Great Days

Whoever coined the slogan "Great days start with Nescafé" clearly never worked for a humanitarian organization in eastern Congo.

Practically all my days start with Nescafé, that highly caffeinated, hyper-processed powder-based beverage that I have come to not only tolerate but also consume with probably a bit too much excitement.

Nonetheless, not all of these days are great. For example, the first thing that I did on one particularly ungreat day in the recent past was open the latrine door on my boss, who, visiting from the city, had decided that he would (1) sleep in the tiny dining room, even though the house is under construction, the dining room wall was scheduled to be knocked down the following day, and I had reserved a room for him at the boarding house next door, (2) use the latrine that is CLEARLY marked with a picture of a woman on the door, whereas my boss is most definitely a MAN, and (3) remain silent when I tapped on the door in the wee hours of the morning, on the off chance that someone was inside.

You might think that such a day could only get better. And indeed, hugging my mug of steaming Nescafe to my chest, I tried to convince myself as much. But I knew perfectly well that this was destined to be a shitty, shitty week.

Indeed, the week in question bore witness to the following events, in no particular order:

(1) 25-odd people descended on this dust-filled, unfinished base in preparation for a large-scale survey on the socio-economic impacts of banana wilt in the zone. Quite naturally, this coincided with the head of base's week of vacation, so, as the only other expat present, I was gifted all of his responsibilities in addition to the enviable task of organizing housing, food, transport and general housekeeping for our 25 visitors, as WELL as trying to keep my program's activities in working order.

(2) My boss invited my entire staff, whom I had asked to come to work a bit early in order to assemble questionnaires, into his tiny dining room/bedroom, to eat breakfast (despite the fact that there is a very limited budget for expat meals).

(3) I ordered 45 questionnaires for the training, and the logistics department sent 450. I rented an 8-ton truck to help deliver the materials for the macro propagators, and logistics sent a 4-ton truck. I asked for one rental car, and they sent two. The planks that were supposed to be cut in half were sawed into thirds. I did my best to suppress a scream.

(4) I purchased a goat at the market so that people would have something to eat during the survey training days. Technically my colleague was in charge of procuring provisions, but this fact didn't seem to interest him very much, when I reminded him about the need to acquire a goat on the week's only market day. The goat was like a poorly-trained dog. She pulled at the rope during the entire 2 km trek back to the base, egged on by a wild-eyed pygmy woman who had decided that I definitely owed her some money, or some food, or perhaps a pair of sneakers.

(5) I started to get sick. When I informed him that I thought I should go to the city for the weekend, in order to allow my immune system to recover, my boss said, "No, you can't get sick. I was going to use you as an example of someone who goes above and beyond for work, but if you get sick, I can't do that. So don't tell anyone you're getting sick."

(6) They knocked down the dining room wall. Dust coated my computer screen, the printer, my blankets, my lungs.

(7) I went to the city for the weekend. I took my temperature, and was more than a little disappointed to discover that I was not, technically, sick. I returned to the base and refrained from screaming for another week.

(8) I took a long walk, strolling the last hour along the road that winds towards Kalehe along the lakeshore, with a group of women and girls toting water and munching on sunflower seeds.

(9) I fixed myself another cup of Nescafe.

Martyrs' Day

I am trying to connect to the Congolese more.

In the often overwhelming haze of my first few months here, I felt like I was constantly scrambling to stay afloat. Though in theory I would have loved to, the idea of sitting down and devoting the time and energy to learning Swahili was simply not an option. Delving into the details of personal experiences during the post-Rwandan genocide chaos seemed daunting, and at times I even had trouble distinguishing one guard or driver's face from the others. Simply accomplishing all of my weekly tasks before the next Monday morning rolled around was enough of a challenge.

Now, three-and-a-half months in, and after a much-needed vacation that reminded me that there is, in fact, a whole other world out there, I am finding a bit more time to breathe. Though I have certainly not mastered my role, I feel comfortable enough now to step away from it from time to time, and focus on other things.

This afternoon, with an hour of daylight to spare, I hiked up to a nearby village, perched on the broad, flat summit of a foothill. After 15 minutes of slogging uphill on a pitted, mud-slick trail, I entered a humid banana "forest," in which a maze of narrow trails led off to dozens of partially concealed huts.

