A Short Word On My Departure Rrom Rwanda

As I began to face the last six months of my Peace Corps service and contemplate what I had accomplished, I grew bitter and disappointed in myself. I felt that I had accomplished little in my school and community. My Kinyarwanda skills were lackluster, and my integration into my village, something Peace Corps puts an overwhelming emphasis on, was not what I had hoped it would be. I felt I had not grown much as a person, developed my teaching skills or gained a better understanding of the complexities of international development. Most of all, I felt guilty for not doing all I could have for my students and neighbors. I imagined that my final blog post would be titled something like “A Failed Service”.

I vowed to complete at least one of the several projects that were moving along at incredibly sluggish rates. At my final Peace Corps conference, about three months before departure, I began feeling miserable about the prospect of saying goodbye. I had bitter feelings toward the staff at my school, who had never followed through in assisting with a single project, Peace Corps in general, but most of all myself. I figured when the time came, I would say goodbyes to my students and selected friends and families, and slip out as silently and discreetly as possible.

Things started to look up, briefly, however, as I found an enthusiastic competent partner in the HR manager of Cimerwa, the cement factory that the village revolves around. He assured me that even with my short time, he would be able to quickly move the necessary mountains to help install the community library I had been working on for most of the year, as well as help with a couple of other, smaller projects that had been on the back burner. This news brought new life to my service and I was feeling more positive about my work than I had in I don’t know how long.

Days later, however, I made the decision to depart Rwanda as soon as possible. My wife was in need of my support. We had hoped to wait until the end of my service for me to move to France to be with her, however, my presence was needed and putting her first was the only option.

It was an incredibly difficult time for me, emotionally. I had about two days in my village to pack, say quick goodbyes and, most challenging, face my departure from Rwanda, where I had spent the last two years. My relationship with Rwanda was always very conflicted. It is no secret that it is not my favorite place in the world, but at the same time, I have spent more consecutive time in Rwanda than any other place in the past eight years. Leaving it suddenly was destined to be painful. I would later realize, however, there were band-aid like qualities of my departure, and getting it over quickly would more painful in the moment, but ultimately easier than something longer and drawn out.

It was a week spent on the verge of tears, where I was thankful for all the stress of paperwork, housekeeping and packing for distracting me from my emotions. Among all the other volunteers I spent time with in my last few days at the Peace Corps office, it was easy to pretend I wasn’t going anywhere. I went about my normal business, hanging out with them over Primus’s in the evenings, kicking around stories, complaining about our work and gossiping. This was more preferable than explaining why I was going, what I was going to do, and worst of all, goodbyes. I am not proud that I neglected to say goodbye to many people I had the chance to say goodbye to. I was taking the coward’s way out.

As I was completing some of my paperwork in the Peace Corps office, a staff member asked me how I felt about my service. I probably yammered on about my frustrations, my disappointment in myself, my uncertainties about my actual impact on my students. In reality, I have no idea at this point how I feel about my service. At this point, understanding those feelings is like trying to make sense of an impressionist painting from an inch away. Everything is an indiscernible blur. I think it will take a while to step back and make sense of the two years I spent in Rwanda.

South Kivu, DRC, Part 2

When I woke up in the doctor’s office, the doctor was already up and moving around. I packed my things quickly, folded up my sheets and walked out the front door. Pregnant women were showing up for pre-natal visits. I wasn’t entirely sure what my plan was. The man who had brought me to the hospital the night before had said that he would send someone for me in the morning. Sure enough, before I even left the hospital grounds, a man on a motorcycle pulled up and greeted me. He said he had been told to pick me up.

We negotiated a fare to the southern end of the island and then took off down a series of dirt roads and trails. I was surprised to see the roads in decent condition as I would only see two cars all day. Or perhaps it was the same car twice.

The rolling hills of cultivated land we passed through looked almost the same as Rwanda, but everything felt more dramatic and adventurous. Maybe it was that I was on an island, or maybe because I was in DRC. Maybe I felt free from the pressures of being a PCV. Out here I was a lone stranger with nothing more to do than roam. Or maybe it was simply that many of the buildings had thatched roofs (illegal in Rwanda), giving the landscape that “authentic African” feel. I can admit to being a sucker for that on occasion.

We arrived at one of the island’s only guesthouses. I was surprised to find such a luxurious-looking place. It sat among grassy lawns and flower gardens on the shore in a little inlet. I could not afford the asking price of $30, so I asked if I could camp. This lowered to price to $20, and I offered $10 to camp. No dice. I settle for the $20 room. It was a nice room, with a TV and attached bathroom. There was no electricity or running water, of course, rendering the luxuries unluxurious. There were also quite a few big, black hornets bumping around the walls and ceiling.

