First Visit to DRC

Congo. At least on this blog I will refrain from any of the tired, inflated clichés about her size, her darkness, her failures and her standing as the heart of Africa. I have to admit, though, that the aforementioned clichés have probably played no small part in my previously simmering, and currently boiling obsession with the place. When Peace Corps placed me in Rwanda, I knew it would be a constant temptation to cross the border. When Peace Corps Rwanda placed me as far away from the capital as possible, within eyesight of both DRC and Burundi, I knew this would be a problem. Either because I would be forever aggravated by the inability to cross the border to cities that looked and sounded so alluring, or because I would be forced to break Peace Corps policy and simply go.

It was late November and I was hanging out at one of my favorite places to gawk at Bukavu, DRC. It lay just a few hundred meters away, across the Rusizi River where Lake Kivu pours into it. I was struggling to access decent Internet at the moderately upscale hotel bar, which was half my reason to be in town in the first place. I was about two beers and as many frustrating e-mails when I was startled by a white woman hovering over me. I took my headphones out and she introduced herself and invited me to her table. I told her I had to finish a few things, but would be over when I was done.
I rarely meet other foreigners, unless I am introduced by foreigners that I already know. This was a stroke of luck. I enjoyed a couple more beers with her Rwandan co-worker and a sassy lady of the evening, who clearly had not been in town long and was dressed for Nyamirambo, not Kamembe. The foreigner was Irish and, as luck would have it, had been to Congo for the first time that very day. She explained to me that because she lived and worked in the area, she was eligible for the same permit that Rwandans get to cross into DRC and Burundi. It sounded too easy. About $10, a couple passport photos, photo copies of my passport and two days wait. I decided to do it the next week.

Well, it was slightly more complicated, but not much. For some reason the person at the local immigration insisted that I needed a green card, which cost an additional $10. I needed to walk the ten minutes to the border to pay for it and bring the receipt back so they could issue the green card. This was a clever mechanism that Rwanda had to reduce corruption. Everything seemed very official, but I never understood why I needed this green card and she didn’t. A few more trips back and forth between the immigration office and the border, two days of waiting (after arguing about the wait time) and I was authorized to cross into DRC for free and, better yet, without getting my passport stamped. This left it almost impossible for Peace Corps to catch me in the act.

After picking up the permit, I have to admit that I was more scared than excited. I knew there was nothing to really be afraid of. The worst things that could happen is for the police or border official to ask for a bribe, get pick-pocketed, or maybe mugged for the little bit of money I had brought with me. These things had all happened before and I’d only learned from them. Perhaps the nervousness was influenced by the endless deluge of bad news coming from that side of the border, while I was constantly getting softened by Rwanda, an annoyingly good news-producing country and darling of the development world, Or maybe it was simply the fact that the only information I had about Bukavu was a couple pages from a 1994 Lonely Planet guide to Central Africa.

Exiting Rwanda was a little more difficult than I had imagined. The officials were far more inquisitive than they were when I arrived at the airport, which I didn’t understand at all. As I walked on the bridge over the Rusizi River, I wanted to linger, take in the view and savor leaving Rwanda. The guards on either side, however, looked like the suspicious types, and nobody else was dawdling.

One of the first things I saw upon reaching Congolese soil was a woman carrying a basin of fresh fish packed in ice. I had looked for ice in Kamembe and couldn’t even find it at one of the nicest hotels in town. Now I saw it immediately upon crossing into a land that was supposed to be decades behind Rwanda in development (partly thanks to Rwanda) and it was being carried by a lowly market woman. Maybe that’s the perk of going from a secure, but boring town of 80,000 to a rough and wild city of a million: ice.

From the bridge, I walked a hundred meters before seeing the border post. It wasn’t clear where I should go, so I popped my head nervously into the first little booth I saw. It was a clapboard shack painted in yellow and said something about the department of health. I large, smiling woman greeted me and asked if I was going to Congo. I said I hoped to, yes. She ushered me in and directed me to a middle-aged man at a table who was the most disarmingly friendly man I could have imagined. Was this the Congo I had heard about, where every official makes up fake permits that you don’t have or accuses you of being a spy in order to extract a bribe? He explained that he just needed to see my proof of yellow fever vaccination. Still a little weary, I tried to find the exact stamp on my vaccination card before handing it over. I couldn’t track it down, so just handed it over. As he looked through the document, the woman and I had a conversation about what I was doing in Rwanda. She seemed very interested for completely innocent reasons. Everyone in that first booth seemed like the complete contrary to the reputation DRC carries. The health official at the desk found the correct stamp and wrote down my information in a large book. He smiled, welcomed me to his country and wished me a good day as he handed back my vaccination card.

