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.

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.