Congo Initiative, Beni

We boarded the minute Cetraka aircraft towards Beni. The mismatched 70s fabrics upholstering the compact seats and the stacks of luggage piled high everywhere gave off the aura of an old Mexican passenger bus rather than a machine that could take flight. An ancient, partly see-through curtain, matching one of the many patterns in the interior, was the only separation between the Russian pilot and the passengers.
Harper and I went to Beni, north of Goma, to visit an organization called Congo Initiative and the bilingual university they have opened there, UCBC. I had recently learned that a college friend, Justin Hubbard had been working for Congo Initiative since October- fancy that, from the University of Minnesota in the Midwest, Harper, Justin and I now all live and work in Eastern Congo. Somehow, though, it all makes sense; good people come from the Midwest, right?
The crimson clay and dirt cake everything in Beni, a remarkably different sight than the dark Goma lava rock. The winding, powdered red roads, bordered by stick-and-mud huts with straw-thatched roofs scream of a much more rural Africa than the border town I live in. Beni has been much affected by the war, especially since this summer, and industries have been limited due to the ever-deteriorating infrastructure of the national transportation. So many times Harper and I dream of the innumerable products DR Congo could export internationally for a dramatic and sustainable boost to each local economy- palm oil, artisan handicrafts, wood carvings, maize, peanuts, potatoes, fruits, beans, etc. Invariably, the stark reality halts our wild dreams: until an effective infrastructure for transportation is developed in Congo, and corruption is decreased, the overwhelming riches this country owns will remain limited and local. Harper often argues that if huge aid organizations like USAID want to make a difference, this type of large-picture project is what they should invest in, instead of slicing up small disbursements to multiple organizations. Infrastructural change would benefit every organization, as well as all the citizens affected by improved transportation time as well as cost-effectiveness for trade.
Enough of my soap box on this for now. I was talking about Beni. It was so fun to visit there, see a different side of DR Congo, to meet David and Kasoera Kasali (CI founders) and to hang out with the staff there, to hear of Congo Initiative’s plans and goals. Meeting the university students was also extremely fun, as they are friendly and quite eager to practice English. The second day we were there, I was to join the students for their daily soccer games. Slightly appalled at myself that I had not thought ahead better when I packed (I never do!), I donned my only work-out clothes for the trip: pink capris and a hot-pink Heart of the Beast Theatre T-Shirt. Way to make being a mzungu shine like a lone star in the middle of the night! Not only were Justin and I the only white people on the field, I was the only woman, and I proudly bore that reality with my pink outfit … the students and people couldn’t get enough of the mzungu girl that could play soccer!
The following day, Heather, with Congo Initiative, and I headed to Goma so that she could see our income generation programs with Healing Arts. She plans to open a holistic family center, in which training of the sort we do (sewing, cooking, soap making) will be offered there. We waited HOURS in the dusty, tin-room airport until our plane left around 3 PM. All I have to say is that WAITING is one of the most common themes threaded through all moments of living in the Congo. Time is a different concept- even in that I have to learn how to tell time in Swahili (exactly the opposite of ours- 6 AM is called 12:00, 4:00 PM is called 10:00, etc) or in Congolese French (military time=I have to add or subtract everytime I want to tell the time until I have it down!).

March 8, a Saturday (Women’s Day)

