Shenanigans is probably not the right word but is so much fun to say

This past weekend, aided by at least two too many glasses of wine, I worked up the courage to ask some of the Egyptian peacekeepers about the coup (I have to admit a certain fondness for the Egyptian contingent. They are by and large a lovely group of officers – they speak amazing English, are much more respectful than either their Nepalese or Bangladeshi counterparts, and they love to dance). The shenanigans, I think I called them (it was the wine. And possibly the tequila. Let this be a lesson to you: never drink Congolese tequila with UN peacekeepers). The cartography officer I was speaking with has possibly spent more time out of Egypt at this point than in it, so one might be tempted to take his analysis with a grain of salt. Prior to Congo, he served in Chad, East Timor, Syria, and Sudan – twice. He laughed and shook his head at me. No, no, I was assured. This was a good thing! Most people in Egypt, they hate the Muslim Brotherhood. This was an expression of popular will, not a coup. A democra-coup, if you will. Instead of thinking he’d been away from Egypt for too long, I found myself wondering if the military sent out a memo.

Indeed, my friend was apparently toeing the authorized line that the action – which involved a suspension of the constitution, arrest and detention in military custody of a democratically elected president and his party members, and a media blackout – was not, in fact, a coup d’état. It might look like a duck and quack like a duck, but this was a golden goose borne upon the voices of the masses. Slate has a great run-down of the plethora of official rational for the overthrow. Aside from the ‘mandate’ of the people malarkey (apparently street protests are the standard recall mechanism in Egypt?), the coup’s engineers also claim that they were simply attempting to step in to avoid greater violence. So, really, it was a civil war-preempting coup! They should be up for a Nobel alongside Dennis Rodman. Even the reliably liberal (mostly) Mohamed ElBaradei is sticking to the talking points.

Certainly, Egyptians had a right to be angry with the late Morsi government, as compiled by the Morsi Meter - a candy-coloured catalogue of the regime’s failures during its first 100 days. The fledging president was failing on all conceivable fronts. Nearly half of Egyptians live in poverty and, with the country drowning in debt, Morsi failed to secure an IMF rescue loan. Meanwhile, the last two years have seen a dramatic increase in murders, theft, and sexual harassment even as secular and progressive Egyptians have been protesting since December that Morsi was steadily moving toward the creation of an Islamist state. Still and all, the man had taken power during a tremendously tumultuous time and had only been in office for 100 days.

And if was too early to gage how Morsi would have done, it is certainly too early to determine is a coup was the right way to go. And no matter how often the military – even my charming dance partner – says it was necessary, they’re lying like rugs. This latest shift just allows for an open acknowledgement of where power in Egypt has always rested. The military has arguably been the most powerful institution in the country since it first took power in 1952 (by coup, incidentally). The military developed a tumultuous relationship with the political leadership in intervening 60 years. Now, in no small part thanks to US military aid, it is the largest army in Africa and one of the largest in the world, and controls between 10 and 30 per cent of the national economy.

The current claims that the regime change was initiated in the interests of safeguarding the population ring a bit hollow in the face of the grisly shooting on Monday, which left some 51 dead and more than 300 wounded. Supporters of the ousted president claim that the army opened fire during morning prayers, while the military has countered that they were simply returning fire and defending the compound where Morsi is being held. Given that it was a Republican Guard compound, one would assume that they enjoyed firepower superiority over the attackers and cannot help but wonder if they don’t have any standing rules of engagement for dealing with their own citizens. Perhaps those were suspended along with the constitution. At any rate, the Muslim Brotherhood is apparently now urging a full-scale uprising in response to the coup as clashes between those pro- and anti- Morsi erupt across the country. Clearly, as a means of preventing more fighting, the coup was perhaps not the most well though-out plan.

Talk of regime change is also buzzing on lips here in Congo, if for wildly different reasons. The next round of presidential elections not even scheduled until 2016, and already President Laurent Kabila is looking to change the Constitution to allow him to run and, given the ballot box-stuffing and voter intimidation shenanigans (this term clearly encompasses a lot for me) that happened two years ago, win again. Altering the Constitution in the President’s favour wouldn’t be without precedent. In advance of the 2011 elections, Kabila changed electoral mechanism for the presidency to a single-round first-past-the-post model, replacing the two tiered, more French approach that they had used previously.

