant with Charlotte we went to Victoria Falls with a group of American and Congolese friends. We decided to go to the infamous Devil's Pool, which requires a bit of swimming in order to get there. Soon after we jumped in the river, our Congolese friend clung to me. He chose that moment to privately confess he couldn't swim, but had been too ashamed to tell the others. And so I crossed the Zambezi with a baby in my belly and I grown man hanging on to my bathing suit.

[A photo of this event has been withheld to protect the innocent. 

But nobody's stopping you from searching the Mama Congo archives. Ahem.] 

To bring the gift of swimming to our favorite Congolese friends, Jill and I have had this grand plan to get Mama Youyou and Mama Vida in the pool. Without notice, one day last week we said, "Alright ladies, you're going to swim today!" There could be no hesitations. No hemming and hawing about not having bathing suits. They would face their fear. Mama Youyou was totally game. Mama Vida was nonverbal.

Luckily one of our friends who happens to be really good at helping folks get comfortable with the water, wanted to help the mamas swim too. Up until this point, Mama Vida still hadn't agreed to learn. Mama Youyou asked her if she would just sit close by for moral support. But when it came time to walk to the pool, Mama Vida remembered some "important tasks" she still needed to do. I said to Mama Youyou, "Maybe she's too scared. Let's not force her." So we left without her.

As Mama Youyou went to step in the water, Mama Vida appeared, jumped in the pool and had no problem swimming. (Weird. We still have absolutely no explanation for her hesitations.)

Buoyed by Mama Vida's fearlessness of the water, Mama Youyou went to step in the pool...

She just couldn't do it...

The girls cheered her on...

The rest of the time Andrew held her hand, walked with her around the shallow end, and got her comfortable with the water. Meanwhile, Mama Vida swam circles around them. Literally. Everyone loves a show-off best friend.

Now Mama Youyou's telling all her friends and family they really should learn to swim. Because everyone should!

*Africans don't swim, except for Mama Vida and many, many other competent African swimmers.

P.S. The most amazing swimming I've ever witnessed was by these boys and their empty water-bottles-as-flotation-devices in the rapids between the two Congos. I could barely watch.

Brazzaville swimmers. (TASOK folks, see our hill in the background?)

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Raising the Bar

The other day, Mama Youyou came to get Mama Vida so they could walk out together at the end of the day.  These nannies obviously work with the right families:  Mama Youyou is timely, arriving precisely at 5:30 or so, and she usually waits politely for a bit, until it's necessary to hollar through the bathroom door at Mama Vida, "Vida!  Viiiiddddaaa!"  Mama Vida shouts back, "Na zoya!" (I'm coming! in Lingala) several times until she eventually emerges. This closely mirrors the Humphrey/Grimsrud & Sensamaust relationships with time.

While we were waiting for Mama Vida to get ready, I asked Mama Youyou if I could take her picture because she looked so dang good.  I mean, who looks this put together on their way to travel an hour on insane public transportation after an entire day wrangling multiple toddlers?

A Congolese woman.  That's who.

For example, this was taken last year at Elias' final day of Kindergarten.  We were just having a little gathering in the classroom, no biggie.  Yet, this is how the other mothers were dressed:

I wrote to Chantal (the beautiful mother above) to ask if I could use this random picture that I took of her for a little post about stylish Congolese women and she said something like, "Oh! I like that picture, but it wasn't anything special."  Really?  Those heels!  That purse!  That dress.  I'm pretty sure I was wearing jeans that day.

And today, the last day of 1st grade for our kiddos - this is what she was wearing:

Again with those heels!

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In an effort to unlock more fashion secrets, I asked Landrine to come over yesterday for a little photo shoot.  She said she would bring wardrobe changes.

She started out with the "modern" woman.  A smart outfit for a business occasion.

Then, she brought out a design of her own.  I told her it looked like something from a Vlisco bilboard. (You'll want to click on that link.) Amazing.

The bar has officially been raised.  Moms aren't often seen in sweatpants around here.  If Mama Youyou can look better than I have ever looked at 5:30pm on a Thursday and Chantal can show up at Kindergarten looking like a million bucks and Landrine can sew herself a dress with haute couture shoulders during the few hours she has electricity every week...then I can at least graduate from jeans.

These mamas are fully aware that a little pride goes a long way.  I'm taking notes.

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Cooking With the Mamas: Nyanpul

The first time we tried nyanpul was on the street straight from a bowl atop a guy's head. We thought he had sold us magical coconut bits. It was unbelievably delicious. We reported back to Mama Youyou who thought we were ridiculous because it's so easy to make. Here's the recipe that can be filed under, Why haven't we been making this our whole lives?

