My Sandlot

Growing up, I always envied the boys from The Sandlot. I always knew I would love the kind of simple lifestyle that revolves around a community of friends and passion for a sport. Of course, I played a lot of sports growing up, but it was always in the convoluted environment of leagues, teams, organizations, rivalries, playoffs bureaucracy and multiple ranks of coaches. It was rarely in that carefree arena where the only things that matter are that your friends showed up and the ball lasted until the end of the day.

After living in Rwanda for about nine months, I realized my life was starting to parallel that of Smalls, from the Sandlot. I was the new kid in town. I was shy and didn’t really have many friends. I eventually found some people to play ball with. After a while, I learned all their nicknames, was welcomed into their community, and played with them almost every single day. Eventually they invited me to their tree house for a sleep over, and I learned about the scary dog that lived next door. The scary dog would later steal my step dad’s basketball, which was autographed by Wilt Chamberlain. Manasse, the best player, jumped over the fence and got my ball back. The owner of the dog turned out to be James Earl Jones, and Manasse went on to be a professional basketball player.

Well, some of that really happened.

Regardless, the most important part of my day was lacing up my decaying sneakers and heading to the court where I could count on a group of guys ready to play ball.

***

Manasse really was the Benny of our basketball community. He was the most gifted athlete, had the strongest passion for basketball and was just a really nice guy. Everybody liked him. Sometimes he coached a group of girls, which I really respected. The girls in the community rarely got to play. I would try to get the boys, especially students from my school to share the ball with them. Manasse, however, was the only one I ever saw put any effort in supporting girls basketball.

Manasse is an unstoppable force.

He can't be stopped.

***

It took a while to learn everyone’s nicknames, and I wasn’t even sure where most of them came from. There was Pastor (Pasteri), who I assumed had earned the moniker for his staunch protestant beliefs…until I bought him a beer while watching the world cup. Fizzo might have gotten his name from his slight stature, since sometimes it was spelled or pronounced “fils”, the French word for son. Sometimes Epa tried to give himself the nickname “Reblon”, a mispronunciation of Lebron. Luckily for him it didn’t stick. I was never sure if the lanky kid referred to as Hamza was Muslim, or somehow he had just acquired the Arabic word for 5 as a nickname. My snaggle-toothed friend who wore a jersey that had somehow made its way from Coeur d’Alene’s alternative high school introduced himself as Gavin. Everyone called him something that sounded like “Jivva”.

At some point, Moise started going by Moses, the English version of the French name. And my nickname? Well, it might as well have been Joel, since most people couldn’t comprehend the name “Joey.” A few people caught on, but in general, I was Joel. 

Epa has a sick jump shot.

Pastor takes his signature jump shot from the free throw line.

***

The basketballs we played with were perpetually over-inflated. I always lectured the guys not to over-inflate the balls, but they never listened. The lifespan of the balls was short. Sometimes they would develop a bubble. One time, I threw the ball from under the hoop and it caught the bottom corner of the backboard and exploded. It was the end of our game for the day.

***

Basketball with these guys was rough. I regularly walked home limping, bleeding or smarting from a fresh lump on my head. I sprained my ankle once, took a few game-ending nut shots and once went flying head first into a pole at full speed after getting tripped on a fast break. That last one terrified me as it was the kind of injury that could have easily been life changing. Usually when I went down from slamming into poles or twisting an ankle, my teammates would find the damaged area and start massaging it intensely. I usually had to yell through clenched teeth to get the hell away from me. They didn’t understand why I didn’t want their help. But maybe there was something to their methods. I can’t remember a single time when someone seemed even remotely in pain from the constant jostling and violent fouling that went on under the hoop. The day after I sprained my ankle, Baya visited me with some imitation tiger balm and leaves from a citrus tree. He said he would help my swollen ankle. I was more curious than optimistic. He rubbed the balm over my ankle while boiled the leaves. Then he took the leaves packed them in a hot wad and started pressing them into my ankle with his palms. I winced and squealed as he kneaded the leaves into my ankle. It was incredibly painful, but I appreciated his thoughtfulness. I have no idea if this helped, but within a few days I was playing again.

Taking it inside is a dangerous activity in Rwanda.

