24 hours from the life of a writer: Grażyna Plebanek talks about her work on her new novel, diamond smuggling and her stay in Kinshasa by Damian Gajda, Onet. pl I enter the kitchen, shoo away the cockroaches and crush with my shoe those that fall on the floor. I defrost the bread, wash it down with milk. Dairy products are necessary for the stomach to accept a pill against malaria, one every day, for a few weeks,” says Grażyna Plebanek. I love her. Not only is she one of the most read polish writers, she is also a great person, who could inspire a dozen of grumblers with her optimism. Raised in Warsaw’s Stegny district, she devoted her bestselling novel “Girls from Portofino” to girls from that part of town. Then she published “A girl called Przystupa”, “Illegal Liaisons” and, most recently “The boxer”. She likes being in limbo, suspended in between, that’s why she shares her life between Poland, Scandinavia and Brussels. It gives her a sense of freedom. She says writing is like fighting ina ring. She has been training boxing regularly for several years herself. She was happy when I asked her to describe her day. “A writer’s day is not a groundhog’s day, fortunately,” she says. Every day is different, unique. She has learnt to enjoy life, to take what’s best from it. She does not like monotony and is rarely bored. Her life changes like a caleidoscope. Her days fall into four categories:. 1. A research day – time for gathering materials for novels. On such days she travels, talks with people, watches, takes notes, spends time on the phone or on Skype with those whom she loves. 2. A „sitting on your arse” day – or hardcore writing of novels. She gets up in the morning, grabs a bite on the run, makes some tea and sits down to her laptop. An outline of the plot, characters, “ladders” of scenes and finally writing itself. In the evening she is spent. Eats, packs a boxing bag and goes for training. Her family knows that wheen she returns she will be on adrenaline and endorfines for the next two hours (the most beneficial state for her and those around her) 3. A „promo” day— meetings with readers, talking to journalists. Enthusiasm caused by meeting people and a sore jaw caused by too much talking. 4. A day to earn money — wake up together with the rest of the working world, writing an article or column and meeting people afterwards. There is always something going on in Brussels, if not at events, then in the heads of creative people. She told me about the first type, the busiest of them all. She spent it in Kinshasa, where was working on her new novel. 9:07 I am woken up by raised male voices. I open my eyes and see the plastic body of a doll. Im in the guest room in the house of my friend Amal – this was a doll her daughter used to play with. I come to the window – the men are in a heated dispute. No wonder I can’t understand – they speak in lingala. The plumes of palm leaves shield us from the foggy sky. It’s the dry season and I am gathering materials for my new novel in Kinshasa. I enter the kitchen, shoo away the cockroaches and crush with my shoe those that fall on the floor. I defrost the bread, wash it down with milk. Dairy products are necessary for the stomach to accept a pill against malaria, one every day, for a few weeks. 11:00 Donat arrives punctually, even though there is no metro or trams in Kinshasa, hardly a bus in sight and he cannot afford a taxi. A former boxer and bouncer, today he is my guide around the city. On the street he always walks on the side on which I carry my bag and when we cross the street he holds my sleeve -- old habits of a bodyguard from the days when worked for the legend of Congolese music Papa Wemba. 12:23 Using a taxi that carries several passengers we arrive at a place from which we can take a van – dilapidated vehicles without seats or upholstery. I sit on a very narrow bench, squeezed between other sweaty bodies. The van seems to be made of rubber, already around 20 people managed to get in and more are climbing in. Those who could not get a place inside cling by a hand- or foothold outside. The heat inside is debilitating, I dream about the moment the van would start moving, but when it does i silently pray that it would stop. It speeds through the bumpy streets ignoring the curbs. A short stop to quarrel with the driver of a truck which cut across – all passengers take part – and the race over the bumps recommences. Donat turns to me and winks. I smile – I will not show that I am afraid, Polish women are brave! I pull out my notebook with trembling hands and take notes about what we are passing by: Maman Prisca sewing shop, a garage, a tiny shop in a concrete cuboid, a teenager with a tray of boiled eggs on his head, the “Angela” centre for aesthetic education. 13:12 We disembark in the Matonge quarter. The earth is dark grey, the air heavy with exhaust fumes. Donat pushes the gate and lets me in first. I greet the host — Riva is a film producer, he worked with La vie est belle! and Kinshasa kids. His brother Vincent is writer. A policeman and Riva’s neighbour are also there. They point me to an empty chair. We sit in the shade of a tree, the leaves of which, against the sky, look like a wispy cloud. The dust from the road hangs above the fence, but does not reach us. We talk about making films, writing books, smuggling diamonds. Time is measured by glasses of coca-cola. We say good bye to Riva and drop in on his neighbour, the sculptor Freddy Tsimba. In his workshop are sculptures – the bodies of women woven from cartridges or old forks. Now I understand that the works of Tsimba take root from here, the grey-black soil of Matonge. 16:44 I am sitting in the restaurant belonging to my friend Princess, a singer, actress, founder of a foundation for women who lost their homes and means to support themselves – Rwandese and Congolese women from conflict areas. I make notes what I saw today. Two lizards chase each other on the wall, the warm air is filled with the scent of chicken in a pistachio nuts sauce. Princess puts the dish in front of me, we eat and talk. I take down all she says, she gets worried that my food is getting cold. 20:08 I am watching a soccer match on TV with other guests of the restaurant, the men sip Primus beer. Princess comes to sit next to me. Today she does not sing, instead of stage clothes she is wearing jeans. She has just finished cooking and smells of French fries. An SMS appears on my phone: We are looking at the Baltic Sea. What are you doing? a friend asks. I am watching a match in a restaurant in Kinshasa, I reply. Look, Germany just scored! I read. Bertolt Brecht came up with the Alienation Effect, I am caught up in the Homeliness Effect”. 23:11 We are approaching the main artery of Kinshasa, the Boulevard of June 30th. The old Chevrolet is creaking, Princess takes out a deodorant: „I cannot stand this smell of French fries” she winces. We park in front of a cafe. The driver is telling us a story about how his wife tried to kill him. Soon another acquaintance joins us, then another, and another. 2:04 I am getting blisters on my fingers from writing, but I cannot stop, because tomorrow my tank of experiences will be topped up again. I go to see the practice of the band of Papa Wemba to one of Kinshasa’s clubs. I look at the sculpture of a local artist Nanga-ngufu Bienvenu, given to me by Riva. The figurine is made of bits of objects, trash. I do recycling myself – I collect bits of stories, I glue them together, bind them. What will that produce? Now I only know that I like it in Kinshasa.
Posted on: Mon, 08 Dec 2014 14:23:57 +0000
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