Congolese Nyanpul
Ingredients:
1 small coconut
3/4 cup sugar
3/4 cup milk

(That's it. Really!)

1: Grate a fresh coconut. This process can serve as amazing entertainment for the baby plopped on the counter beside you.

1 fresh coconut, grated

Baby entertainment

2: Add sugar. Add milk. Stir a bit to dissolve the sugar.

All the ingredients in one little bowl.

Also good toddler entertainment

3: Cook on the stove top. Let it come to a boil and continue to stir and stir and stir.

Two stirrers are better than one

4: Cook and stir the mixture until it's good and dried out. It can take a bit of time to achieve maximum nyanpul crunchiness.

And voilà, finished nyanpul.

I dream of sprinkling a bit of nyanpul on ice cream or on top of a cake. But if you want to be traditionally Congolese, just eat it by the handful. That's very culturally acceptable, thank goodness.

all photos by Sarah

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How to be Devastated

When death happens I am either professional or polite.  

Sometimes, I know what to do because I am the nurse who directs the bereaved. Or, I don't know what to do because I am just a sad friend.  This is how to grieve in America. The professionals tell us what to do and how to be.  Friends are awkward and polite.  Death is terrifying.  It is quiet.  It is to be overcome.

We don't know how to be devastated.

I mean, who does?

Well, maybe the Congolese.  Or at least they have a script that explains what to do.

Before I continue, I think about this excerpt from Binyavanga Wainaina's piece, "How to Write About Africa":

Also be sure to include a warm and motherly woman who has a rolling laugh and who is concerned for your well-being. Just call her Mama. Her children are all delinquent. These characters should buzz around your main hero, making him look good. Your hero can teach them, bathe them, feed them; he carries lots of babies and has seen Death. Your hero is you (if reportage), or a beautiful, tragic international celebrity/aristocrat who now cares for animals (if fiction).

I am going to write about death in Africa.  I am going to mention a Mama.  But, I am not the hero.  I am the confused person trying to figure out if I should smile kindly or cry softly.

Before Sarah and I went to visit Laure after Jean Baptiste's death, I talked to people.  I talked to all of the cultural consultants I rely on to not be offended by my absurd questions.  These people being Mama Vida, Mama YouYou, Tchic, and Evelyne.  I said, "I feel so sad.  But how should I act?  What do I do?"  And they all said, "Just be sad. It's not hard.  Why are you so worried?"

Then, separately, they each gave me the exact same instructions for what to expect after someone dies.

There will be an initial visit to the house.  You will shake hands.  You will sit.  Then, there may be a wake.  If you are Congolese, you absolutely must go.  If you are a foreigner, everyone understands that Westerners don't like dead bodies and you need only stay ten minutes.  Following, there will be a funeral.  In the morning if it is a child.  In the evening if it is an adult.  You may sing in church.  You may march messily through the streets, thrusting photos of the dead one in the faces of the people you pass. You will play happily with the children who don't understand.  You will hold the wife who is destroyed.  It is not hard.  These are easy things to do.

How to be devastated.

There is a script.  So, even at the moment when you find yourself panicking about the social appropriateness of your tears, you can just look around the room to see what everyone else is doing.  And go through the motions.  You sit.  You shake hands. You sit.  

A social script carries the awkward friend through confusion.  It gives a widow something to do in the hollow days after losing her love.  It forces family and friends to gather and support and take care of the kids.  Tchic told me that at most funerals he's been to, the peanut and hard-boiled egg sellers come when they hear the keening and singing, and people buy and they eat.  Funerals need food.

I find this matter-of-fact approach to death both deeply disturbing and seriously comforting.  I tried to tell Tchic how upsetting it was to hear that there is a specific time of day to bury children and everyone knows this.  Children dying is not a significant part of my worldview.  It is an everyday occurrence for Kinshasa.

On the other hand, a collective knowledge about the details of life and death is incredibly helpful.  People sometimes need just know what to do.  A woman giving birth often needs guidance in the last minutes of labor - when she is sure she can't do it.  I think it is the same for those who are grieving.  The brain stops working.

If you don't have a script, you are completely lost. 

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Role Mamas

On Tuesday, I promised Elias that if he finished his homework with minimal groaning we could go for a quick bike ride before dinner.

We were walking through campus, Lou on my back, Elias pedaling ahead, when I heard rustling to my left.

I looked over and saw Mama YouYou standing beneath the startfruit tree.  Fruit was dropping to the ground at her feet.  I looked up and saw Mama Vida in the tree.  High up.  Like really high up.  Her sandals had been dumped at the tree roots and she was hoisting herself higher in the branches.