To give credit where it’s due, this model is certainly cheaper. In 2006, the elections cost roughly 500 million USD, over 90 per cent of which was kicked in from the international community. In 2011, the election was set to cost 700 million USD, of which the IC only agreed to donate less than half. The switch to the single round election was estimated to save the country approximately 350 million USD.

In practice, though, this sets up a wildly undemocratic election. Essentially the candidate with the most votes in the first round gets elected even if he only receives a very small majority vote. Imagine the American system, but without the primaries and literally dozens of parties; it becomes even more of a referendum on the incumbent that it already is and completely dispenses with the ability of the opposition to form an effective, issue-based coalition. Depending on the vote split among other candidates, Kabila could conceivably pull only the 15 per cent of the population from his home province of Katanga and still win. And it worked. Even without the ‘voting irregularities’, as election observers are wont to call ballot box stuffing and/or burning, Joseph Kabila won with less than half of the popular vote against an intensely divided field.

Now that method of elections tailored to his advantage, the President has seemingly turned his attention to term limits. As the constitution is written, this term is his last. But in Congo, that seems to be no matter. To alter constitution again requires only 60 per cent of the votes in parliament, and what Kabila’s party can’t rally, they can buy. Given the thing was only written in 2002, the Congolese constitution feels a bit like the Morsi regime – it might well be deeply flawed, but it also hasn’t had nearly enough time in place to be effective.

Not that any of this talk of Constitution reform is likely to matter all that much out here in the east (to give you some idea of the scope of this country, the distance from me to Kinshasa is roughly that of Barcelona to Bratislava. Or just shy of DC to Denver, for you in the States), except for the nearly inevitable riots that will accompany the elections. The potential for violence around the election is so much a foregone conclusion that the Congolese make acerbic jokes about it. In the run-up to the elections, they assure me, Kabila’s people will tell us that he alone can save us from the M23 (or ADF-Nalu or LRA or FRPR or Mai Mai, take your pick). There would be an insurgent at every door to steal our boys and rape our daughters, but for Kabila. In this way, he is much like your President Bush. But after he wins again, and the rebels to attack, he will say the UN should help us. And in six months, when the army has no food and so they attack, he will still say it is the fault of the UN. He does not save us from the bandits – he creates them to give to the UN.

To be an American in Africa, working for the Swiss, on the Fourth of July

So far, this week has seen torrential rain storms, three earthquakes in two days, and a prison break in Beni.  In other words, it has been an eventual start to my July!  And all I really want to do is focus on a rather large proposal that’s due – I need to prove that I can earn my keep, especially since our technical advisor at one point called my spin on her resiliency model stupid in front of the head of country programs.  Talk about aftershocks…

Not that any of this bananas weather bothers me, particularly.  The earthquakes haven’t reached a level where they’re scary – just inconvenient (one knocked me out of pincha mayurasana, and another forced me outside during a rainstorm in naught but my pajamas.  I didn’t even manage to find pants, but had to use my towel).  They do combine in darkly humorous ways with my Lariam dreams, though.  In them, an earthquake cracks the roof such that all the rats living above us cascade down onto my mosquito net with the same pitter-patter as the rain, their squeaks of protest sounding suspiciously like the crickets that live outside my window.

The only real downside of all the storms (because there are many upsides – it’s cooler and easier to sleep, and the dust is much more manageable) is that we run the generator much less, lest it get blown out by the lightening.  Au revoir, internet!  And with it, communication with family and friends, and work email, and updates on the whereabouts of those escaped prisoners…

Luckily, the thunderstorms in no way impact my ability to work on the proposal in which my organization is taking lead, mostly, I think, for the simple reason that the potential donor is British and I’m the only native English speaker on the proposal writing team.  The consortium includes two Italian NGOs, one of which has a German Chef du Mission, and all of which have Congolese staff on hand.  Our meetings have been mostly in French and English (exclusively for my benefit and much to my shame) with Italian subtitles and the occasional German outburst, although he also curses quite fluently in Italian.  It’s the first thing you learn working at an Italian NGO – the dirty words, he confided in me.  And then looked quite sad as he determined that the Swiss would likely not be offering the same education to me.  He has thus promised to teach me how to swear in German.