***

While I loved the fact that everyone was friends and played together peacefully, sometimes I felt like there wasn’t enough trash-talking, showboating or overall competitiveness for street ball. I, on the other hand, got out of control on a regular basis. I am a pretty good sport with a mild temperament. I don’t even think I have felt a competitive emotion well up in me since I was in high school. But getting back on the basketball court brought out a side in me I forgot existed. I lashed out at people for calling fouls, I cursed and smacked the court when I missed easy shots and I threw the occasional cheap shot at people who had recently committed flagrant fouls. What made my lack of control worse was that Rwandan culture dictates strict management of emotions. Losing your cool is, well, not cool. It makes everyone uncomfortable, and people generally respond by laughing awkwardly. When things got intense on the court, I turned into Charles Barkley with a twist of Dennis Rodman. My most shameful moment came when I was blatantly pushed out of bounds on a fast break. Our acting referee didn’t blow his whistle. The aggressor, who is really one of the nicest, most genuine guys in town, denied blatantly pushing me out of bounds when I protested. My emotions got away from me, and I shoved him in the chest. He looked as surprised as I felt as he stepped to me. All eyes were on us now, and I suddenly came to my senses. I smiled, tried to act like it had been a joke, and went back on the court. I apologized after the game for taking it too far.

The positive energy was also a bit lacking. Whenever a game came down to the wire and I was at the free-throw line, I would insist that my teammates and the kids watching cheer for me. Sometimes I felt like I was channeling Kenny Powers and his quest for baseball stardom in Mexico.

My biggest fan.

Manasse shoots a free throw.

***

The only player who ever showboated was a young up and comer named Mucoma. At first he would only get a spot when we were short on players. He was fundamentally weak and clumsy. He was rough, out of control and missed too many easy shots. He didn’t know how to pass. However, he played harder and with more heart than almost anyone else on the court. Suddenly, he became a player, slowly scoring more baskets. It took a while for him to be seen as a real threat and was generally left unguarded. The more he scored, the more confident he became. He started celebrating after nailing 8-footers, running around with his arms extended, pumping up the imaginary crowd and yelling, “THE CHAMPION!” I found it obnoxious, and eventually made it my duty to knock this guy back on his place. I would cover him tightly and make sure he would go scoreless. This frustrated him to no end, and he would actually get mad at me for not guarding him. I enjoyed matching up with him because no matter how physically I played against him, he would always be rougher than me. He was one of those guys that didn’t know his own strength and couldn’t control his body. The blows he delivered when contesting a drive to the basket were lethal. I was often on the ground when matched up with him. My dislike for Mucoma grew, over a long time, into a reserved respect. I appreciated that after a few games, he was the only one still playing at 100%. I rarely let my admiration show, though.  I just continued to battle him for every rebound and contest every one of his drives to the hoop with the well-intentioned maliciousness of an older brother. As he got better, I think I was the only person who noticed that Mucoma was often the highest scorer on his team (when I wasn’t guarding him) and was the deciding factor in a lot of games.

Mucoma takes it to the hole.

Not in Mucoma's house.

***

The hoops were a little under 10-feet tall, so it wasn’t surprising that I saw a couple of guys learn to dunk while I was there. Pastor and Moise were the first to dunk during games. When we were shooting around, Mucoma always tried to dunk. For a while he would either get rejected by the rim, or would turn his attempt into an awkward finger roll at the last second. Little by little, however, he got better. Eventually he could get the ball over the rim, but it would either slam off the backboard or the back of the rim. Then, I remember when it happened. He told everyone to clear the lane. He ran with in a slight arc toward the hoop, the ball clasped between his hands. He leapt up, put the ball over the edge and grabbed the rim. The ball clanged and he released the rim. The rim snapped up and shot the ball soaring fifteen feet in the air. It came straight down and went right through the center of the naked hoop. Mucoma accepted this as a successful dunk and ran around court with his arms extended, and cheering for himself. I reluctantly applauded.

Mucoma knows how to dunk.

Moise also knows how to dunk.

***

Most villages in Rwanda don’t have a functional basketball court. We were lucky, however, that the cement factory in the community not only owned one, but maintained it and kept it, somewhat, open to the public. I was excited when I returned from Christmas break to find the court re-painted, the fallen rim replaced and both backboard refurbished. We could finally resume our full-court games.

Manasse with a reverse layup.

The most exciting moment, however, was the night they turned the lights on. Sure, I had always noticed that the court had four stadium lights, but never even considered that they might work. Then, one night, they just came on. It was like 4^th of July in The Sandlot. We played an hour past sunset that night. After that we often got extra time on the court after dark and even got to play an organized game at night.