A family called out to me, no doubt quite surprised to have a lone muzungu appear out of the banana thicket. The daughters offered to show me around. Their clean, crisply painted school, surprisingly large for the village. A telecommunications antenna, from which the high western mountains loomed temptingly close. The miniscule "market," where a not particularly tiny and impressively persistent pygmy man tried to convince me to hand over my cell phone.

When I got back to the base, I sat down with the night watchmen for a spell. They had heard about Martin Luther King on the radio, but didn't know anything about him. So I explained the history of post-slavery racism in the States, and King's role in bringing about an end to segregation. It's a holiday here, too, to commerate the life of another great orator, the independent Congo's first president, Patrice Lumumba, whose assassination at the age of 35 was condoned, if not directly caused by, the Cold War-crazed US.

And so we spoke of the war in Iraq, and my country's dubious motives there, and then radical Islam, and then the Holocaust, and then, naturally, the Rwandan genocide, after which headless and otherwise butchered bodies apparently cluttered up this lake for weeks. Which was nothing compared to what the genocidaires and refugees that fled into the Kivus in the aftermath would bring.

But that's another story, for another night.

I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesterdays are buried deep - leave it any way except a slow way - leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance. The cloud clears as you enter it.
-Beryl Markham, West With The Night

Two days ago I was perched on an open slope spread with a thin layer of icy snow, gazing out at Germany's cloud-covered Black Forest, and cursing my lack of finesse on skis. Now, back in the Congo for just half a day, I feel restless already. My chin is chapped and peeling from the winds of a Vosgien winter, here in this never-cold, never-hot Equatorial land where snow is a thing of mystery and the average yearly income wouldn't buy a decent pair of skis.

I am stuck between worlds at the moment, clinging to my would-be life in France, not quite mentally ready to return to my current reality.

I have, by anybody's definition, I think, become a nomad. Since leaving home for college 13 years ago, I have lived in five foreign countries and seven US states, never staying put in any of them for more than a year. I have spread my life as thin as the snow on that French mountain, to the point that it is difficult to say where I come from or where I might logically go next.

There is a great beauty in movement, in flexibility, in the art of adapting. If I have not planted myself firmly enough to master any one skill or subject, this is perhaps my one trump - the ability to grow into the space I am placed in, foreign though it may be.

But the repeated departures are beginning to take their toll. I live and love and then find my yesterdays more and more wrenching to leave behind. I would like, for once, to plant my feet on the soil of a place and call it my own.

Northeastern France was my home, for 10 months, four years ago. I taught English and unexpectedly discovered a group of kindred spirits, alpine types who welcomed me into their circle and fortified my vocabulary, my climbing skills, and my tolerance of potent cheese, in the mountains of eastern France. After a slow and lonely first few months, I found a community in these people, one that I left behind in order to put the fortified French to use, in grad school in California, and now in Africa. And these were the people that I returned to last week, for a mere seven days, enough to understand that their life as I knew it continues, that strong homemade liqueurs still take off the chill after a day of skiing, that four hour dinners endure, that every vacation properly filled means the exploration of a new alpine destination, that houses are built and refurbished and warmed with wood fires.

I have tasted this life, but it is not mine, which seems to require some level of upset and exoticism to be sated. Exactly what level, and taken in what intervals, I am still trying to determine. The Congo is my present, and the future remains hazy, shrouded. But there is surely ground beneath those clouds, and only I can decide where to place these feet.

Where I work

Hi all! My camera stopped working back in July, while I was still in Sudan. However, I've managed to capture a few images from the past couple of months on borrowed cameras. I hereby present said images, to give you a sense of where it is I work. Click on the links below for more pictures.

http://picasaweb.google.com/115822399418590821157/FirstHarvestPartyAndAWeekInTheField?feat=directlink

http://picasaweb.google.com/115822399418590821157/CongoTheDailyCommutePlusBananaWiltCommitteesInTraining?feat=directlink

Encounters with wildlife, Kivu Farming 101 and keeping the faith

The first one is easy; the wildlife has gone away. I'm sure there was a time when the mountains around Lake Kivu were covered with dense tropical forest, but no one here remembers it. Every vestige of the original plant community, and thus potential habitat for wild animals, has been wiped out to make room for crops - cassava, taro, corn, potatoes, beans, bananas, coffee, and the occasional eucalyptus grove - and often on near vertical slopes near the summits of roadless mountains that must take hours to reach.