Mama YouYou burst out laughing when she saw me.  She knew how bizarre it must look:  two middle aged women climbing trees in the late afternoon.  Maybe she was even worried about what I would think as an employer.  Doubtful.  Mama YouYou is pretty much the most self-possessed person I've ever met.

Mama Vida started laughing too, and soon, the soles of her feet appeared and she jumped down, handing me a starfruit to take home.  She warned me that although LouLou used to like them, she hadn't been too keen recently.  Mama YouYou told me to eat up, because pakka pakka is a great source of Vitamin C.  She crunched into one herself, taking big bites, rind and all.

LouLou toted her pakka pakka all the way home.  Dropping it only twice.  I feel super glad that she got to see Mama Vida high in that tree. What better role model?  What better role mama?  A fifty-something grown woman kicking off her shoes and going for the good fruit. 

Note:  Not even Mama Vida is perfect.  The other day, I found her telling Charlotte and LouLou that they weren't to play with Elias' toy motorcycle "because this is for boys."  Sigh. 

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How the Congolese Military Almost Ruined My Sister's Wedding

I wrote this a few weeks before we returned to the States for the summer. Now that these dresses are officially done and we can all exhale, here's the tale...

Mama Youyou's been making all the bridesmaid's dresses for my sister's wedding. I have to confess I've lost more than a little sleep counting the weekends -or as I think of them "sewing days"- left until we leave for the States with, presumably, dresses in hand. I casually remind Mama Youyou of the countdown when it "naturally" comes up in conversation. And it "naturally" does not often, so I think Mama Youyou is on to my pagne driven anxiety.

She is ever so reassuring in what has come to be a familiar "settle down white girl" tone of voice. I try not to count the dresses vs. days in my head (6 bridesmaids + 2 baby dresses divided by how many more days?...ugh). Oh and did I mention that just as she was finishing my dress I decided I wanted a totally different dress. Twice. Yep. I'm that person. So a large part of this nervousness is thanks to no one but me.

In this, the final week, she's been pretty quiet. "How are the dresses, Mama Youyou?" I nervously ask as if they're her sick children. She keeps saying she's finished with all but one. But she won't show them to me. She wants to bring them to present to me all together. I guess for the drama of it. I'm not really sure. But I'm getting suspicious.

So then this afternoon things got serious. She said we needed to talk. And she started talking so fast I had no idea what was going on. Remember we're working in French here. Second languages for both of us. I kept hearing the words "military" and "raid" and "sorry it's gone."

After a few deep breaths she told the whole story. She had been working in a little shop that belonged to her friend because it had reliable electricity. She was down to the last dress when overnight the military came and raided all the neighborhood shops. They took the dress and her sewing machine and other much more important things, I'm sure.

This wouldn't be such a problem, but remember bridesmaidzilla (me) and the changing of the dress design two times? We're down to very little pagne here. Not enough to make another dress. So Mama Youyou said she took the scraps that were leftover and trudged up and down Ave. de Commerce (which combines every African street I've ever been on into one special piece of hell) asking shopkeepers if they had this style of pagne. They did not. So she panicked. And then got down to work.

The sewing room at Jill's house.

She then presented me with the last and final replacement dress. She used those leftover scraps and added them to black satin and made what I think is a very beautiful dress. Kaitlyn, I hope you agree. Oh. And some Congolese military wife is off enjoying your J.Crew inspired dress. Just so the dress doesn't look too different from the others, Mama Youyou will use her last hours before we leave making other black satin accents for the rest of the bridesmaids.

So take that military men. The Congo-inspired, rural Virginia wedding must go on. And Mama Youyou proves once again the gumption of a Congolese woman up against the man.

Mama YouYou

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10 Mama Fears Before Departure (real and imagined)

This morning I had my first cup of coffee on our porch (out of a daily average of 50) while Ani happily swung in her swing beside me. After she fell back asleep, I snuck inside to pour another cup when I heard Mamicho arrive.

As soon as she found Ani alone(!) on the porch I heard her say, "Anifa!" (No idea why she calls her this.) "Why are you out here alone?! Who left you here? Are you sick? Did they make you sleep here all night? Is this what they're going to do with you in the United States?!"

And then I was reminded of all the fears Mamicho and Mama Youyou have shared with us over the years before our Stateside departure. Here they are in no particular order:

1: Charlotte will return to Congo and immediately be terrified of everyone because there are only white people and no gens noirs aux États-unis.

Nope, no Congolese here.

  by  shoothead 

2: The girls will get bitten by mosquitoes on their faces right before we leave and everyone will think they're neglectful Mamas. (In reality, chances are this would happen on our watch, not theirs.)

3: I will forget to sort through my clothes and give them what I don't want anymore.

4: I will forget to sort through my shoes and give them what I don't want anymore.