As this is the day when one should be proud to be an American (and this one is, and very much missing her tradition of a Potomac picnic with good view of the fireworks), it seems as good a time as in to reflect on the melting pot that is the Bunia community.  I hate to give into stereotyping, but it’s amazing to me how people here seem to become caricatures of their nationality, almost as though to remind themselves of home.  The MSF contingent, which is entirely French, hardly interacts with anyone at parties except to swan in en masse and drink all the booze and smoke astonishing quantities of cigarettes inside the houses.  The men all always wear scarves, no matter the temperature, and the women are mind-bogglingly fashion-forward, considering the location.  They have nothing on the Italians, though, who wear leather jackets and high heeled boots and no bras and have asymmetrical haircuts and are constantly drinking espresso (they brew it at home and then bring it to the bar themselves).  The South Africans curse a blue streak, but in a jovial way, and play rugby and drink so much beer that I’m surprised their livers haven’t revolted.  The Brits are like the South Africas, but in a more longingly restrained way that hints they wish they could be more so.  The Indians and Americans are the only ones with families here.  The Americans are, by and large, missionaries and are quiet, polite, good at sports, and don’t stay out late.  The Indians run most of the restaurants in Bunia and throw the best parties.

And so on this Fourth of July, to all the Americans, missionary or otherwise, I hope that you are able to celebrate like an Indian with all the charm of an Italian and good will of a South African.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go practice my French and wonder if earthquakes and lightening are close enough to fireworks to count. 

Going to the Farmer's Market - Bunia is just like NoVA

Objectively, I enjoy much more freedom in Bunia than in Kabul. I have free reign of a reasonably well-stocked kitchen. I can drive, at least in theory (of our fleet of cars, only one is in working order right now). I can walk through (parts) of town. We can eat at local restaurants and go to night clubs. We violate curfew with impunity (usually, this is the fault of our country director. She loves to dance and will stay out at the parties and clubs until the wee hours of the morning, and who among us is going to tell our boss that it’s time to go?).

There are some restrictions, of course. The UN has blacklisted several areas of town were banditry is rife (one of which surrounds the main MONUSCO camp!). I have been strongly discouraged from visiting either of the two major markets (the smaller is just down the street from our house and the larger is about a 30 minute walk) without a car and told in no uncertain terms to never go alone. The reason is that both boast enormous taxi stands, and it is these inimical young drivers who incite the majority of the riots in Bunia. It’s not that wide-spread violence is a common occurrence here; rather, when things do go bad, they do so quickly and without much in the way of warning. I might be able to make it back to the compound from the small market, which is literally a stone’s throw away (they know this from the last riot). At the large market, however, I would find myself quite stranded and have to take shelter at the nearest NGO until someone was able to come retrieve me. During those same riots, one of our expats took shelter in a cell phone store until a driver was able to come collect him. It was the only place he could get reception to call for help, but the owner was apparently terrified that that mob would burn it down looking for the muzungu.

Even so, I have broken the walking rule twice already (never the buddy rule, though. I’m not that dumb). It’s just that I love the walk so very much, especially when on any given day, I never leave the compound (my office is within eyesight of my bedroom. This fact makes my early afternoon nap cravings very intense indeed). It’s not so much the lack of freedom that makes life difficult in Bunia, but the oppressing monotony. When every day is some iteration on the theme of eat, pray, work, time seems to stretch out before you like a desert.

Thus, I and two colleagues found ourselves violating security procedure walk to the gran marchet over the weekend (the waterfalls south of town would be more fun, but are also much more logistically challenging). The range of products on offer is truly staggering. There are fruits I can’t name next to nail polish next to hardware, all being haggled over in French and Swahili and Lingala, with US dollars and Congolese francs freely changing hands. You can purchase a converter for your laptop, a new wheel for your motorbike, fish for dinner, and an iron for your clothes, all why you wait for the tailor to finish the dress you designed using the fabric you bought at the boutique. The bright fabric patterns even seem to be inspired by the smörgåsbord of the market. Some are agricultural – corn stalks and improbably long-necked roosters – while others are technicolor appliances – lanterns and corkscrews and what I could swear were washers. There are patterns both patriotic (the first lady of Congo and President of Uganda) and religious (minarets and exhortations to the Virgin for intercessions). Some of the more beautiful veered into the Escher-inspired abstract, with spiral staircases and Gordian knots, while others downright creepy – disembodied eyes and gypsy hands. I think my favourite were the Jetson house and tubes of magical toothpaste that jettisoned a colourful spray of confetti.