***

That game, between the secondary students in the community and the adults was a highlight of my Rwandan basketball career. I didn’t play well, and the game wasn’t close, but the atmosphere of playing under the lights, with a small crowd watching took me back to the days of high school sports.

The two teams, as labeled on the scoreboard etched on the cement with a red stone, were “Students” vs “Old Man”. I was on the team of Old Man, and I thought we were going to get crushed. However, what we lacked in bottomless energy, speed and fundamental skills, we made up for in teamwork. We won with a score of something like 142-84. We only played three quarters, as the security guards kicked us out at 8 PM.

***

I sweat a lot in normal life. I sweat even more when playing basketball. I sweat buckets when playing full court basketball in a swelteringly humid climate. I was constantly battling to keep hydrated. However, it didn’t matter how much water I brought to the court, it was never enough. I was the only person who ever brought water (hydration isn’t a big thing in Rwandan culture). Everyone else was always thirsty, and when things enter a public space in Rwanda, they tend to become public property. So I had to share my water with everyone as soon as I took my bottle out of my bag. This wasn’t a problem when there was a tap by the court. For some reason, though, the tap was turned off, and the nearest water source was a few minutes away. Sometimes boys were sent to refill my bottles, but not always. After a long game, one day, I went looking for my water bottle. We had sent a boy to refill my reused disposable water bottle, but it was nowhere to be found. I was furious. I never bought bottled water, so I clung tightly to these bottles. “Where is my bottle?!” I yelled. One of the players shrugged and said one of the boys probably took it. They are always asking for my bottles, but only once had one of them actually stolen it. I slammed the ball onto the ground in anger. The ball did what overly inflated balls do: it bounced back at me with shocking force and jammed two of my fingers. My right middle finger would remain puffy and sore for a couple of months. Just as I realized I was embarrassing myself again, I saw a six-year-old boy in ripped shorts and a filthy shirt waddling toward me with an arm extended, holding my full water bottle.

The next day Hamza brought me a box with about 12 empty water bottles. It might have been one of the most thoughtful things anyone had done for me in Rwanda. It was also kind of awkward.

***

My neighbor Baya is one of my best friends in Rwanda. He comes to the court sometimes, but usually isn’t good enough to get a spot on the court. His sport is soccer. Usually only the best players get to play, and I was never one to decide who got a spot. One day, Baya was playing when I showed up and they immediately gave me his spot. I refused and said he could continue. I would wait until someone was tired. Baya, knowing his place in the social order, also told me to take his spot. I refused again. The older players said that Baya covldn’t play because he was wearing flip-flops. That had never been a problem for some of the more skilled players, but if that was their reason, I would respect that. So I took off my shoes, to everyone’s wide-eyed amazement, and handed them to Baya. I was trying to make a point, but I could tell I was putting Baya in an awkward position. I insisted he put them on and keep playing. He continued for a few plays, but then came out, telling me to replace him. I was done fighting this, but I still wasn’t going to take my shoes back. Most people that played regularly had shoes, but occasionally there was someone in flip-flops or barefoot. I wanted to make the point that not only could I play without shoes, but that they should be more inclusive with who they let play, regardless of footwear. I wondered if it was worth it though. I don’t think it changed anyone’s mind, and I think I shamed Baya by trying to come to his rescue.

***

While a lot of my time in Rwanda was bland and forgettable, I will always miss the Cimerwa basketball court. It was the strongest community I had and I don’t think I would have lasted long without it. It was also a vital release valve for my pent up emotional energy that built up throughout the day. While I may have let my emotions get the better of me on the court, I imagine I would have had much more damaging incidents if I didn’t have basketball. 

The one time you will see me willingly pose for a group photo. From left: Epa, Manasse, Moise, Pastor, Mucoma, Joel. 

Goma, DRC

 did not realize that it would be my last time in DRC, but there ya go. This time my plans were a little more concrete, with a little more purpose. I was hoping to meet Janvier, a remarkably kind and humble man I had met on my last trip to eastern Congo. He had sat next to me on a passenger ferry and talked for most of the trip about the aid organization he runs. Of course, after minerals, aid is probably the biggest industry in eastern Congo. Most people who were anybody in the region seemed to be involved in government, minerals or development work. That he ran an organization is not what made him special. The fact that he was so passionate about his work, had no foreign donors and still seemed idealistic about one of the most hellish regions on earth was what impressed me. I wanted to visit him in Goma, see his projects, understand more about his work, and see if he was what he said he was.