I had an entire day with absolutely nothing to do. So I decided to go on a hike. I went straight up into the hills behind the guesthouse, wondering if I would be able to see Rwanda from a high ridge. I passed the occasional farmer and homestead, but other than that everything was quiet. I remembered it was Sunday morning. The few children that I encountered didn’t pay me much mind.

At the top of a ridge I found a dirt road, a couple of houses and some people wandering around. They asked what I was looking for. I said I was going for a walk. A short man in a dusty sports jacket approached me and introduced himself as the chief of the village. Although there are traditional chiefs in Rwanda they don’t seem to matter, especially compared to what I saw in West Africa. It was safe to assume that chieftaincy was more important in DRC than in Rwanda. The chief offered to accompany me. I wasn’t sure if this was to be polite or to keep an eye on me. I said it wasn’t necessary, but he was welcome to come if he wanted. He and a young man attached themselves to me for the next couple hours. I had wanted to walk alone, but that is a lot to ask. Still, these two men were good company and they seemed to genuinely want to show me around their community and get to know me. We walked on the roads and trails between a few villages. Most of the people were at church, singing and dancing. One man ran out of an unfinished church to greet me. He told me he was some kind of church leader and that he wanted to welcome me into the church. I told him I would visit on my way back. Doubting my sincerity, the man knew he had to make his pitch at that moment. He asked how much money I would give to the church. He pointed out that the church was still under construction and they needed money to complete it. I mumbled awkwardly at this. It’s easy to say no to “give me money”. I don’t really know how to politely respond to “how much will you give?” Then again, I don’t know why I should be polite, because that question is rude in the first place. The young man I was with hustled me away from the man and we continued down the road.

View from the hike. 

  

When we arrived back at the guesthouse, I braced myself. I tried to make a quick goodbye, but I was halted by the young man awkwardly, quietly ask for money. Suddenly, as if out of the woodworks, a small group of pedestrians were all hanging around, watching us. I had connected with the guy, and wondered what to make of his request for cash. Was his two-hour friendship an investment? I mean, he had told me that next time I came I was invited to stay with his family in the village. I was considering it. I would have been less confused or taken aback by the chief requesting money, since he was simply serving in his chiefly duties and in a way he really had wasted most of his morning on me. I tried to discreetly give him a 500-franc note ($.50), while the pedestrians all crowded around to see. I bristled in frustration. Then, of course, the chief put his hand out and I gave him 500 as well. I hoped that the young man could sense my disappointment from my cold, silent departure.

Back in my room, I made myself a sandwich and did something I am usually incapable of. I took a nap. It wasn’t a long nap, but I have to admit that it felt good. I should try it again some time.

After the nap, I went for a swim and noticed a young couple sipping beers by the shore. I had kind of thought I was the only guest.

I spent the afternoon wandering the nearby lakeshore village and market. As I passed by a group of people drinking banana beer, two of them drifted over to me. In Rwanda I avoid eye contact with drunks because if you look at them, they will almost certainly take it as an invitation to come pester you with friendly harassment. One of them was an elderly man with few teeth and dirty clothes. The other was a short, middle-aged man who was also somewhat unkempt. The older man grabbed my arm and slurred requests for money. Everyone watching was in stitches. I wondered if his behavior or my annoyed demeanor was the main cause of laughter. The old man gave up quickly, but the shorter one was persistent. Maybe the most persistent beggar I have ever encountered. He followed me for almost two hours. I half-listened to his tales of woe about being an oppressed pygmy for a few minutes. And he was right; the pygmies are a very marginalized group of people who have it rough. But my sympathies don’t come easily and being an able-bodied man, and drunk, won’t help your case for access to my pockets.

I cut my walk short because of the pestering of this man. As soon as I reached the market, I turned back around to the village. I decided to stop into a bar, thinking that this would get him off of me. I know that doesn’t make sense, but usually the manager won’t let a drunk beggar follow someone with prestige (white man) into their establishment. This didn’t happen, though. I was invited to join a table of men sipping on beers, and the pygmy man sat on a bench behind us and waited, periodically chiming in and asking me to buy him a beer. All the men, in fact, were trying to get me to buy them beers, but at least they were friendly about it. Several of them spoke Kinyarwanda, so that got mixed into our conversation. Some of them were sand miners (maybe DRC’s least lucrative mining profession) and worked on the boats that transport the sand to Rwanda. It’s for the Rwandan government’s “One Sandbox Per Child Program.” I noticed one of the men at the table was particularly goofy. He was constantly making jokes in Kiyavu and would occasionally do little schticks to keep the table laughing. It turns out that he does comedy shows on the local radio station. After my beer, I tried to lose the man again. Of course he followed me out of the bar and all the way to the hotel. He even followed me into the hotel, telling the guard that he was with me. I had to set things straight, and he was told to leave.