Ultimately, we ended up buying some fabric to recover the cushions on the couch and a few items to restock the pantry (potatoes, onions, huge pineapples for breakfast, and cooking oil in a Fanta bottle). We also purchased bananas from a tray balanced on the head of one of the girls wandering aimlessly and effortlessly through the press of people (she was a girl – 15, tops) who also had a baby strapped to her back. I felt astonishingly unaccomplished. The produce area of the market smells like fruit – plantains, mangoes, lemons, pineapple, passion fruit, something squat and green and lumpy that I am assured tastes like a tangerine – and fish and urine. The last made sense when I saw a little boy pee next to a vendor’s stall.

Still, I must say it was cleaner than the markets in Afghanistan, where the flies swarmed so thick on the cuts of meat it sometime seemed as though the beef was moving. At the halal butcher, I was pleasantly surprised to see one of the sons had been given a cow’s tail and tasked with swatting the bugs away. Another brought in freshly butchered sides from their farm in the hills in the back of a pick-up lined with tarps. A third was roasting hooves. You could purchase joints all the way up to the knee, though I have no idea how one actually goes about eating them. The seemingly inexhaustible supply of brothers (there must have been a cousin mixed in there) ended with another two doing the actual butchering. They wore white silk bathrobes in place of butcher’s coats.

When we stopped by the poultry section for eggs, we probably could have pointed to one of the large wicker cages and specified from which bird we wanted them. And then of course taken the same bird home for dinner, where we would have had to butcher it ourselves. Aside from a squawk of protestation when hauled from their pens, I was amazed at how serene the birds seemed at they were lugged about the market by the wings or feet.

On our way back, loaded down with our purchases and dreaming of a late lunch, we were rather aggressively propositioned by some of those mototaxis I mentioned. Five of them actually boxed us in on the road, refusing to let us pass, nudging our legs with the front wheels and calling us chéri. While searching out a cab in DC I know that I almost always go with the driver I believe most likely to assault me, but here I was strangely disinclined. We ultimately climbed down into the ditch alongside the road to circumvent the taxis, which the drivers found enormously entertaining. Their laughter and dust lingered in the air after they took off the menace other potential fares.

There are a few items that we were not able to find at the market (flour and cocoa powder, for instance). So on our return trip, we dipped into one of the dry goods stores that line the main road, scattered between the walled NGO offices. They all carry more or less the same fascinating array of goods: margarine, instant coffee, sugar, cigarettes, Red Bull, vodka, American Garden’s Yankee-style mayonnaise, a chicken-based Spam knock-off called Chayo, and some unholy drink bearing the likeness of Sly Stallone called Rambo. He should demand royalties.

When we finally returned to the house with our purchases, we gratefully collapsed onto the threadbare couch. Later this week, the mamans who look after us will re-upholster the cushions with the cheerful pattern we bought, and we’ll probably head back to the market to pick up some goods for a Fourth of July barbecue. Anything to get out of the compound.

For those who get tattoos and quote Leviticus against LGBT rights, I pray

Our internet has been intermittent over the last few days, leaving me mostly ignorant of the news from the States.  However, last night we enjoyed a connection for just long enough for my Facebook feed to explod with the news that DOMA had been overturned!  That, combined with an epic thunderstorm, left me the happiest I’ve been in weeks.  I feel the need to note that the last time I was overseas, DADT was repealed.  Perhaps I should just stay until there is equality for all!