The next booth had a window with a line of about twenty Africans behind it. I got in line, still unsure of the procedure. A minute later, a thick, tall man with mirrored aviator sunglasses called for me, and used his forefinger to summon me. This seemed closer to what I expected. He brought me inside the office to a large, Jabba the Hut sort of man that seemed like the stereotype of corrupt African officialdom. The kind that could have played a conniving underling of the administration trying to foment rebellion in a Hollywood movie. Barely looking up at me he pointed at a nearby table and said “fiche!” indicating that I needed to fill out one of the forms sitting on the table. I picked one up and suddenly realized that in my effort to pack as light as possible I had forgotten a pen. Oh, Joey, what have you done?! A pen! You’re crossing an angry border, and you forgot a pen! I chose the lesser of two evils, and asked the warlord-looking man with mirrored sunglasses if he had a pen. Without a look, he reached into his breast pocket and handed me a pen, reminding me to give it back when I was done. At the space on the form where it said  “Address in DRC” I left it blank. What else could I do? I was going for a single day.  When I handed the form to the surly official, he asked me a few sharp questions, but the lack of address was the part that really confused him. I explained that I live in Rwanda and was only coming for the day. I knew this wasn’t that rare for foreigners and African alike. He asked where I was going and I just said, “the market. I want to see it.” It was true that I had heard their market was very big, but didn’t know of anything else to do in town for the rest of my day. He asked which one, so I responded “the biggest one”. This sufficed, so he wrote on my form the name of the biggest market and sent me to the next person to get the stamp on my form. As I walked away, he gave a kind of saddish face, meekly stuck his hand out and barely mumbled something about being hungry. This was perhaps the weakest attempt at bribe extraction I had ever seen. I pretended not to hear, smiled, thanked him, and turned around.

It was difficult to discern if anything that happened in Bukavu that day was happening because I was in DRC, or simply because I was in Africa. All in all, the border procedures were pretty easy, and not much different than crossing most African borders. I couldn’t tell if the things that seemed chaotic or intimidating just appeared as such because of the country’s reputation, or if they actually were worse than other big, but mostly harmless African cities like Bamako or Accra.
Minutes later, I was wondering, “how am I going to get to the market?” I walked toward town, expecting to see buses. All I saw, though, was a lot of shared taxis. I bartered blindly over the price to reach the market. I really had no idea where the market was, so I didn’t know if the $1 price was fair or not. As I sat in the steamy taxi, waiting for more passengers, I saw a fight going on, unknown to most passersby, on a grassy hill next the road. A couple punches were thrown, and the two young men threw each other to the ground. I half-expected them to come tumbling down the near-vertical hill, but they didn’t. I recently wrote about the fighting culture in Rwanda, and how I rarely see people engaging in fisticuffs. An argument usually crescendos, and just at the point where I know a punch is about to be thrown, the tension magically dissolves. Now, across the border, ten minutes pass and I’ve already seen a fight.

As I waited, I noticed a few police officers loitering across the street. One of them broke off and headed towards the taxi. He went to the driver of the taxi and said something to him. The driver walked toward the car, reached into the console and pulled out a 500-franc note (around $.55) and handed it to the officer. I think it was safe to guess that this wasn’t to settle last night’s poker debts. Later on, as we were battling through traffic on Bukavu’s main thoroughfares an officer whistled us down. We stopped, partially blocking traffic. Almost no words were exchanged as the driver handed a 1000-franc note through a crack in the window.

Throughout my time with the driver, he seemed completely obsessed with keeping all the doors locked. This was a little unnerving. What terrible things happen in the middle of a big city in broad daylight? Weeks later I mentioned this to a girl I met who works for the united Nations Mission in Goma, DRC. She said that it was not uncommon for mobs of street children to just open cars stuck in traffic and ransack them. Sometimes kids will climb onto the top of the car, which will make the driver stop, so they don’t accidentally toss the child off. Then the car becomes a sitting duck. I couldn’t imagine these things happening in Rwanda, however I know that they can still happen in Burundi, which is very similar and connected to Rwanda. These things make me understand a little more about why Rwandans are so proud of their secure and stable country, and ignore the liberties that it costs them.