A couple of young college dudes, named Eric and Chance, from Bukavu were sitting at a table next to the lake drinking beer. They invited me to sit with them and they bought me a beer. I wasn’t expecting that. They were pretty nice guys and we chatted for a bit. A Rastafarian man with a guitar came up and started talking to the college guys in Swahili. I was suspicious of this guy because dreadlocked men all over the world know how enchanted young white people are by Rastas and constantly use it to some kind of sinister advantage. Not all, or even most of dreadlocked men. Just all of those who approach white people for no apparent reason. As it would turn out, though, this man named Alex was one of the most genuine Rastafarians I had ever met. He was a very kind and thoughtful person who truly seemed to live an ethical lifestyle. He sat down with us and joined our conversation. Upon hearing that these guys were college students, Alex interrogated them about their future plans. He implored them not to leave DRC after finishing their education, saying how important they are to solving the country’s problems. Alex lives in Bukavu, but is from Idjwi. He plans to move back to Idjwi so he can serve his community. At some point I asked him about his guitar and what kind of music he likes to play. In Rwanda most people get their musical education and experience in churches, so I asked him if he played in a church band. He laughed and said no. One of the students asked why. He smirked and said, ”Because it’s in the church.” I think we all were caught off guard by that blunt irreverence for the church. I found it completely refreshing, though, to meet someone who seemed to think for himself and openly express his opinions.

Behind us, the European couple was sitting down to a three-course meal complete with wine. I looked forward to the boiled egg sandwich I would make in my room later.

I had met a man at some point during the day who had invited me to watch the World Cup game between Mexico and Holland that evening. He came to the hotel to get me and we walked to the local youth center he operates, where they were showing the game. I was wearing my Mexico soccer jersey and tried to convince others to cheer for Mexico. Most people, however, were Holland fans. I was given one of the few chairs, while a crowd of about 100 men, women and children formed behind me. The TV was in the doorway of the youth center facing outward. The generator hummed from inside the building. After sunset we became a little bubble of light and noise in an otherwise dark and silent village. It was an exciting game and getting to watch it in this bucolic village was a privilege.

I had to get up early the next morning to catch the 6 AM boat back to Bukavu. I barely made it on time, which was surprising because I was only a few minutes late. I expected the boat to leave at least 30 minutes late. I was tired and just wanted to put myself away in a corner and read or put my headphones in. This was not possible for a couple of reasons. One, all the young men tended to crowd in my vicinity while making jokes and snide remarks about me and whatever I did. Two, Eric, Chance and Alex from the day before were on the boat and wanted to hang out with me.

Departing Idjwi.

  

I moved to the bow of the boat where Alex and the college boys had situated themselves. Alex had his guitar and was casually strumming it. He eventually played a couple of his original songs, one of which was in Spanish. If I remember correctly, it was called “Chico de calle”, or street kid. He said he had a friend from South America who had translated it for him. He didn’t speak Spanish, but was trying to pick it up where he could. Eventually he played a couple of songs that we all knew, so we could have a sing-along. Obviously he played Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song”, which was all too cliché, but I loved it anyway. One guy who was standing by watching had a small bag of amandazi/beignets/fried breads. Alex asked him for one, noting that he makes his living by playing music. The guy happily gave it up. At some point in the trip someone had brought me a chair. I always wonder about the reputation of whites, specifically the colonials, because I am always offered chairs wherever I am in Rwanda and DRC. It feels like a major part of what the colonial era taught Africans was that the white man must sit. Anyway, I offered my chair to my friends, and they all refused. Alex, always opinionated said that he doesn’t like to sit because it causes hemorrhoids. Ok. More chair for me.

Eric, Alex and Chance after singing Redemption Song.

That's a dread, not a joint in Alex's mouth. Viva DRC.

  

The main reason that I came back to Bukavu rather than staying on the island or going to Goma was that it was Independence Day and I had seen a sign advertising that Papa Wemba would be playing a show that night. Papa Wemba is one of DRC’s, and even Africa’s, most famous musicians. He plays Soukous, or Congolese Rumba, and is incredibly influential in the Congolese music scene. If I could see him perform live, and on Independence Day…Oh. It would just be too much.

So my first order of business was to find a cheap hotel. This would not be an easy task, as Congolese cities are terribly expensive. Rwanda always seems a little pricey to me, but real estate costs in Congolese cities is on a different level. There were three hotels in the guidebook listed in the cheapest price range. The definition of “Budget” in the guidebook is less than $30. Never in my life have I paid more than $25 for a room outside of America and Canada.