***

As I waded through Bukavu’s unruly port, enduring jeers, greetings and aggressive commerce, I found myself sweating more than I normally did in Rwanda. The muck and garbage accumulated on my decrepit sandals as I searched for my vessel to take me to Goma. The various touts and ticket salesmen that hung around the gangplank tried to refuse me a 3^rd class ticket, insisting that I was meant to be at least in 2^nd or 1^st class. First, I had to get them to admit that there was a 3^rd class, then that I really wanted that $10 ticket.

After wandering around the port for a couple hours, I returned to the boat and secured myself a window seat in 3^rd class. It didn’t seem too bad. However, in Titanic fashion, life jackets only existed in the upper classes. I didn’t mind. If the boat did sink, which they do on occasion, I figured a life jacket would only encourage hangers on from the masses who can’t swim. I would try to float away from the chaos discreetly on my back.

Passengers arrived and my row slowly filled. As the third class cabin started to overflow (there are only caps on ticket sales for 1^st and 2^nd class) a young…large woman forced her way into my row, wedging herself between me and the poor old woman next to me. I’m pretty tolerant of these crowded spaces, but I have to say this woman was downright rude in her behavior. She seemed to be constantly trying to claim more space  for herself by placing her arms and belongings on top of other people and their stuff. It didn’t take long to make the decision to escape to the open air of the deck above. The overnight ride was going to be exhausting, and I needed to walk around before I could settle in.

I found someone to sell me a warm beer and wandered around the multi-leveled vessel. I felt out of sorts and tired. The exuberance that pervaded my mood on previous visits to DRC was fading. The uncouth young men who shadowed me with whispers of “white man” in various idioms, frayed my nerves. Occasionally one of them would yell, “Eh! Le blanc!” with nothing to follow up with after grabbing my attention. Hours later, having grown tired of them, I snapped back, “My name is not ‘le blanc’, ‘mzungu’, ‘mondele’ or ‘touri’”. A moment of silence passed and one said, “Well, what’s your name?” “Joey,” I huffed. This delighted them. They all exclaimed in unison, “Joey!” I had to crack a smile. Really, they just wanted to meet me, but lacked the language or social skills to make it happen. They continued to shadow me at a distance for most of the ride, but their random calls to me were “Joey”, rather than one of the aforementioned synonyms for white man.

When I visited my seat around 10 PM, I was completely unsurprised that my neighbor had completely overtaken my space, and my bag was crammed under the seat and almost impossible to find. I excavated my bag out from underneath bags, and limbs and returned to the cool air of the bow. We had made a couple of stops, acquiring a heavier load of third class passengers. The cabin was destined to be a stuffy pit by morning, and I was happy to be free of it. I found an employee and asked if I would be permitted to set up my tent on the bow. He asked the captain, and I was cleared. This was a big relief.

I waited until midnight, when most people had left the decks, to set up my tent in peace and privacy. This was the best idea I had in years. The deck underneath was cold and hard, but my thinning sleeping bag provided all the comfort I needed. I felt like I was getting away with something, buying the cheapest ticket and ending up with a better spot than almost anyone else on the boat.

I heard the first stirs of people on deck a couple hours before sunrise. I peeked out and could see the lights of Goma in the distance. I wasn’t expecting to arrive so soon, but guessed I still had another thirty minutes to hide away in my tent. I was exhausted and didn’t feel much like socializing. As it turned out, the lights were deceptive, and we didn’t dock until an hour after sunrise. I slowly and groggily packed my tent away in front of a crowd of staring passengers. As much as I dream of spending weeks on a public boat from Kisangani to Kinshasa on the Congo River, I am aware that I would be lucky to even get this much privacy or comfort on one of those miserably crowded vessels.

I had tried to contact Janvier the day before, but had had phone problems. I had bought a Congolese SIM card, but since I was borrowing a new phone, I hadn’t realized it wasn’t unlocked. My Rwandan SIM card still worked, but only when I was close to the Rwandan border. Plus, I had only a small amount of credit on that card and couldn’t buy more in DRC. All that Janvier knew was that I was coming to Goma at some point, and I was unsure if he had received my message that I was on the boat. I figured I would go to town, find a hotel or place to camp and get my phone sorted out before getting back in touch with him.

I was only half-surprised to find Janvier waiting for me at the port, all smiles. He was that kind of guy. He gave me the traditional formal greeting of that region in which one grasps the other’s neck, shoulders or head and gives three forehead-to-forehead taps, right, left and center. I had seen Rwandans do it to each other on occasion when two good friends had not seen each other in a long time. This, however, was the first time that anyone had honored me with this greeting.