Seriously, though, if you haven’t read Justice Kennedy’s majority decision, you should take the time.  It is a ringing statement on how the right to marry confers dignity and personhood and the federal government’s denial of that right constitutes a deprivation of an essential liberty.  Once you make it through the legal jargon (unless that’s your jam, of course) you might cry.  Some (Justice Scalia comes to mind) might quibble over whether or not Kennedy proved his point.  He cites the Fifth Amendment, which entitles us to due process, rather than the more likely-seeming Fourteenth, which addresses equal protection under the law.  Moreover, as Emily Bazelon pointed out at Slate, “Kennedy also didn’t make clear whether he was striking down DOMA because it failed the rational basis test—Congress had no good reason for it—or because it failed to pass the higher bar of heightened scrutiny.”  She continued, however, “You know what? Good. I think what really matters is that Kennedy’s opinion passes the common-sense test. The government can’t single out a group of people for second-class treatment because it just finds their behavior yucky or unfamiliar, when what they’re doing turns out to be perfectly harmless (and even a social good). “

The victory of common sense and equality and human rights and progress and, yes, cliché though it may be, love, are all reasons to celebrate today.  But they are not reasons to rest.  This was just one step in the long and winding road to equality for the LGBT community and, even as we’re toasting the Supreme Court, we need to continue marching on.  Roughly one-third of the world’s countries continue to criminalize consensual same-sex conduct.  Seven have named it a capital crime. 

Arguably, LGBT individuals are persecuted nowhere more viciously than in Africa.  Where much of the rest of the world has seen advancements in queer rights, ranging from full recognition of marriage and adoption rights to smaller, though still significant advances in visibility and activism, Africa seems to have been backsliding.  According to a report released by Amnesty International, the incidence of human rights violations based on orientation, gender identity, and same-sex relationships are on the rise across the continent, including ‘corrective’ rapes and murders of LGBTI individuals in South Africa.  In The Gamiba, it has been reported that there have been mass arrests of those who are or are suspected of being LGBT, while in Malawi the maximum prison sentence for same-sex sexual conduct is 14 years for men and five for women.  In February of this year, the Nigerian House of Representatives passed a bill that would not only impose a 14 year prison term as punishment for same-sex marriage (I have no idea why 14 is the magic number), but also criminalize aiding and abetting such marriages or even belonging to a queer-rights advocacy group.  Cameroon is said to prosecute more homosexuality cases than any other country in Africa, based on such solid evidence as effeminate clothing and text messages.  Possibly most infamous piece of anti-LGBT legislation was drafted just across the border from where I sit, in Uganda.  Though it has not yet passed since it was first introduced in 2012, the bill calls for the death penalty for ‘aggravated homosexuality’: namely, having more than three homosexual encounters or having one while HIV-positive. The bill would also punish Ugandans who fail to turn in those suspected of being LGBT to the authorities. 

Given the state-sponsored homophobia (I don’t care what the AP says, ‘anti-gay’ just doesn’t cut it) of its neighbor, the DRC seems downright progressive.  Sexual activity with the same sex is legal and the age of consent is equal regardless of orientation (forget for a moment, if you can, that the age in question is 15 for girls).  Indeed, in what may be one of the few ways Belgium did not complete eff up this country, homosexual acts have never actually been criminalized here (they were made legal in Belgium in the late 18^th century).    

Unfortunately, legal does not mean either equal or even accepted.  The Congolese constitution explicitly only recognizes the right to wed a person of the opposite sex, and same-sex PDA can be prosecuted under public decency laws.  Even in absence of legally enshrined discrimination, the LGBT community remains vulnerable to harassment, humiliation, extortion, hate crimes, and honour killings.  Indeed, in their comprehensive annual report, the International Lesbian Gay Bisexual Trans and Intersex Association observes that “the absence of criminalisation does not demonstrate the absence of risk of persecution and/or sufficiency of state protection. The question of legality of gay sex is only one element, and cannot alone be taken as an answer to the question of risk of persecution based on sexuality.  Mocking, shame, ostracism, scorn, violence and prayers for salvation are reported means of keeping homosexuals in the closet or making them ‘normal’.”

I had the misfortune to experience the latter first-hand.  A few short weeks ago, while ‘shopping’ for a parish in Bunia, I was treated to a lecture on threats to the Christian family.  They were, in descending order of severity: same-sex marriage (and the LGBT community generally, I gathered), women’s rights (as they would replace the man as the head of the family), polygamy, and the rights of the child (because that clearly leads to premarital sex).  When the pastor kicked off his message by praising the Dominique Venner suicide at Notre Dame, I knew we were in trouble (never mind the cognitive dissonance inherent in protesting the moral decay of society by committing a mortal sin). 