I stopped by the first hotel I saw and asked the price. It didn’t look luxurious by any means. It was $100 per night. I didn’t even counter offer. The man asked how much I had. I said $10, and he let me go without argument. Across the street was a nasty looking hotel, so I popped in. The bleary-eyed man nearly sleeping at the reception desk said their $20 rooms were full and they only had $25 rooms. Still too much. Two days earlier I had inquired about room prices at the bar/hotel I had had a beer at. I saw the price list had $15 rooms, but the receptionist told me that they were of a low standard, and the room I would want was $35. I said I didn’t mind if it was of low quality. He never said it directly, but through various hints I realized that the cheap rooms for exclusively for pros and their johns.

I walked to Boulevard Lumumba where the “budget” hotels were supposed to be. I walked up and down the nearly empty road, looking for Hotel Numbu. I started asking around and everyone simply said that it didn’t exist. “It’s closed?” “No, it does not, and never did exist.” I was disappointed to find out that the other two hotels, which had supposedly been around for a long time, were now closed. A year or two ago this might not have been a problem, since the border with Rwanda was open 24 hours. After the increased fighting of 2012/2013 the border started closing at 6 PM.

I temporarily switched my search efforts from hotels to food. I walked into several “snack bars” and “restaurants” only to find nearly sleeping staff who said they didn’t have food. I peered down one alley where I saw a sign for a restaurant. When I got to the door, it looked closed. A man standing nearby asked what I was looking for and I said a place to eat. He came and led me into the restaurant. I asked what there was to eat and he showed me a menu. I asked for the kaunga and beans. He said they didn’t have it. I asked for rice and meat. Nada. I asked what they had. “Nothing.” I would have been shocked, confused and frustrated if this wasn’t a fairly typical kind of experience in these parts. Actually, I was getting frustrated. I wandered into a couple bars that were full of men and a few women drinking beers and Fantas. They also didn’t have any food. Isn’t it lunch time? Yes, but it is also Independence Day. Oh right. My bad.

As I walked back up Boulevard Lumumba, I noticed it was creepily empty of traffic. Then all of a sudden a police truck, loaded armed officers with body armor came careening and swerving up the street. The officers cheered, waving their guns. They were followed by a wild procession of fully loaded police and military vehicles. I realized that this had something to do with Independence Day. This looked like the antithesis of the orderly and disciplined military exercise/march that filled the main thoroughfares of the cities two days before. These men were wild. A few dozen trucks, cars and motorcycles flew past me, receiving little fanfare from pedestrians. Although they had blocked off the street before they started, it was apparently unblocked after they past. This boulevard, however, was on a long peninsula and dead ended. So when they came back the other way, swerving at high speeds, with honking horns and raucous chanting, there were cars coming in the other direction. I didn’t see any accidents, but it was a pretty chaotic scene.

I decided to give up on food and go to the market to try to find the pink Independence Day cloth I had seen people wearing around town or maybe Primus fabric. Primus, of course is the most widely distributed beer in DRC, Burundi and Rwanda. I had seen an awesome Primus cloth a few times, but could never find it in Rwanda. I went to the market, but never found either cloths, so I headed back to the town center in search of food again.

Maybe I’ll just have beer for lunch and buy food from passing snack vendors. I walked to a large boutique/small grocery store that had some tables outside. I sat at a table and asked a server the price of a Primus. He gave me a price that I knew was inflated, and got annoyed. A big man wearing a shirt made from Independence Day cloth said, “That’s how it is here in Congo.” He said something else, but I didn’t catch it. I couldn’t tell if he was apologizing for how his countrymen are, or telling me, “tough luck. Get over it. You’re in Congo now.” I walked off the porch and went across the street to an upstairs bar. All of the balcony seating was taken and I didn’t feel like sitting in a dark, depressing corner in the back. I tried another upstairs bar and it was the same situation. I gave up and went back to the boutique’s porch. As I walked there, I saw the Papa Wemba sign again and realized that I had misread the date and it was the following weekend. Well, unless there are some spectacular Independence Day celebrations, my day was shot.

I sat down at a table and renegotiated my beer price with the server. The man wearing the Independence Day cloth invited me to his table. He told me he works for the local government and showed the badge on his lanyard to prove it. I still wasn’t sure about him based on his earlier comment. He soon apologized on behalf of his people for the hard time the server had given me. I complimented him on his shirt and asked where I could find that cloth. He said it was not available to the public, but was specially made for government workers and the like.

“Here. Take it,” he said, as he unbuttoned the shirt.

“No, I can’t accept that. It’s yours.”

“Of course. Take it. I get one every year.”

I was so excited for this. It was sexy. It was pink and featured images of the Okapi, one of DRCs most unique animals that appears half giraffe and half zebra. What’s more, it had snap buttons, meaning at any given moment I could rip the shirt open to expose my big hairy chest.