Janvier was well dressed in slacks and a long-sleeved shirt, while I was more…hobo casual. I apologized for my appearance, trying to explain that I didn’t realize we would be meeting right then. He didn’t even notice what I was wearing.

We took motos out of the secluded, port, surrounded by an escarpment covered in emerald forest. I was still unclear what exactly our plan was, but I was pretty sure we were going to his office first. Thirty minutes later, we were zooming far from Goma’s sparsely paved center into the sprawling expanse of one-story concrete businesses that lined the main dirt and volcanic rock boulevard. When we finally stopped, I looked around for his office. We walked toward the rusty gate of a small compound, and I assumed that was the NGO’s headquarters. It looked rough, but functional. Then Janvier turned unlocked the door of a small concrete unit next to the compound. It was far more basic than I could have anticipated. The organization was run out of a run-down space smaller than the average American’s living room. A re-claimed chunk of wood paneling with a barely working door divided space between the workspace in front and Janvier’s office in the back. A years-old calendar with hand-made updated pages hung above his desk. His colleague and co-founder joined us to discuss the organization and answer my questions. I was not prepared for an interview, but I made do.

Luckily the colleague knew a bit of English and helped explain some of the French words I didn’t understand. He was a jurist, and provided legal help to rape victims. I asked if many of the victims refused to pursue legal action due to a lack of faith in the justice system as well as the threat of stigmatization in their communities if people knew they had been raped. He said that it happens, but just as often women insist on his help to go to the police and report what had happened. I was surprised, but this was heartening news.

The organization seemed ambitious in its scope of work. Legal assistance is only one of several things they do. They work with a couple of health clinics in the area to provide medical help to rape victims. They also seem to have, on some level, income-generating activities with abuse victims and seed distribution programs. Their most ambitious work seems to be in the smaller towns and villages of North Kivu, where the situation is much more volatile. A chart hung on the wall that showed the organization’s structure from the top management level in Goma, down to the village coordinators in villages in departments like Masisi, and Walikale, names that have, unfortunately, become synonymous with ethnic conflict and mass rape in the last decade.

After chatting for an hour about the organization, I asked if I would be able to see some of the organization’s work. Janvier took me, via public minibus, to a small clinic even farther outside of town. It was a small dispensary with a few rooms for patients. It was basic, but well taken care of. A foundation of volcanic rock sat next to the clinic, a sign of optimism; they hoped to one day increase their capacity with another wing.

The doctor, Jean-Paul, discussed the issue of sexual violence in the region. He told me that in 2013 8% of women in North Kivu were victims of sexual violence. While the clinic serves people in the community in many ways, Janvier brings victims of sexual violence to this clinic to receive physical and psychological treatment. As physically devastating as the sexual violence tends to be in the region, Jean-Paul and Janvier are very mindful of the importance of addressing the psychological trauma of the women they treat. 

Jean-Paul at the clinic.

During our conversation, I learned what was fairly obvious: that the clinic ran on fumes. Jean-Paul mentioned matter-of-factly that he often can’t pay his tiny staff, let alone himself. I asked what, to me, seemed like a relevant question: “So why do you keep doing this? Why do you keep coming in every morning?” Maybe I have grown cynical, but I have seen the apathy among some educated professionals in stable African countries. I wouldn’t blame this man for giving up, considering the depressing situation he faces. However, he laughed at my question, as if it was ridiculous to even ask it. He put his arms up, casually, and said, “I’m an activist. I’m a humanist. I just want to help.” I guess it was an obvious answer, and I felt ashamed for even asking the question. Maybe for a region so identified, in the mass media, with the evil capabilities of mankind, it is easy to forget that most people are just decent humans trying to go about their daily lives as best they can.

Jean-Paul in the clinic's small lab. The microscope is the clinic's prized possession. 

Janvier at the clinic.

After the visit, Janvier walked me to his house for lunch. We entered a gated compound with a two-story, half-constructed concrete house. His wife emerged from a tiny, clapboard hut, next to the large home, to greet us. I assumed, for a while, that the house under construction was a long and slow project of Janvier’s, put together little by little as the money trickled in. Later, however, he would tell me that they were only living inside that compound to watch over the construction project as some sort of basic security watchmen. 

The Family.

The family wanted me in one of the pictures, so I used the timer on the camera. I couldn't figure out how to get it to wait longer than two seconds.