Although this was a slightly more special day than usual due to the theme, most days seem to run similar to last Saturday for me, since I still do not know what a typical day is like!
To begin, I accompanied Harper to visit a widow’s cooperative group started by the mother of 13 children, a widow herself. This amazing woman invites you fully into her home and warmth with one hug and three kisses on the cheeks. She is the kind of grandmother who would always have your favorite kind of brownies fresh out of the oven for you every time you visited! You could come crying to her about a bad day and she would comfort you, give you a glass of cool water and tell you to shape up and face life, because “c’est la vie!” She explained to me that she started this group a little over a year ago because all the widows were praying at church every day, but she realized that they could actually do something more to care for themselves as well. Now she has developed a growing group of jovial women who continually develop their skills in making baskets, bags and a variety of other items. Despite the reality of their poverty and their daily struggle for survival, I was refreshed and felt honored to have met women of such strength, stamina and cheerful dispositions.
After the rocky walk back in an area of town where mzungus seem to never be seen walking, and receiving relentless stares and many smiles, we headed out to participate in the “International Women’s Day” march, which is important in the Congo, for speaking out for women’s rights and protection from violence. About 10 or 12 of us piled into a couple SUVs to make the usual 10 minute drive to the HEAL Africa hospital to march from there. I have already gotten a license (all you need is a 1”x 1” picture, $15 and no proof of an ability to drive) and have been driving here since my first week. I drove our little Susuki, which has the driver’s wheel on the right side, and followed Harper’s improvised lead through town. Since the march had already begun and overtaken the narrow, pot-holed roads, we were continually forced off the street into the pedestrian areas. Evading motos, children, women, chickens, goats and trees, we honked our way painstakingly at about .1 miles per hour. All the women were in solidarity groups, dressed to their best with matching outfits, their hair done beautifully, make up shining and their best heels clicking away. I would break my ankle in a moment if I were to wear high heels for 10 minutes here, let alone on a march! However, they emanated joy, pride and strength as they marched. Some men even joined the women on this march for their rights. The throngs only grew by the moment, even as it began to storm. We cheered them on from our windows, rain pouring in, as they proudly raised their banners and marched on, in opposite direction as our Susuki. Many times I was forced off the road, painfully bottoming out the SUV on the curb stops, all of us hoping nothing the car really needed had gotten banged up under us! About two hours later, we arrived at the hospital, the torrential rains soaking every possible thing within their reach. We missed actually participating in the march, but at least we cheered the entire thing wholeheartedly, clapping loudly for the HEAL Africa women as they passed us by!
Once the rain ceased, we took the Upper Room group to see where the volcano erupted in 2002. This volcano destroyed the entire city of Goma at the time, wiping out the original HEAL Africa hospital. Upon arriving, we were harassed by innumerable children asking us for “biscuits” (when is the last time you ever carried biscuits with you, anyway?), trying to open our purses and grabbing us. I put forth my best efforts at befriending them, joking around, all of us attempting to be kind. When we finally hurried back to our cars, they chased us, pressing against us, relentlessly demanding food or money from us. I still tried to be friendly, only to be pinched multiple times through my driver’s window as I attempted to drive off. Not my happiest moment!
The day not yielding even a bit, we drove through town, unapologetic eyes staring from everywhere. Every time I stopped, people crowded my window, reaching in to push buttons, move my turning signal or to grab my arms. The sun beating down on us (A/C does not exist here), we were obligated to put up our windows, as no friendly gestures (and believe me, I tried my best to woo them!) could convince them that their incessant invasions were not welcome. We finally arrived at home hot, sweaty, exhausted, and I won’t lie- I still had my feelings hurt that children had actually pinched me! Thinking we could finally jump into Kivu Lake for a cool, relaxing swim, we found all the HEAL Africa women, in their matching blue-and-hot-pink outfits, happily celebrating women’s day in our yard. We tossed out our plan and merrily joined them in the heat of the day.
After this, I drove some of us to Yole Africa, a local arts organization that develops musical, video and dance talent in Congolese youth. On Saturdays, they have “Jam Session,” which is a loosely structured time for musical artists to practice performing. There is a good amount of talent here, with many rappers, singers and guitar players. My favorite is a talented trio of brothers, aged 19, 15 and 10, who form a band named G Life. They create their own music and lyrics. The 10 year old boy, Innocent, wins every crowd over, not just with his stunning voice and gifted djembe skills, but also as one of the MCs for the jam session, moving the crowd to follow his cheers for each upcoming band.
We finally returned to eat dinner back at the house, which is called Maji Matulivu (Still Waters). A cold beer never tasted so good, and Turbo King (delicious lager) was just the answer! A few more hours and the day would be over.

Beatboxin' it at AMAVESA!

We drove to visit AMAVESA, the agricultural program with the women from HEAL Africa. The Upper Room has helped pay for the mills for the women to process the grains to make nutritional porridge for the kids (grains are a mix of soy, maize, sorgum and wheat). The long road left nothing to be desired in regards to movement- every rock was acutely felt as our flesh jumped with the jeep’s every move.
As the jeep jumbled to a halt, we saw a long walk ahead of us, a path made up purely of lava rock of every size. The sharp stones comprised the entire landscape. You see, the area of town where AMAVESA is was directly in the path of the volcanic explosion of 2002 in Goma that covered and destroyed the entire city, which has been haphazardly rebuilt upon 6-8 feet of porous lava rock. The villagers use the rock from the ground to build walls that attempt to separate and mark their minute property lines, as well as using the rock for their houses. I could not help but wonder what they slept on, since most could not even afford decent sandals to walk with on the sharp stones.
Delicately, we maneuvered our way down the path, careful to keep our flip flops on our feet (apparently Havaianas are made for Brazilian beaches, not lava rock) and our toes away from crashing against the sharp edges. Eyes followed our every move, little children yelling, “Jambo! Mzungu!” We smiled back, “Jambo sana!” as we fixed our eyes on the walk before us. We arrived at a little plot of land that had a couple of women sifting grain by hand on the ground. We received a tour of the 5 by 8 room that contains the flour mill the Upper Room church sponsored, watching the people explain how it functioned, proud that they had such an important piece of equipment for processing the fruit of their hard labor.
Children pressed us from every angle, eager to see what the mzungus were doing. I asked them their name, and quickly befriended 10 year old Francois, who was clearly the leader of the pack. Unable to communicate further, but smiling and laughing goofily at each other, Francois surprised us by beatboxing for us. Smiling back at him, Steve rose up to the challenge and busted out a little rhythm of his own. The children giggled hysterically, as Francois dared him further by beating musically with his throat. We were having a “beatbox off”! As the talent continued increasing with every turn, we all laughed delightedly. Cackling, but fed up with the challenge and ready to show Steve down, Francois whispered with his buddies and turned to stare at us intensely. He serenely shoved his T-shirt deep into his dirty shorts and staring at us intensely, the white around his eyes shining like new rims on a tire, he began shifting his weight back and forth rhythmically. Suddenly, his pelvis was thrusting front and back at the same time that his shoulders shook and his head moved back and forth. And from deep within him, he sang a melody, metrically marked by his beatboxing. We all watched stunned, clapping happily at the talent this little boy had. My friend Mike got it all on video, so someday I’ll be able to show you little Francois’s moves and his crazy eyes!