We talked politics for a while and he had a lot to say. I was so not used to talking politics with people. In Rwanda, one cannot freely talk about politics, and on top of that, as a  volunteer I am discouraged from engaging in political discussions. Here, however, I was free from both these constraints. I can’t get into our discussion here, since we talked about very sensitive subjects, but I might discuss it more later.

Although the whole morning was something of a disaster, and the only Independence Day parade was the display of recklessness put on by the police and military, I was feeling better about my day. Plus this man paid for my beer. At this point I had spent 22 months in Rwanda and only two people had ever bought me beers. I had been in DRC for 48 hours and two people bought me beers. While I am usually very tight with my money, I quickly learned that I could afford to “pay it forward” on occasion in DRC to reward some of the truly genuinely hospitable people.

South Kivu, DRC, Part 1

Whenever I go to a country that Mama thinks is a little sketchy, she frets a little by bringing up the movie Midnight Express. Whenever I go camping or do something outdoorsy, she brings up the movie Deliverance. I had never seen these films, and only had vague ideas of what they were about. Turkish prison and rural man rape. While Mama has become incredibly relaxed for a parent of a traveler who likes to wade a bit into the hazardous, these vague warnings always seemed a bit alarmist to me.

So a few days before I went to eastern DRC, a place considered fairly dicey for independent travelers, with the intention of camping at least a night or two, I decided to watch both of my mother’s cautionary movies. I enjoyed both films, and was mildly amused by Mama’s concerns based on these movies. I would like to assure her that even though Congolese prison would most certainly be worse than Turkish prison, and my odds of going there for reasons out of my control are higher, it wouldn’t take me five years to escape or bribe my way out. As for Deliverance, well, I can’t really speak to that with authority. While eastern Congo is the rape capital of the world, I don’t know how often it afflicts outdoorsy gringo men.

***

As this was my third time crossing the border from Rwanda to Congo, I was far more relaxed and casual about it. If my first blog about visiting Bukavu was over dramatic, it is because I was incredibly nervous. It didn’t take long, however, to realize that even though DRC remains war torn and corrupt, Bukavu is still a big city where business must carry on as usual despite hardships. I will not get robbed, shot, arrested or extorted just for setting foot on the Congolese side of the border.

I set straight for Place de l’Independence, a decent central point for transit out of the city. I hopped on the back of a moto after the driver offered me what seemed to be a fair price. We drove for a few minutes on a main road, then the driver started to veer off onto a dirt side road. He said the road ahead was blocked and he would take me on a shortcut. I was skeptical. To me, this seemed like the beginning of a story with a tumultuous ending. I saw that all the other vehicles were continuing on the main road, so I insisted that we continue as we were. He sighed and continued with little resistance. I was happy with myself for taking charge and avoiding what could have become a dangerous situation on a back road. We came around a bend and, to my surprise, hit a police barrier. An officer with a whistle was turning all vehicles back they way they came. Just beyond the barrier, I saw columns of hundreds of soldiers. If I’ve learned anything from all the reading I’ve done about traveling in DRC it was that soldiers are the greatest nuisance; the most important thing to avoid. It was a bit shocking at first, but of course this was nothing to worry about. The driver told me that the soldiers were doing a big demonstration for the upcoming Independence Day. I didn’t even realize that it was in two days. This would have a dramatic impact on my plans for this trip.

We pulled off onto a side road where we hit a wall of traffic. I regretted being so skeptical of the driver at first. However, taxi and moto drivers the world over had always been some of the most likely scammers or hassle-givers and I don’t feel like my insistence to stay on the main road had been an overly cautious move. Interestingly enough, my prejudice against both drivers and Rastafarians would be challenged on this trip.

I cheered on the driver as he weaved us through the stationary knot of taxis and SUVs. I called him “The Moto Expert” and he appreciated my encouragement, making bold moves, going up on muddy banks around cars, and squeezing through the most impossible gaps, almost taking out side view mirrors on the way. Pot-bellied affluent men in shiny cars yelled at us and our indiscretion. Sweaty NGO workers looked despondent in the passenger seats of their Land Cruisers.

When we finally emerged from the jam, it was into a nearly empty street. I told him I wanted to go to the buses going north, and he took me to a small taxi park near Place de l’Independence. I was utterly enthused by the performance of this driver and I felt remorseful for having such little trust for him at the beginning. I felt we had both shared a little adventure together, and I could tell he had had a good time. I did something I almost never do. I gave him a tip. Not only had he given me a fair fare to begin with ($1), he never gave the subtle complaints along the way that he wasn’t getting enough, or that this was too difficult. I gave him $1.50 and we exchanged phone numbers. It was a perfect start to a few days riddled with some of the best, most generous characters anywhere, accompanied by a heavy dusting of the most wretched, desperate beggars and hangers on I’ve ever seen.