One of Janvier’s colleagues joined the family, including Janvier’s four kids, for lunch. I asked a few more questions about the organization, still trying to figure out how it functions financially. They explained that the six founding members privately fund it. None of these founding members appear to be independently wealthy. They each try to contribute $100 per month. Their tiny, remote office alone costs $100/month. Real estate costs are relatively outrageous in Congolese cities and local wages don’t do much to offset these high costs. The monthly contribution is no small sum for people like Janvier, who has no second job, or a college education. He got his start in this work twelve years earlier with a job at the Panzi Hospital in Bukavu, a facility to treat rape victims founded by Nobel Peace Prize nominee Dr. Denis Mukwege. He told me how he once escorted a group of dozens of women from a rural village to Bukavu, a trip that took two weeks on foot, so they could receive treatment.

I asked more questions about how this organization was funded, but it never really made sense how it could operate two offices in the city, plus nearly twenty offices in neighboring territories. I finally asked, “Janvier, how do you eat?” He simply said, “We are Congolese. We have little means, but we make do with what we can. It’s like that here…If we fold our arms, the victims will die.”

Perhaps the most unique thing about this organization was their efforts to do sensitization work with the militias, who inflict the majority of the terror in rural areas. It seemed idealistic, if not absurd, to go out to armed militias to try to convince them to, at least, stop using rape as a war tactic. Other NGO’s don’t do this because they can’t. When Janvier said, “these are our brothers and sisters,” referring to rebel groups, I thought he meant it figuratively. In fact, he literally meant that among members of the organization, there are familial connections to these armed groups, which gives them access for these sensitization campaigns. I asked if it was working, and he claimed it was the reason that sexual violence had declined significantly since 2013. I felt that attributing this to telling the militias to stop raping people was naïve. Almost certainly it is more of a result to an overall decline in violence, the fall of the M23 rebel group and a more powerful UN force. I later asked one of his colleagues, in private, why he thought the frequency of sexual violence had declined in the past year. He said, “Oh, did you know our organization does sensitization campaigns with the rebel groups? Nobody else does this, but it has worked very well. That is why sexual violence has decreased.” I still don’t really believe it, but imagine if it actually was working. This would be a huge challenge to whatever methods big aid organizations and the UN have been (unsuccessfully) using to combat sexual violence.

Janvier, recognizing that I would need to find a place to stay and get some rest, accompanied me back to the center of town. According to my guidebook, there were two places in town that catered to overlanders, that unique brand of traveler that traverses the continent in beefed-up RVs. These would be the places to look for a place to pitch a tent. Janvier was one of those unique people that actually comprehended that I wasn’t rich, and didn’t find it shocking that I preferred to find a place to pitch a tent for a few bucks than pay whatever it takes for a room up to typical white person standards. As with the cheap hotels listed in the Bukavu chapter of the guidebook, the camping spots in Goma did not appear to exist. One of the places was just a bar, and the manager said I could pitch my tent on their grass, but I probably wouldn’t want to, as it is loud and full of people at night. I allowed Janvier to go and I would take care of things on my own.

I eventually found a basic hotel, bargained for the price and got a bit of rest. As a city, Goma was a bit exhausting. It felt hot, and the volcanic dust that hung in the air clung to my skin. It was the middle of the dry season, and the grey haze in the air made me feel more like I was in the Sahel than in Central Africa. The volcanic rocks that protruded from underneath every side road made walking more difficult than it needed to be.

One unique thing about Goma is its large fleet of chikudus, a type of giant, wooden scooter. In a more well-known and less war-torn city, most people would know that chikudus are iconic in Goma as rickshaws in Kolkata, 1950’s American cars in Havana or a-holes in New York City. These scooters are used to transport goods and materials from outlying areas and all over the city. In many developing countries, bicycles, carts or donkey carts are used to deliver heavy items, however it is clear why this is not an option in Goma. Bicycles and carts would have no chance at standing up to the volcanic rock of Goma. The tires would be torn to ribbons in hours. These locally made scooters are made with beefy chunks of wood, and the wooden wheels have thick, rubber tried tread nailed into them. Most even have a hefty suspension under the handlebars. They are such a symbol for Goma, that there is a statue of a chikudu and its rider in the middle of one of the main traffic circles. Al Jazeera has a short video of these scooters at work, which is worth checking out to see them in action.