There was one interesting moment when he began to talk about the great plague. I thought that hearing the HIV/AIDS epidemic might be interesting enough to justify sitting through the rest of it, especially given the impact of homophobia on the success of treatment campaigns.  Alas - he was in fact referring to the imminent collapse of Congolese society, which he flamboyantly dubbed the ‘American Disease’. 

In fairness to the church, I feel compelled to acknowledge that this was a guest pastor.  The main one urges the congregation to get tested for HIV on a regular basis and tells them where the nearest clinic is, according to the colleague who invited me.  Though it was same this enlightened soul that added television and the internet to the list of threats facing the Christian family following the conclusion of the main speaker.

I suppose there was some silver lining.  My colleague and I did have an interesting discussion following the sermon.  I was…a bit hot under the collar, possibly due to being an incurable carrier of the American Disease, but even she (the earnest daughter of Ivoirian missionaries) seemed perturbed.  She said she found his message to be ‘strong’, and worried about those in the congregation who might be struggling with their sexual identity.  According to her research, not all people choose to be gay, and that sort of talk might not be very helpful.

In response, I did the only thing I could think of: I prayed.

For those who get tattoos and quote Leviticus against LGBT rights, I pray. 

Please forgive all of my parentheticals!  And thanks to Unvirtuous Abbey for the post title.

Road Trip (s)

I won’t bore you with too many details about what I’ve been up to, but I did have the opportunity to take my first trips out of Bunia.  For the first, several colleagues and I took an overnight trip to Beni, a large town just over the border in North Kivu.  The purpose of the trip was, more or less, networking.  We’re starting up a new project just on the Orientale side of the border and wanted to glad-hand some folks and see if there isn’t a possibility to expand south.  At the same time, we support a number of clinics along the route we took, so I was able to some of our ongoing work first-hand.

The road to Beni – at least the first 150km or so – was, shall we say, a touch uneven.  At first, I approached it as an off-roading adventure.  Every bump made me smile.  After all, people drive all over Colorado to find roads like this (and if you are so inclined, please don’t start any fires)!  It was beautiful and interesting.  I even leaned back and pretended that I was in a, admittedly somewhat violent, massage chair at a pedicure salon. 

After the first two hours bounced by, though, it was as if the chair had vengefully begun shaking me to pieces, under the mistaken impression that I had reupholstered its one true love.  It might not have been quite so bad were the speed more consistent, but our driver seemed to make it a matter of pride to reach 80km/hr as often as possible, even if only for ten feet before breaking for the next chasm.  I supposed I shouldn’t complain so much, as he apparently only does that in areas with lots of militia activity, but it does add an extra layer of unpleasantness.  I did take some schadenfreude-based joy in that one of my Congolese colleagues seemed to be having an even harder time than I.  If such a thing was possible, I would have said that he turned green. 

It was, somewhat improbably, a toll road.  Each barrier cost us between five and seven USD.  This, in a country where 70 per cent of population lives below the global poverty line, or 1.25 USD/day.  Of course, the motos didn’t bother to pay and just flew past.  I cannot fathom how much worse this road would be without the tolls.  It is possible that the money never actually translates into road work, but I’ll try and stay optimistic.  One of my colleagues joked that when he is asked if one drives on the right or left in Congo, he answers that they drive wherever there is a road.

During a stop at one of the clinics, the health workers couldn’t help but take pity on us at the sight of our ashen faces and gave us what looked like green lifesavers.  And so they were; the candies fought the motion sickness and made the rest of the journey bearable.  This isn’t to say that all of us needed it.  The driver seemed fine, of course, and another colleague actually fell asleep, amazing as that sounds.  There I was, wishing I had had the foresight to wear a bra, and he was taking a nap.  Madness. 

The only tangible change as we crossed the border from stabilizing Province Orientale to conflict-ravaged North Kivu was that the road was paved.  We all cheered.