At this point, I was still completely freestyling my few days in DRC. I wanted to visit an colonial era Chimpanzee research center, Idjwi Island, and possibly even go all the way to Goma. However, on the way to the taxi park, I had seen a banner advertising that Papa Wemba, one of DRC’s most famous musicians, would be performing in Bukavu on Independence Day. This became an immediate priorty, and I decided I couldn’t stray too far from Bukavu.

I found a matatu (minivan bus) heading north and scored the front passenger seat. While I waited, I bought the supplies I thought I might need: a SIM card, some bread, a sausage and a few boiled eggs. I knew the next few days would include some places off the beaten path where I might not find much food.

Although the road out of Bukavu was chaotic compared to Rwanda, it was in good condition for a while. It hugged Lake Kivu longer than any road did in Rwanda. While the city of Bukavu is reminiscent of nothing in Rwanda, the tri-maran fishing boats on the shore were identical. Outside of town we passed one of the UN (MONUSCO) bases. Dozens, if not hundreds, of shipping containers sat stacked between SUVs, tanks and even a few boats. I later realized that this was the source of a string of lights I had always noticed at night from Kamembe that looked strangely uniform and far from the city.

After an hour, the paved highway gave way to a pot-holed dirt road. We approached a police checkpoint where a few officers controlled a bamboo gate. The one that spoke to the driver looked shocked by my presence. There are no shortage of foreigners in this region. NGO workers, Chinese construction workers, mineral traders and UN soldiers from all over the world are all over eastern Congo. None of these people, however, will be seen in public transportation on rural roads. The officer gave me a genuine look of concern and said, “It’s a little dangerous out here.” I said, “Yes, I know,” because I didn’t know how else to respond. I mean, it is a little dangerous out there, but the security situation in these parts had been decent lately, it was daylight and plenty of Congolese seemed willing to take the trip, so I deemed it safe enough.

I stopped the driver when I saw an ancient sign indicating the road to Lwiro and the old Chimpanzee sanctuary and research center. I hopped out and greeted the group of young men resting in the shade at the junction.

As I started hiking up the road, I heard the unfamiliar noises of gas-powered machines. I eventually came upon some loggers with long saws, machetes and a couple of chainsaws. Although machetes are common in Rwanda, saws are rare and chainsaws unheard of. There just aren’t any trees left to log.

Although the language of this area was Mashi, I used Kiswahili greetings, since most people know it, and I don’t know any Mashi. The children boldly spoke to me in Kiswahili, usually to ask me for money or gifts, or to ask where I was going.

The road I walked on was less peopled than most in Rwanda, but I was almost never alone. After 45 minutes, I got closer to the research center. I saw a home off the road that, although new looking, could not have been built by Congolese. It had large, floor-to-ceiling windows. Well, perhaps it could have been built for Congolese people, but this house could never have existed in Rwanda. Floor-to-ceiling windows would simply be displaying too much of the oh-so-private indoor home life. Windows are for ventilation, not natural light.

When I got to the old stone arch and iron gates of the research center, I saw a sign that cleared up my questions about access and cost. A three-hour tour cost $25 for foreigners, $5 for MONuSCO soldiers, and $1 for Congolese. I had seen a truckload of Uruguayan soldiers leaving the center when I arrived. My chances of seeing the Chimpanzee sanctuary were dashed by the steep price, but all was not lost. I was more interested in the history of the place, rather than the nature and conservation.

I wandered along a dirt path between long, brick buildings that were definitely from the colonial era. I didn’t know what these buildings were, but it was fun to imagine, and try to take myself back in time and imagine what it was like here 60 years earlier. I arrived at what was once a little Belgian neighborhood. It was a settlement of about ten identical brick houses. I wandered in, wondering how people would react to me. It looked empty from afar, but these houses were most certainly occupied. People peeked out the windows and the occasional child ran by. A few people were cooking over charcoal fires outside the houses or lounging and styling each other’s hair. I wish I could see a comparison between what the Belgians looked like inside these homes compared to the Congolese. I’m sure it would be a stark contrast. I also wondered who these people were and why they got to live in these solid brick homes. Everyone else in the area lived in homes made of mud and sticks. These people were not privileged either. Their lifestyle looked the same as everyone else, except that they wouldn’t have to rebuild their house every few years.

A family sitting outside their home in the former Belgian quarter. The mother cuts her son's hair. What was once a Belgian neighborhood. I wish I knew what this building once was, but I can only guess. Today it is abandoned.