That evening, I went for a walk into town to do some basic errands. As I went about my business, I got a feel for what might be one of the cities most segregated between its large foreigner presence and everyone else. In my two days in Goma, (not much, admittedly), I never saw a single foreigner on the street. I saw all kinds of foreigners in big SUVs, and a couple on motos, however. Most of these vehicles were labeled with the logo of their NGO, some had a sign that said “PRESS” in the window and one SUV, occupied by a fat, middle-aged couple, was packed to the gills with touristy carvings, masks, paintings and trinkets. I wished I could have met them. In town, things looked gloomy and rugged, but every once in a while I would pass by a fancy restaurant with palm trees, cabanas and flat screen TVs. It was incongruous and I felt like I was walking on a curb between two worlds that barely knew each other. Unlike Bukavu, Goma felt like a city that shouldn’t have been. Most of its population, of nearly a million, has arrived in the last twenty years, resulting in a city that has grown out, rather than up.

I indulged in a few street snacks, including a giant meatball, which was more delicious than just about anything I had ever eaten in Rwanda. Another favorite was caramelized peanut balls, which basically tasted like the peanuts from Cracker Jack. Eventually, I found myself wandering into an open-air bar as the sun went down. There was nothing particularly special about this bar, but it was everything that a good African bar should be. First of all, it was open-air, with a few covered areas and cabanas in case of rain. Second, it was blasting great African music, Congolese soukous in this case. Third, it was not catering to foreigners (I seemed to be the only non-African). The beers were cheap, people were in good spirits, women who were not prostitutes were drinking and people were dancing at random, whenever they were moved to. I was disappointed to be alone, but I enjoyed taking in the cheery scene as I sipped a couple of beers.

I headed back to my hotel around nine. Goma is not one of those cities where it is not advisable to walk around alone at night. I often ignore those warnings, but it would feel exceedingly stupid to get robbed at night for walking around alone at night in a Congolese city. So I hopped on a moto and directed him back to my hotel. Since it wasn’t so late, though, I wasn’t going directly to bed. I wandered within a few of blocks my hotel to see what was going on. The streets weren’t lively, but the few candlelit bars and open shops had people mingling over warm beers. It tends to be generator-only around Goma and this luxury item was far out of reach for most businesses in this part of town.

I entered one of the shadowy shops to buy a beer, while the drunks sipping Turbo Kings on the rickety bench inside laughed with and at me. I wandered a few doors down where a small crowd of drinkers, bored teenagers and stray children had gathered outside of a shady bar. Men were yelling, others were laughing. One stumbling man shed his shirt, as as pushes were exchanged and an inevitable brawl loomed. I will never feel proud of my deep, voyeuristic tendencies when it comes to public violence, but I can’t deny it. I was pumped, laughing with the teenagers at the stumbling drunks, making bold threats to each other. The crowd swelled and shrunk, as the fight never reached a point beyond shoves and a few poorly placed hooks and jabs. I went to bed, mildly disappointed.

Janvier said he was going to come to my hotel in the morning. I had asked him if I would be able to see some of the organization’s work in action. I had heard a lot about what the organization supposedly does, but never really saw anything happen. He told me that the organization doesn’t operate on Saturdays, so I wondered what we would be doing. He said he would arrive at 9 AM, but that time came and went. At 11:30, I gave up and decided to try to find something to do in town. I packed my bag, left the hotel, then got a call from him. He was waiting at the hotel, so I went back. He was apologetic for his tardiness, but explained that there had a been a raid on a small town west of Goma, and a couple of women were raped. While it was unknown which rebel group had committed this act, it was creepy to hear that they were speaking Kinyarwanda. Janvier had had to go out to the town to accompany the women to a clinic. Of course I didn’t mind because this was far more important, but I would have at least like to have gone with him. I wanted to write something about this organization, with the intent of getting it published in an online magazine, but without actually seeing some of his work, like what he was doing that morning, it would be impossible.

We chatted for a while in the hotel lobby, and decided it would be better for me to try to come back another time during the week. I was willing to return, but was a little disappointed I hadn’t gotten a chance to see what the organization actually does. Unfortunately, I never would get a chance to get back to Goma before leaving Rwanda.

I was trying to decide what to do as far as traveling was concerned. I could get back to Bukavu either via overnight boat, or go the next day over land in a minibus. I really wanted to go by bus, so could actually see more of the Congolese countryside, but it was going to save me money to take the boat, since I woudn’t have to pay for a hotel room. I decided to just explore Goma a bit that day and leave on the evening boat.