At the clinic that saved our stomachs, I think at least two-thirds of the women I saw were pregnant or had infants.  Most looked barely old enough to have even had a period. One was beaming – she had given birth just two days before, and her husband would be arriving soon to collect her and their child.  She was excited to get home and see her new wardrobe.  Tradition in Congo dictates that new fathers celebrate their wives with gifts of cloathes whenever they give birth.  A lovely practice, I suppose, but think I’ll stick to on-line shopping all the same.

There were also several seemingly unattended children running amok, one of whom couldn’t have been more than a year old.  Another, who I had thought was a girl based on the dress he was wearing, lifted his skirts and answered nature’s call.  On the front steps of a hospital.  I was also able to count up to five – no, six – goats roaming the property.

Even so, the exam room in which we spoke to the director was tidy and well-lit.  Sure, it might not pass muster in the US (when was the last time the sheet covering the exam table was washed?  Bet money not in the last week), but overall it was clean.  There was a washbasin and an assortment of medications and stethoscopes.  The wall was decorated with an UNICEF poster and fertility calendar.  It had a soothing blue and white colour scheme with cheery curtains.  The only thing that really got to me was the smell.  It did not smell clean.  The hotel we eventually stayed in didn’t smell clean.  My room at the compound doesn't really smell clean.  I am unconvinced that I will even smell clean again.

Generally speaking, the children at the clinics were captivated by my skin (it might be worth noting that I didn’t see another white person, or muzungu, in the two days we were out).  One little girl kept grabbing my hand and rubbing it.  Her mother found this deeply amusing.  Other children were not so brave.  Two boys at a different clinic kept trying to work up the courage to talk to me.  They actually squealed and fled when I tried to shake their hands.  I felt like I was Boo Radley. 

When we finally finished our work and arrived in Beni, our first priority was locating a hotel that fit our needs in terms of both security and price.  And there were goats mating in front of it.  That was a fairly decent harbinger of things to come.  The bathroom was equipped with a shower and toilet, but they had neglected to include running water.  Instead, a large bucket had been filled with water.  I took a shower using my water bottle to ladle the bucket water over my head and had to fill the tank of the toilet when I wanted to use it.

For dinner, someone suggested we find a Chinese restaurant.  I still don’t know if he was putting me on.  We didn’t end up finding Chinese (which is, I think, something I should be grateful for).  Instead, we grabbed dinner at a local restaurant called Sous les Palmiers.  I think that every member of my group made the joke that there was not a palm to be seen.  We ate something resembling coleslaw, passion fruit, fries, and whole fried fish.  There were also some pleasantly hot peppers.  We ate with our hands.  I was amused, however, that we used forks the next morning to eat our omelets.  There was a distressing lack of coffee. 

Beni itself is quite an impressive town, easily three times the size of Bunia.  Traffic moved briskly along the paved main road and the traffic circles were actually defined.  The majority of the buildings we drove past brightly painted in a riot of advertisements.  Simba – butamu ya bietu!  D’jino – un explosion de saveurs!  Vodacom – Meliurex qualities.  My personal favourite was for a Congolese beer: Primus – Wakishahhhh!!  I haven’t been able to find a translation for that, but it certainly seems satisfying. 

Our team took the full advantage of the bustling metropolis to stock up on a few things that are more difficult to get in Bunia, like extra wheels for the motorbike fleet, gas (114 USD worth!), and cheese.  The gas station we went to was slightly more substantial than the lemonade stand-style you generally see around here (photo – no smoking, no phone calls).  It was full-service, and the gas was filtered through a cheese cloath as it was poured, rather like the wine at Downton Abbey (we’ve been watching a lot of that during girls’ night).  While waiting for the tank to be filled (it took forever.  They had to use three different cans to fill the car’s two tanks), one of my colleagues asked if I had any American music.  I took out my phone and they searched through, settling on Lady Gaga.  So there we were, listening to Beautiful, Dirty, Rich.  In the middle of the poorest country in the world.

Happily, the ride back to Bunia was slightly less dusty than on the way down, as it had rained the night before.  Being a bit better prepared for the road this time around, at least mentally, I was able to take some photos and enjoy Congo unfolding around me.  A totally arbitrary, non-exhaustive list of things I saw strapped to motorbikes along the way included bunches of bananas, chickens and goats both living and dead, precariously stacked jerry cans full of water and fuel, six mattresses that hung over the back wheel and were nearly dragging the bike off the road, bundles of sticks, aluminum siding, panes of glass, struts that were easily 10-12 feet long.  This is only slightly more varied than what I have seen balanced on the heads of women.