When I left, I considered taking a moto back to the main road to save time. I was still trying to decide what to do with my time in DRC. My options were take buses north to Goma, or perhaps a smaller town along the way, or go back to Bukavu and take a boat to Idjwi Island. I decided to go with the latter. I didn’t know the boat schedules, but knew that I should move quickly to ensure arriving on Idjwi at a decent hour. I encountered a man standing next to a moto and asked how much to take me to the main road. He said he wasn’t a moto driver. We chatted for a couple minutes, and when I was about to walk away, he asked what I would give him. I didn’t understand.

He said, “How much will you give me for this discussion.”

“The discussion?” I responded, confused.

“Yes, you must pay me for our discourse.”

I laughed. “How much?”

“$10.”

“You’re crazy. Talking does not cost money.”

“Ok, I will accept $5.”

I walked away, shocked. That’s how it was in DRC, though. Like in Rwanda, people constantly asked for things, but here it was on a different level. At the same, though, the giving and begging seemed to go in both directions. More often than in Rwanda did people want to give genuine hospitality and have real conversations as friends.

A few minutes later the man next to the moto pulled up next to me on the moto. He was no a moto driver. I can’t explain why he wasn’t a moto driver before, but he was now. Perhaps he figured he could make money off me without using any effort or gas. He offered a ride to the road for an inflated price, and I refused.

Just before I arrived at the road, a big truck with a cargo of small boulders arrived from behind me and I waved it down. They said they would take me to the next town for $.50. I never paid for rides in Rwanda, but this wasn’t a bad deal and would certainly save time, so I hopped in. 

In the next town I quickly found a van that was going to Bukavu. Unfortunately it wasn’t very full so we drove up and down the road of the town looking for passengers. The town was chaotic, with pedestrians and vendors clogging the narrow road, battling rushing cars for space. Suddenly our van jolted as the screeching scrape of metal on metal rang in my ears. We had sideswiped a car going in the other direction. For some reason my immediate reaction was to yell at the driver, “just go! Keep going!” I held my tongue at the last moment. I think I was getting caught up in the spirit of the crazy lawlessness of the DRC, without realizing that this man probably plies this route several times a day and maybe even lives in this town. It would be a perfect situation for me to pull a reckless escape, but not him.

A shouting match ensued between the driver and some people that appeared out of his window. A few moments later, we drove off slowly. Then we were stopped by a small mob. A portly man started screaming into the driver’s window. The driver remained calm and tried to edge forward. The portly man took action. He grabbed the side view mirror and tried to rip it off. It didn’t budge and the man started to look foolish. He slid his fingers in the gap between the mirror and the part that holds the mirror. He tried to rip the mirror from within, but it still didn’t budge. He gave up and came to my window (I was in the front passenger seat) and continued to scream. The driver turned the car off, and the other two passengers go out. I followed. A random guy tried to direct me to a different van, and as he pulled me into the street he came within about an inch of getting hit by a car moving at no less than 45 mph. Before we found a new van, the first one pulled up and called me in. We picked up a few passengers and headed to Bukavu. I wondered if my instinct to flee the scene of the accident might have been the best move. 

I arrived at Bukavu’s port to investigate my options for getting to Idjwi. Unlike Rwanda, where there is only one passenger boat that plies Lake Kivu, there are several options in Bukavu. I  stopped at a ticket office in a shipping container and explained to the man that I wanted to go to Idjwi. He worked for the fancy “canot rapide” boat company that travels between Bukavu and Goma via giant vessels that look like cruise ships and carry vehicles. It turns the usual 13-hour journey into a 3-hour journey. In style. These boats, however, do not stop on the island. The employee, for whatever reason, took up my cause. He told someone to watch the office for him and we started boat hunting. I bought a couple of sugary juice drinks in plastic bags from a child and tried to offer one to this man. He refused. We asked around at other boats, and the only one going to the island that day would leave at 5:30 PM and arrive at 11:00 PM. This wasn’t ideal, but I had a couple hours to weigh my options. I thanked the man profusely, but he thought nothing of it. I quickly warmed to the fact that DRC the people could range from the most dastardly opportunistic beggars to the casually selfless.

I climbed up through the market, dirt paths and garbage creeks to a high rise building and found a restaurant. It was upscale, but all I wanted was a beer to think things over. The restaurant was attached to a cheap (by local standards) hotel and had a balcony overlooking the filthy port. Upscale in these parts could only go so far as I found the bathroom didn’t even have running water, and it couldn’t escape the smell of the port.

I would arrive at this island at a terrible hour if I took the boat, but I couldn’t think of a better option. Almost certainly I wouldn’t be able to get a hotel room, but at the same time, no hotel room on a rural island might be better than wasting an afternoon and paying through the nose for a room in Bukavu. Otherwise, what? Go back to Rwanda? Hell. No.