Native forests remain in some parts of eastern Congo; relatively cheap gorilla viewing is even possible to the northeast of Goma (cheaper than in Rwanda on account of the security risks and treacherous roads on this side of the border, I suppose). But densely populated communities dominate the western shores of Lake Kivu, and a few colorful songbirds, some supersized millipides and the fish on my dinner plate are about all of the wildlife I've seen.

Which brings me to the second topic of the day: Agriculture in the Kivus, or at least the aspects brought up by the esteemed inquisitor Mike Brondi.

Regarding GMOs: I am far from an expert, but from what I have heard, there is a wilt-resistant variety of bananas under development, and it is genetically modified, but it has not yet been approved for distribution. So for the moment, the bananas that Kivu farmers grow, and that our program's beneficiaries propagate, as far as I know, are the descendants of bananas planted during the colonial period and come from unmodified stock. Our organisation does not have an official policy regarding GMOs, since nothing is proven regarding the risk that they pose for humans, but I definitely share the concerns about how corporate interests stand to exploit them for profit at the expense of everyone and everything else.

In terms of what is grown here, again, there is very little "nature" left. Most of the principal crops originated elsewhere - cassava, peanuts, corn and potatoes from the Americas, bananas and taro from Asia. I guess that's true most places, but here what I find shocking is the absolute lack of balance between human needs and the needs of the natural world. There's very little pollution, persay, since the area is so undeveloped, but no one works to protect native species, as far as I have seen. Also, for all of the mountainside cultivation that takes place, there's very little effort to control erosion. The rivers run brown here. But when I point it out, people say, "Oh, that's just the natural color of the water."

Which brings me to my final topic of the day, staying sane in an insane world. As innovative as my project is, there's no guarantee that it will actually change anyone's life for the better. On the days I spend in the field, I encounter many more complaints and pleas for further assistance than I do expressions of gratitude or satisfaction. Personally, I often feel that I have ceded my life (my relationships and the physical activity and independence that I value so much) for a year in order to be here. And yet I am content, for the moment. First, this job is an enormous challenge, and thus an opportunity for growth through perseverance. Then, there is the hope that something I help put into place will in fact have a lasting positive effect, on the food security team members if not for our project benenficiaries in the villages. Finally, there is the continual allure of all that I do not understand - the language, the history, the day-to-day existence, the hidden mountain villages - and these mysteries reveal themselves more and more the longer I stay. I do not consider myself religious at all, but it is perhaps through this search for belonging, for connection, amid the unfamiliar, that I express my faith.

Food. And goats.

It's hard to understand how malnutrition exists in eastern Congo. Food grows easily here, given the two rainy seasons each year, the fertile volcanic soil and the tropical climate. Although I personally haven't planted anything yet, I hear that you can grow a cabbage from a seed in two months. And practically all the land within view is cultivated, from the few flat parcels of land along the lakeshore to the near-vertical slopes of the foothills and mountains to the west.

But exist it does, or else my organization would not be here. The malnutrition rate is low compared to that in southern Sudan, around 5 % versus a staggering 20+%. But 5% is still significant. I'm not an expert, but I'd attribute malnutrition here to the frequent displacement of the population because of ongoing militia activity and conflict, which obviously disrupts agricultural activities, inefficient agricultural practices, such as broadcast seeding, and ignorance regarding nutrition in general and the importance of a balanced diet. In addition, there's very little investment in ecological agricultural practices such as terracing of slopes, which will no doubt have serious negative consequences on the food security of the population over the long term.

I, on the other hand, eat very well here. Normally I eschew dietary supplements, but given my rice, beans and bread diet in Sudan, there I indulged in a multivitamin each morning. But after a week in Congo, I put the supplements aside. Even in the relatively small village where I am based, food is abundant and varied. Despite the spread of bacterial wilt that is the focus of my program, the region still produces plenty of bananas. The price has gone up with the growth of the disease; the giant cluster of bananas produced by one shoot, which can weigh over 100 pounds, now costs around 3$ in the local market, as opposed to 1$ before the disease hit, but at least by expat standards it's remarkably cheap. Avocados, mangos, passion fruit, tomatoes and a plentitude of other fruit and vegetables are widely available. The local market sells beans, corn and various tubers, along with meat (turkey, chicken, goat, beef, pork), eggs and small but tasty fish from the gas-filled waters of Lake Kivu (I haven't yet heard of any studies examining the health effects of eating fish from the lake, but would be curious to know more.) For the more processed foodstuffs - tinned meat, powdered milk, jam, coffee, yogurt - Goma, an expat mecca, is only 90 minutes away, and generally someone from the base takes a shopping trip every week or two.