The market was one of the most chaotic I had ever been in. Vendors of fish, peanuts, vegetables, etc. leaked deep into the main street. Everything seemed damp, and the smells were pungent. Again, it was hard to gauge this market accurately, since I was coming from one of the cleanest countries in the developing world. I’m sure the market would not have been noteworthy if I were coming from India, or even Ghana. The thing that was interesting about this market were the levels. Narrow alleyways passed between buildings and crumbling staircases led up to second, and sometimes third levels. This was where the endless piles of African cloth and nicer western clothes lived. The piles of cheap secondhand clothing resided somewhere lower in the market. I searched for a couple of different cloths as a Christmas gift for Lise. The cloth-hawking women were far more enthusiastic and aggressive. The market women in general seemed more like the friendly, loud market women I had found so charming in West Africa, compared with their shy Rwandan counterparts. Although I was not looking for much in particular beyond cloth, I did find a few special items during my day in Bukavu. I found a few women selling pumpkin seeds, which I bought and later roasted and ate with fellow PCVs during a makeshift Christmas party. In a shop I found candied peanuts, a common snack in West Africa, but far too enjoyable and tasty for the Rwandan palate. One stall focused on traditional medicine and specialty items from the equatorial forests of inland Congo. My eye was initially caught by the pink kola nuts they had on display. The price at nearly a dollar per nut seemed outrageous, but then again, they were coming from halfway across the country, and had to travel through some of the most dangerous and volatile regions of Africa. They also carried dried black caterpillars, about two or three inches long, a common dish in Kisangani, central DRC’s large city on the Congo River. I bought a single kola nut for old time’s sake. The couple that ran the stall was very sweet and friendly.

In fact, most people I met were warm and friendly. I am forced to compare the people to Rwanda, even though it’s completely unfair considering the short time I was there. Especially knowing that my opinions about Rwandans continues to change and evolve the more time I spend here. One thing that did not change, though, was hearing people talking about me as if I couldn’t understand them and laughing at me. On this side of the border, however, I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but they were even less shy about making me the butt of their jokes. It quickly became clear that few foreigners wander the streets alone on foot. I attracted far more attention in the market than I would in Rwanda. Or maybe they shout more, instead of just staring. There is a huge foreigner presence here, though. It seems that every aid organization imaginable has at least some activity here in Bukavu. I saw some of them crossing the border with me, and their logos plastered on the sides of Land Cruisers all over the city. I only saw two foreigners on foot; my guess was that they were metro sexual Middle Easterners.

After the market, I asked around for a mini bus to get me to the Place de l’Independence. I was surprised at how many people I had to ask to get steered in the right direction. It is a central point of the city, and it seemed like it would be simple. Anyway, I had little plan for the rest of the day. The only other site I was curious about was the former Peace Corps training center. My guide book was old enough to have been written at a time when the Peace Corps was still operational in what was then Zaire, and the training center was labeled on the map. It was located on a small peninsula of Lake Kivu, just near a swimming area. What a glorious place that must have been to spend three months of training. I decided I did not have the time in the day to look for it, since crossing the border and getting to the market had taken far longer than I had expected. Next time.

Instead, I walked around the Place de l’Independence for a little bit. It was a gigantic roundabout with a triumphant statue in the middle to celebrate the country’s independence from Belgian rule. I wandered off into some side streets, but didn’t immediately see anything too interesting. The port area looked interesting, but I had no good reason to go there, and I knew that everyone would ask what I was doing there, assuming I was lost or wanted to take a boat.
Not long after, I made my way to a big blue structure that seemed very familiar. Yes, it was a super-sized Primus bar, just like in Rwanda, but bigger. It looked like an interesting spot, and after checking my watch I confirmed that it was indeed beer:30. I walked up the stairs, past a couple of women working in an open kitchen with a large grill. I found that the second floor was completely under construction, though they were still open for business. I grabbed a Simba beer, ordered a brochette, and headed to a seat on the narrow balcony. I had a great view of Lake Kivu and the Place de l’Independence. I watched the traffic, the herds of pedestrians trying to navigate the giant roundabout, but most of all I watched the many police working the roundabout. They kept a steady stream of vehicles pulled over at the side of the road. I didn’t know what criteria they were using to choose who to flag down. Sometimes a driver would say a quick word and the officer would wave him through. I never saw one of the NGO vehicles get pulled over, which was a little surprising.
Throughout the day I had seen billboards advertising the Primus Radler, a new lime-infused Primus beer. I was pretty excited, but this bar did not have it yet, even though they advertised it. I would later find out that the Radler is more like a shandy and is only 2% alcohol. Most of the men at the bar were drinking large Turbo King beers, the strong beer that is only available in small bottles in Rwanda.