I had little idea of what to see and do in Goma, but I did want to get a better perspective on this city that had been buried under meters of lava eleven years earlier. My hotel was built on the lava flow, but it is hard to get a feel for it. I wanted to get a bit outside of the town and see if I would have a better feel of this buried town.

I stopped a moto and said, “take me 500 francs in this direction,” as I pointed north. “Where are you going?” he responded. “Just that way. 500 francs worth.” He seemed confused by this, but eventually agreed.

He gave me a lengthy ride for what I had paid. We seemed to stop at random. I got off, paid and walked onto an adjacent road. I wouldn’t call the neighborhood a slum, necessarily, but it was definitely poor and full of makeshift homes. Everything was built on, and often with, the ubiquitous volcanic rock. I wasn’t sure what to make of peoples’ reaction to my presence. Many people simply gave me friendly greetings, while others made grunts and squeaks at their surprise to see me. I wondered if westerners ever come to these outlying neighborhoods, and if so, for what reason. Judging by the reactions of people, and the fact that I hadn’t seen another westerner on foot in Goma, I imagine I was a rare sight. I also wondered if people would think this is dangerous. Surely Goma has far more crime than any city in Rwanda, but I couldn’t imagine anything terrible happening in broad daylight in this friendly neighborhood with plenty of people around.

As I continued on this road, I came to what looked like a volcanic rock quarry. Or perhaps this massive pile of car-sized rocks was just what the lava flow looked like eleven years later, when nobody had built on it. I walked off the road to explore the rock pile. Suddenly I realized that I was completely alone, and that this, if any, would be the dangerous situation. I also realized that I was nearing the edge of the airport. The fence on the farthest edge of the landing strip was just a couple hundred meters away. I walked on a trail up the rock pile to get a better view of the airport. Suddenly I heard a voice shouting at me. I saw a swaying soldier telling me to come to him. I had never had any of the awful experiences with Congolese soldiers, police or officialdom that I had heard so much about, but I realized that this could easily turn into one. I could tell he was drunk from a distance. I slowly went back down the trail I had climbed up. “No!” he shouted, “come HERE!” The winding path was not direct enough for him.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“No, just come here.” He shouted.

“Umm, I’m going to go this way,” I said, pointing down the path to go back to the neighborhood.

“No, come here first. There’s no problem, just come here.” The angrier he got, the more convinced I was to not go to him.

“If there’s no problem, I’m going this way.” I said as I turned my back to him and hustled away. He kept shouting after me, but apparently didn’t feel like chasing me down. It was a very minor incident, but I realized I was shaking lightly from the adrenaline.

As I continued to walk through the neighborhood, I started to accumulate children. Some of them started clinging to my arm. I eventually had about six kids holding my hands and arm, with a few others following. It was both awkward and kind of fun to see everyone laughing at us. I had to shake them off when I reached the next main road and decided to take a moto back to town.

We passed by a Senegalese UN base, then a Pakistani UN base. I wondered what life is like for UN soldiers. I had heard that they are not well liked in Goma, and frequently come under attack with rocks thrown by children and young adults. I saw them all over town, riding around in the back of trucks, armed with machine guns and wearing either blue helmets or blue turbans. The airport featured a constant stream of UN helicopters coming in and out, flying at fantastic angles over my hotel.

In the late afternoon I found myself at an open-air bar to get a brochette for lunch. The best part of this bar was the fact that they had rabbit on the menu, and rabbits wandering around the floor of the bar, munching on cabbages tied to poles. It was like being able to choose your lobster from the lobster tank, except the lobsters are frolicking around your feet.

Late in the afternoon I took a moto to the port and bought my ticket to go to Bukavu. The officials that took my name and checked my documents tried again to get me to pay the supposed fee. I refused repeatedly. The guidebook had even warned that it is unlikely to get the boat out of Goma without paying about $20 for a fee/bribe. I repeatedly refused and eventually made it on without paying an additional cent.

This was the biggest boat I had been on in Lake Kivu. The 1^st class cabin verged on swanky, with dim, fluorescent blue lighting, small tables among the clusters of seats, and outlets in every seat. Again, I wandered around the various decks, and eventually set up my tent on the stern deck. Nobody paid me any mind and it was a decent trip. Unfortunately, though, by the time we arrived in Bukavu in the morning I was feeling awful. I had slept quite a bit, but maybe the cold air had gotten to me. I just wanted to get back to Rwanda and either sleep or sun myself in my own boat. Congo has its excitement, but I admit that Rwanda is handy for a break from the chaos. Or perhaps I have grown soft.