Max ’27 is sparking wonder and connection through a summer science camp in Congo, where a shared water rocket experiment with local student Messi revealed the transformative power of curiosity, joy, and human connection across language and circumstance.

A blog post from the perspective of Messi Kimbembe, a participant in my project, and me.

Messi’s Perspective

There is no bell to mark the start of the day here, only the hum of the fan overhead and the gentle scrape of chairs against tile as we gather. Light pours in through the wide windows, pooling on the floor like a blessing. Everything feels brighter, cleaner and quieter.

When my teacher first pulled me aside and told me about a “summer opportunity,” I didn’t understand. A camp? For free? My parents and I exchanged long glances that night over our plate of cassava. We weren’t sure what to make of it. Things that are free usually come with strings, or strange conditions, or people who want something back. Why would people from outside — people we’d never met — offer something like this for nothing?

But my teacher insisted it was real. That it was good. So, I went.

Even though the hot and humid air clung to my skin like a second shirt, I came dressed in my best collared polo and pressed jacket zipped tight to the neck. I didn’t know what kind of place I was walking into, but I knew I wanted to be ready. After all, there is no mirror in my house, or a television to show me what being smart or prepared looks like. But Mama always says a good shirt and straight posture are more powerful than any screen.

Our group — Group 1 — was led by Cherissa, who was adept at singing with a guitar. We didn’t know each other, not at first. During our prayer songs, I befriended Emmanuel as we bumped shoulders harder and harder by the beat. Precieux Vanas too — he talks a lot, even when no one answers, and I like that about him. It fills up the space.

On the first day, I noticed the clock. A round one. Analog. I haven’t seen one since the one broken above the blackboard at school. But here, the hands moved. I remembered how to read them. 9:15. Then 9:16. The seconds ticked like a heartbeat. I couldn’t stop watching it.

Max, one of the volunteers, is from Hong Kong. He can’t speak French, or Lingala, but he tries with awkward hand signs. On that first day, he took me to the washroom beside the hospital. I’ve used rivers, buckets, rusted jugs. I have not used a real tap. Never running water that didn’t taste like rusted iron or soil. I stood at that sink and just let the stream fall through my fingers, cool and endless. There was soap. Blue, smooth, and smelling faintly of mint. I washed every part of my hand — between the fingers, under the nails — because it felt like a kind of ceremony. I washed my hands until they squeaked every time I rubbed my hands together.

But what stunned me most was the science experiments. We made volcanoes from vinegar and baking soda. Catapults from popsicle sticks. But the moment that was especially captivating happened on Day 3.

Max pulled out a bicycle pump, a plastic bottle a third filled with water. We gathered on the cement behind the classroom. He knelt, attached the pump, and Ezra counted down with his fingers. Trois… Deux… Un!

The hiss of pressure. A sudden release. And then the bottle shot into the sky like a bird set free. It soared at least thirty feet before the parachute — our group’s parachute — opened with a flutter. We cheered so loudly it startled the birds from the trees. I stood there as the sun burned my cheeks, thinking: How is this possible? Ezra, who speaks both French and English, translated Max’s explanation about pressure and thrust and Newton’s laws, but I was only half listening. The other half of me was still flying with that bottle.

I remember Max the most even though he can’t say much, or that sometimes he mixes things up left and right. I wish he could speak to us in French… or even better, in Lingala!

Tomorrow the camp ends. No more group songs or secret snacks or play dough. But something changed this week. I saw the sky open. I drank clear water. I built something that flew. That bottle showed me that the world is bigger than Ouesso, and maybe in the far future, there’s a place for me in it. When I go home, there will still be no television. No tap. No lightbulbs in two of our rooms. But I’ll have this journal. And my memories. And a clock in my mind that ticks down until my departure to Mars!

Disclaimer: This piece is inspired by the information I gathered from my time with Messi, and not written by Messi himself.

My perspective

Until that split second of the bottle suspended between launch and flight, I thought I had come here to give. To serve, to teach, to deliver some small package of knowledge to children I had been told lacked access. It was only on Day 3, during a simple water rocket experiment, that I realized how much I had come to receive.

The rocket itself was not particularly impressive in design — a 1.5-liter plastic bottle, three makeshift cardboard fins, a plug fashioned from a cork, and a parachute held together with strings and scotch tape. I had seen this done before in Hong Kong schools, where children often yawned through the countdown and asked when they could go to recess.

I had just finished attaching the bottle to the launch stand when I looked up and saw the kids watching me with a kind of reverent stillness. Their hands, which had earlier handled each parachute strand with near-ceremonial care, were clenched with anticipation. They didn’t ask if it would work, or why we were doing it. They simply believed in the possibility of flight.

When the bottle rocketed into the sky, trailing mist and laughter, I heard screams of joy erupting from the spectacle. It wasn’t the technology that amazed them; it was the fact that such a thing could happen at all.

That moment confronted me with the quiet depth of resourcefulness and resilience that saturates this community. There are no clocks in the classroom. No clean running water. No rows of tablets or digital timers. Most of these children have never seen a science lab, and many had never touched a soap dispenser before this week. Yet their curiosity is untouched by cynicism. Their delight is not dulled by expectation. This trip was all worthwhile.

Messi, especially, left an impression. He cleaned his hands with more care than I had ever seen a child do. He watched the pressure gauge on the bicycle pump as if memorizing its every tick. Leaving this place, I am less certain about what I know, but more certain about what matters.

I wish that students everywhere can nurture their love of learning and be ignited with the same awe I saw today. They would inspire a lot of teachers and educators to carry out their work if they do so. And perhaps the most meaningful thing I can do — whether or not I ever master French — is to meet that awe with respect.

More images of my experience in Congo below: