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.