5: Charlotte will be miserable because we live in an apartment building in the States and she won't have easy access to her favorite place, the outdoors. (Mamicho has since learned that we don't live in New York City, as most assume all Americans do. And has seen many pictures of our homes in the country. She feels a little better about Charlotte's access to grass this year.)

Yeah, pretty opposite of the Shenandoah Valley.

  by  Bert Kaufmann 

6: In Ani's attempts to start walking she will fall and bang her head and end up with a nasty bruise right before her return. (Most days her forehead is black and blue from this awful stage of learning to walk.) Therefore, Mama Youyou has vowed to carry her everywhere right before we go so this doesn't happen.

7: I will rely too much on the Ergo to carry them around and no one will carry them au dos avec pagne, the girls' preferred method.

8: Charlotte will try to speak French (or worse, Lingala) with other children, and they will think she is crazy.

9: Charlotte will have only me to speak French with her and she will return to Congo with my American accent or she will have totally forgotten everything. --Okay, I made this one up, but they're probably thinking it.

10: They will miss their "real" Mamas so desperately that they will pine away for Congo and have a miserable time. --I made this one up too, but I'm sure they're thinking it. And we'll just let them continue believing it because at least once a day Mama Youyou or Mamicho reminds me that two months is a really long time. "Deux mois? C'est un temps trop long, Mama."

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A Girls Guide to Mastitis in the Congo

If you've spent any time at all in the non-Western medicine world, you've probably run into Where There Is No Doctor. The book that tells you how to deliver your own baby, sew your arm back on, etc. Complete with simple drawings so that if you're actually in one of these highly improbable situations, you conveniently don't even need to read.

Sometimes in Congo we like to pretend "there is no doctor" because often it's just easier. When I'm sick, the last thing I feel like doing is bumping over our washboard roads or worse yet, sitting in an embouteillage. And then reaching for sick-related French vocab. This is also another reason we have personally recruited a series of friends and family to serve as recent TASOK nurses. This comes in handy when "disaster" strikes.

Let me back up a bit, when I was pregnant with Charlotte, the one comment I remember from my mother (and I can say this because I don't think she has any idea Jill and I have a blog) was that a friend of hers asked in a panic, "Your daughter is going to have a baby in the Congo?! What if she gets mastitis!?" At the time I had no idea what this was, but it sounded awful. So this very helpful friend of my mother's, whom I have never even met before, successfully planted that in my mind as the absolute worst thing that could happen to me in the Congo.

Well it did. But not with Charlotte, with Baby #2. (Note to self: Stop referring to Ani as "Baby #2." She may read this drivel one day.)

Warning: This is where we may lose some of our "non-Mama" readers because I'm about to explain what mastitis is. It's a breast infection, folks. And it usually happens in women who are breastfeeding when your milk ducts get all messed up. I'm pretty sure this is how they explain it in Where There Is No Doctor.

This just happened to befall me when I was smack dab in the middle of a flu that's been going around. Perfect timing. My 103F fever (which I still claim was flu-related and not milk duct-related) compelled Jill to make me promise her that if I didn't get better tout de suite, I had to take myself over the washboard roads and through the inevitable embouteillage to the doctor. This was some serious motivation to kick this thing.

Forthwith is the Girls Guide to Getting Rid of Mastitis in the Congo.

#1 Update your very responsible nurse friend who lives 10 steps away from you about "how much better you're feeling" every few minutes.

 #2 Get said friend to draw a purple (because it's feminine) Sharpie line around the affected area. This way you can clearly see if it gets worse--and prove it's getting better. This process is much easier when the same friend has also assisted your childbirth related tasks, so drawing a line under your shirt is no biggie.

#3 Use disposable diapers as a warm compress to calm the inflammation. "Oh, just an old labor and delivery floor trick," says clever Nurse Jill.

Side note: This can be a little bit tricky in Congo where disposable diapers cost a pretty penny, or a bunch of dirty francs. Jill wisely recommended not trying to reheat the diapers in the microwave because they could melt or catch on fire. I ignored this because I'm too cheap to waste a bunch of disposable diapers on my infected boob. And I'm happy to say, yes, you can successfully put diapers in the microwave for reheating.

#4 Have your hero-of-a-nanny bring your baby to work as much as professionally possible so you can nurse, nurse, nurse!

 #5 Take antibiotics. This should probably be #1 because those babies worked like a charm.

I'm happy to report that all was healed in no time. And I did in fact end up seeing a doctor. A few days later Dr. Laure was visiting TASOK and I told her all about my woes. Mid-conversation she stuck her hand down my shirt to make sure everything was ok. That's good enough for me.

(Disposable diapers as ice packs too! - Jill)

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