Protests and Church

Today we had to take the road less traveled to work. Meaning, the narrow roads of poured lava, in between houses, in back neighborhoods and evading bicycles and motos. The university students were protesting against the police yet again. I learned that a few weeks ago, they had performed a major manifestation against the police because they had killed one of the students. Since interactions like these can suddenly take a turn for the worse, people are cautious amidst the crowded traffic as they elbow their way to work. The Congolese policemen stood in rigid rows, holding large, clear bullet-proof shields and full gear, including helmets, their unsmiling countenances searching the faces of the crowds in front of them.
However, as much as there might occasionally be tense situations in Goma, the people here radiate and enjoy life. For example, I thought I would share my experience of attending a local church this last Sunday:

This morning we were graced to be invited to a local Pentecostal church. The seven of us filed into the dark room that oozed with cow dung and sweat. We were kindly escorted to padded chairs at the very front of the church, to be unapologetically stared at for the next three hours, by all the church members who sat in severe wooden benches. I guess Pastor Samuel kept the worship celebration limited to only three hours for us, since he understands that Americans are not used to long services!
The people sang their hearts out, pounding loudly on anything that could make a beat, as the music leaders danced away. After about 8 songs, they invited all the members to stand and dance to the songs. The drumming got louder and louder as they shut all the doors and windows to contain the sound, suffocating the little air that remained in the room. Forty people danced and pranced, their full bodies swaying and turning with the music. The room was sweltering of sweat, heat and commotion- full of joy and happiness. Those of us at the front shifted back and forth slightly uncomfortably as we clapped, not sure if we should join them in the dancing, and really wishing that we could be slightly less in the spotlight to enjoy the music better.
Once the music was finished, Pastor Samuel invited us each to go up and introduce ourselves in the microphone, announcing to us that one of us would be teaching the congregation for at least 10 minutes. Thankfully, Gennae bit the bullet for us and spoke about how God promises that there will one day be a heaven and a new earth, where there will be no dying and where everyone will live healthy lives with plenty to eat and with security. She explained how everyone that follows Jesus is responsible for bringing that to this earth as much as possible even today. The people clapped as they yelled the Halleluiahs and Amens.
After a visiting pastor spoke for another 45 minutes, we were invited to partake in a communion of chapatti bread and strawberry Kool-Aid in decades-old shot glasses. We filed along with the rest of the Congolese, washing our hands in the communal bucket before eating and drinking.
I looked down at my watch, silently wondering if we were actually going to reach 200 minutes of church services in one morning! However, their hospitality and warmth and joy radiated as we all stood and shook each other’s hands, saying, “I love you!” (minakupenda) to every person around us. And you could feel the love!

The touch of a hand

“Pole.” That means I’m sorry. I will try to always remember that!
A couple days ago, I attempted to practice the new phrases I learned in my Swahili lessons. I played a bit with a little girl whom I have befriended, the daughter of a woman at HEAL Africa who is a seamstress with Healing Arts. A little boy ran up to us, smiling widely with his slightly rotting teeth, an adorable little boy with tight curls and a joyful radiance. I asked the girl, “kaka yako?” (is he your brother?), to which she nodded emphatically. I smiled at the boy and tickled him playfully. My hand froze as my fingers made contact with his belly. Whatever was underneath his tattered shirt was not regular flesh. At the same time, the little boy’s huge teddy-bear eyes widened as he jumped back, away from me. I was horrified as I realized that he had severe burns all the way from his chest to below his stomach. His recently scabbed flesh was intermingled with the gauze that was now a part of his torso. My stomach sunk with horror and guilt. Not knowing how to express my regret that I had caused him pain, I expressed it as best I could with my alarmed eyes. His countenance relaxed when he realized I did it unintentionally. I looked down and smiled tentatively at him, which he returned, even as he slid in behind his older sister. We made friends again through smiles and with distance, but my heart sickens every time I see him, every time I walk through the lava-rock grounds of the compound.