As I walked up to the bar to pay for my beer and food, two police officers from the roundabout walked in and ordered beers. It looked like they had “earned” enough for a drink. As I paid, one of the officers said, “Can you help me? I haven’t eaten in a long time.” I mumbled something about no and sorry. I might have even added to be patient, as I would tell beggars in Rwanda. The other officer said to him, “he doesn’t understand French.” I was partially offended, but decided to roll with it. They gave up on me. Then I asked the bartender how to get back to the border. The police were eager to help and suggested that it is easiest to take a moto. They told me how much I should pay and where I could find a moto. I thanked them and they wished me will. Just before I left, one of the officers yelled, “Don’t forget to wear your helmet!”  I can’t explain why, but him saying that seemed absurd for some reason. Maybe I’m just that cynical about Congolese police that I can’t imagine one of them genuinely looking out for my safety. In fact, no firsthand experience should lead me to mistrust the police.
I didn’t immediately get a moto. I walked around for a while, feeling a little more comfortable. I noticed a small group of UN troops wandering around, looking at shops and street wares. A little farther on I saw a sign for a restaurant that I had remembered seeing listed in the old guidebook. There was a small shop connected to the building. I walked in and found two more UN soldiers inside. I saw Uruguayan flags on their sleeves. I was incredibly curious about them, so I greeted them in Spanish. One of them barely responded, not even looking up to see what stranger had greeted him I felt extremely awkward, but I was saved by the Indian shop keeper who made a gesture that what I am looking for is around the corner. He assumed I was looking for the restaurant, and I was indeed a little curious. So I left, and went around the corner. A guard indicated that I should go through his gate. He too seemed to know where I was going . I walked through a courtyard and tried to enter the restaurant. A server pointed me to an open space behind some bushes. I didn’t understand why, but I went with it. As I came around the bushes I found a table full of uniformed Uruguayan soldiers. Everyone thought that I was looking for my fellow peacekeepers. Little did they know, I was nothing of the sort, unless you consider the Peace Corps keepers of peace. So I just left. Maybe next time I would get to meet them.

The moto ride back to the border was cheap and thrilling. Moto rides in cities are the best, though unfortunately the most dangerous. On the way back, I noticed the French Cultural Center, a common institution in francophone countries, and former French colonies all over the world. The centers I had been to in Mali and Senegal were very beautiful establishments that were very open and welcoming. This one looked like it had clearly had a rough life. The doors were closed and heavily barred. The building looked old and badly in need of a new paint job. It was hard to tell if it was even functioning anymore. Bukavu didn’t give me the feeling of a city crumbling, or receding into the bush. It did, however, seem very old. The schools, the churches, the roads. Everything seemed just a little rustic. Again, this could be influenced by the fact that Rwanda feels like a brand new country. Sure, not everything is in great shape, but so much of the infrastructure in the towns, especially Kigali, is sparkling new. The building in Bukavu that looked the worst was called “Vision 20/20” restaurant. This is a common name for businesses in Rwanda, since Vision 20/20 is the government’s development program. It seemed fitting that a restaurant named after this program wouldn’t go over so well in Congo. The restaurant looked not only closed, but nearly destroyed.

I went through all of the formalities a second time and arrived back in Rwanda. As I waited in line at immigration for Rwanda, I saw a middle-aged white woman greet the official in Kiswahili. He looked up at her seriously and said in English, “We speak Kinyarwanda in this country.” Instead of apologizing and getting on with her procedure, she said, patronizingly, “well, I KNOW you MUST speak Swahili.” I couldn’t help but be a little proud when I went to the official next to her and did the immigration procedures in Kinyarwanda. I’m sure I was obnoxious and petty, but I didn’t study this language intensively for 3 months so I could ignore opportunities to show it off.

Crossing into Rwanda was even stranger than crossing into Congo. I was ready for the chaos of Bukavu, but in just a few hours I had forgotten how tranquil everything is on the Rwandan side of the border. Boring, yes, but pretty stress free. I’m sure after a few more visits to Bukavu, though, I will feel more comfortable and get to truly enjoy it.