Goodness.  That took a lot longer than I had anticipated.  I won’t now go into the minutiae of the second trip, except to say that it was much shorter, infinitely more relaxing, and involved waterfalls, cows, and a scarecrow of a M23 soldier at the gates of a FARDC camp.  Good times were had by all!

Settling in

I am slowly starting to get a grip on the rhythm of my new life.  Work-wise, that means attending UN cluster meetings (and I cannot fully explain how geekily giddy that makes me) and starting to meet donors.  I’ve been introduced to new proposal formats, evaluation criteria, and reporting schedules.  This all might sound about as fun as watching paint dry, but I’m actually really loving it – learning, writing (once I get used to the French keyboard, that is), most of all finally contributing.  I’m sure I’ll soon wish I had more free time, but right now I can’t wait for it to pick up steam. 

Of course, it wouldn’t be so bad if work waited a bit for my French to catch up.  Corresponding with donors and the like isn’t terrible (thank all that’s holy for Google Translate).  In person meetings, however, are another matter entirely.  This is particularly true during the security briefings that seem to preface each and every meeting, regardless of participants or topic, from the UN to my local parish.  When your French is a poor as mine, these briefings gain new levels of drama. 

'Toute rest calme'.  Okay - that sounds good.  All quiet on the Orientale front.

'Sa minibus estat abondonée'.  Wait, what?  Where did the minibus come from?

'Les traces de trois personnes...'  Traces?  What kind of traces?  Of what people?  The people from the minibus?  How is that calme?!

'MONUSCO répondu à la situation avec la acción'.  Really?  Those poor people in the minibus are totally screwed.  At least it wasn't the FARDC.

'17100 des personnes déplacées vont à la plage'.  IDPs on the beach?  That can't possibly be right; it sounds like a rejected MTV reality show.  Are these new IDPs? I refuse to believe there were that many people in the minibus.  You're just messing with me at this point.

It's a bit like watching an episode of Law & Order during a thunderstorm.  My favourite example of this came when everyone was abuzz over something involving rebels and the provincial governor (who is, by all accounts, remarkably  efficient and corrupt, even if you aren't grading on the Congolese curve).  Every report on the subject kept mentioning cobra and mata.  Relying overmuch on my Spanish, I jumped to the conclusion that a rebel group tried to kill the governor Kill Bill-style, putting ricin letters to shame.  With a little digging, however (because English-speaking media could not have possibly ignored such a story, even here), it turned out that the commander of the rebel group in question uses the nom de guerre Col. Cobra Matata, and that they were actually engaged in peace negotiations.  I have never been so glad that I didn't ask a follow-up in my life.

Our compound, from the hammock.  Life here is so difficult.

Of course, there have been some instances when the language barrier has not presented a problem.  My driving test comes to mind.  Even if I didn't fully understand the detailed explanation of the engine maintenance required for our (British-made) 4x4s offered by our Chief du Flotte as we drove out of town, I'm fairly sure the panic in my eyes was universal when he told me I had to get back to the office.  Happily, I managed to make it, all while playing frogger with the motorbikes and potholes that could swallow a Fiat.  They now make me drive nearly ever weekend for practice.  I'm feeling slightly better about the whole endeavor, though I do still turn on the windshield wipers every time I want to make a turn.

Its been a while

When I last wrote on this blog, nearly two years ago, I was preparing to depart Afghanistan.  In the intervening time, I returned to DC, reconnected with friends, found in a job in development (of the international flavour), fell in love, got a dog, and made a new life in the States, only to realize that what I really wanted was to be back in the field.  If I’m being honest, I also had to, were I serious about my career going anywhere.  With the help of some savvy friends, I found a Swiss humanitarian outfit that was willing to take a risk and got on a plane for the Democratic Republic of Congo.  I’ll be popping around the eastern provinces (based in Province Orientale) for the next year or so, working on issues a variety of relief and recovery interventions.  It’s a new paradise with the same old notes.