Our cook is a motherly and rotund but not particularly old woman whose dedication to her job is almost embarrassing at times. She arranges our salads artistically on the plate, minds her spices, fills your coffee cup and embellishes it according to your taste (milk? sugar?) and doesn't let you carry your dirty dishes to the kitchen sink if she can help it. She's been known to show up on a Sunday morning to prepare omelettes for the household, though it's ostensibly her day off. Unlike our cooks in Sudan, she's quite interested in learning new recipes and expanding her cooking repertoire. She's repeatedly asked me about how to obtain refugee status in order to be resettled in the States (and work as a cook there). I've tried to explain that it's probably something she'd rather not obtain, that refugee status is for the displaced and war-affected. She's intimated that war has indeed affected her life, and that most of her immediate family is dead, but we haven't pursued that subject further, not yet.

As for goats: They're here, along with cows, poultry and pigs, though this is by no means a herding society, but an agricultural one. Though you run into small herds while passing through the countryside, you rarely see them roaming free. They're normally tied to a tree or stick in the ground, which is advantageous for me, considering that their browsing can contribute to the spread of banana wilt. And goats, at least, are surprisingly pricey. We bought one for a celebration in honor of the first harvest of bananas coming from our macro propagation efforts (started back in 2008) last week, and it ran us a not insignificant 50$.

In brief, I eat well here (though I'm staying away from goats for the moment). The Congolese are quite a different breed from the Dinka, and many villagers are stocky, muscular and even a bit chubby. Given my lack of mobility, and the motherly cook hovering over my shoulder at mealtimes, Í fear I may put on a few pounds myself.

tennis (or, perhaps more generally, recreational activities available to you and everyone else)

By everyone else, I assume you are referring to all the other expats, since very few Congolese indulge in tennis. What I have done "for fun" since my arrival can probably be counted on one hand, busy as work has kept me. Here goes:

1.) Joined expat crew for poker night at the home of an International Refugee Committee employee in Bukavu. Took a bluff too far and lost 20 bucks.

2.) Went dancing at Bukavu nightclub. Watched with amusement as persistent male prostitute tried to chat up a potbellied French male colleague. Performed a spirited twist to "La Bamba," and otherwise attempted to stay on beat to a stream of Congolese tunes, which is not always an easy task.

3.) Feted a costume-less Halloween at a swanky mansion with a bunch of consultants and entrepreneurs in Goma. Shivered the night away after being tossed into the swimming pool fully clothed. Admired the illuminated palm trees while sipping a cocktail.

4.) Swam in Lake Kivu, during a spontaneous day at "the beach," a small but sufficient and completely undeveloped strip of sand 8 kilometers from my base. Enjoyed a picnic lunch of cheese and beer while hundreds of curious village children looked on. Have since learned that swimming in the lake is against our security rules, so count this recreation option out.

5.) Spent several evenings at various Bukavu establishments: lakeside bars with pool tables, Nepenthe-like eatery on balcony perched above the water, pizzerias. Could not understand anything my French colleagues from the main office (both of whom speakin mile-a-minute slang) were saying, yet refrained from getting roaring drunk.

My field experience has been very limited so far by various commitments in Bukavu and Goma, so I can't say for sure what recreation at the base will be like. Security rules are strict; I'm apparently supposed to bring a radio every time I leave this walled compound, even if just for a 30-minute run. But of course I'm not really here to partake in "recreation," at least not in a traditional western sense. Some of my best moments so far have involved trips to the market and exchanges with my field staff. I get some pleasure from my attempts at yoga, which alleviate my burning desire for physical activity at least somewhat, and am looking forward hugely to actual trips to remote villages accessible only on foot, which should begin on Monday with my staff.

I cannot speak for traditional Congolese forms of recreation, if that's what you mean. Soccer is big, and that's about all I know. I can speak for my expatriate colleagues at the base, many of whom fill their weekends with booze, lovers and lots and lots of television. And for me, who is not a huge advocate of any of these things, but who could nonetheless use a lot more quality recreation in her current life.