So I bought my ticket for the cheapest section of the boat, put down something to mark my seat and went out to buy some water and snacks.

The boat was pleasant. It wasn’t huge, but it was bigger than the passenger boat in Rwanda. A fellow PCV had put me in touch with an expat in Bukavu and we had exchanged some emails about the region. She had warned me about the boats, and said to only take the “canot rapide”, since the other boats sink sometimes. This one wasn’t too overloaded though and I knew there was nothing to worry about. I wondered, though, what does it look like when one of these things sinks? Does it spring a leak? Does it take a turn too hard and tip over? Does it just slowly descend under the weight?

Thirty minutes into the ride I noticed people standing up in their seats to look at something ahead. I stood up and saw water pouring onto the floor from a door at the front of the cabin. It took a moment to realize it was coming from the bathroom, and that there was a plumbing problem, and not a boat-sinking problem. A disgusting problem, but not a lethal problem.

A young man named Janvier struck up a conversation with me and I eventually asked him to sit down. He told me he runs an organization to help victims of sexual violence and their children in Goma. He was coming from Uvira, a town a few hours south of Bukavu, where he was at a conference for human rights. I was surprised to hear that, as the founder of an NGO, he was taking all of the cheapest modes of transportation. Even local aid workers in Africa hold themselves to a higher standard of living than the average person. His humble nature was inspiring and refreshing. He told me all about the troubles of Eastern Congo (rape capital of the world) and the kind of work his organization did. As this was all in French, my head started spinning after 45 minutes of his non-stop talking. I really liked the guy, but I had to excuse myself after a while to get some air outside.

As I leaned against the railing a man approached me and started talking about Congolese troubles. His woes were more about corruption and business. He started to speak more figuratively, talking about the challenges of doing business with family. Money and blood don’t mix seemed to be a problem familiar in DRC too. After a ten-minute spiel, I started to catch on that he was not making idle chit-chat. He was looking for a partner. He said he had access to gold, but he only needed the right partner to do profitable business. I was that partner. It wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last that someone propositioned me for involvement in the mineral trade. While I never considered it seriously, I can tell you that it is a lot easier to chastise those involved with the bloody mineral trade, and swear you would never involve yourself in it, if you never actually come across the opportunity for quick money. I mean, I still loathe the greed that causes immeasurable suffering in Africa, but a lot can change with a little bit of clever logic to tell you that SOMEBODY is going to make money off this, so why not you? Not getting involved isn’t going to create peace, so maybe I’ll just get a little bit rich. Yeah, I can’t say these thoughts haven’t entered my head on occasion since then.

Back in the boat Janvier talked my ear off for a couple more hours. I didn’t catch a lot of what he said, but I was really interested in his work, and promised I would come to Goma at least for a visit some day, and perhaps try to do some photo work about his organization.

We arrived at the port on central Idjwi at about 11:30 PM. I didn’t expect much, but it looked surprisingly desolate. A small crowd stood on the dock to board the boat or welcome the few disembarking passengers. I pushed my way through and found darkness punctuated by a few battery or kerosene powered lamps. I didn’t have a specific game plan, but I felt pretty confident that things would be ok.

A tall man standing on the side of the path greeted me. I asked him if he knew of a place to sleep nearby. He paused. I told him I had a tent and only needed a small place to put it that would be reasonably safe. His first idea was to take me to the crusty port bar where I saw vagues silhouettes of old man, beard and bottles. I was open to this, though I anticipated a possibly annoying night. He discussed with the man in charge. He said it was ok, but my new guide said it might not be safe. He would take me to his office. I’m not clear what the office was, but it wasn’t far. I think it was a small, local government post. The security guard was absent and we therefore could not enter.

We moved on to the hospital. I’m not sure, but I think it was the only hospital for the entire island, the second biggest inland island in Africa. He knocked on a door and after a few minutes a bleary-eyed doctor appeared. They discussed in their language, Kiyavu, and the doctor casually agreed and found a mattress. He seemed completely nonchalant about a foreigner arriving in the middle of the night looking for a place to stay. I said I could sleep in my tent on the grass area out front. In fact I would have preferred this since I knew I wouldn’t be a bother that way. They said it would not be safe. I think they overestimated the treachery of their neighbors, but I went along with them. Within 15 minutes I was in my mattress on the floor with clean sheets and the doctor went back into his room. In reality, I could not have hoped for a better outcome for this night. I was mostly happy because I felt that I was back in my rough, vagabondy style of travel that I had been entirely absent from in Rwanda. I find so much beauty in this kind of seat-of-your-pants, frugal, sleep-where-you-can kind of travel. It feels right. I went to sleep feeling that my first day in DRC was a complete success.