Congo is not Africa for beginners.
Congo is like a man, full of grit and grizzle. Motorcycles, minibuses and heavily laden wooden bicycles, swivel and grind along the lava-strewn streets in haphazard fashion. A swarthy Swahili-speaking Congolese proudly ripples his muscles, swinging in and out the sliding side door of his taxi. Determined, he crams 20 plus passengers into the minivan size vehicle – 4 abreast, 5 rows deep. More passengers; more money. One might spot sporadic UN Land Rover near the sole fancy hotel in Goma's town center or near the market. The women are in traditional garb – a dress or ream of fabric made out of some geometric African print. They labor along with a load on their head. Bags of cabbages. Firewood. Baskets of tomatoes. Most have a baby bump on their back. Children, looking barely three, balance yellow plastic cartons of water on their head. It’s boisterous. Congo teams with life and black dust. Chaotic. Unpredictable. Exciting. The sights and sounds are almost over stimulating.

Rwandan is like a woman; well-kept gardens line the trim red roads in good repair. (Well…relatively good repair. We are in Africa.) She is also bustling with life, but in a quiet, much more ordered way. Rwandans still plod along the side if the road. Men and woman still carry burdens on their heads - bundles of cassava leaves, baskets of peanuts or cobs of roast corn, peace baskets (originally from Uganda) or bushels of wood. They are a subtle people. You see it in the Rwandan’s faces. Like a woman, they don’t always show all their cards. Is there something they’ll spring on you? You never know.

I like them both. I like them different. Being a woman who doesn’t show her cards, I might fit better in Rwanda. But Congo was definitely adrenaline rush.

This weekend I visited a village outside of Goma with Nyanja’s mother, Josephine, who doesn’t speak a lick of English. I speak even less French, Kinyarwanda and Swahili. Somehow, we managed to communicate. It added to the adventure.
Saturday just after sunrise we met at Virunga’s bus station. Josephine stuffed us in the second row from the back of the bus, right next to the radio. She directed me to the seat right above the bus wheel, where I crunched, in fetal position the entire six-hour trip. About three and a half hours in, I remembered that I didn’t have enough padding on my bottom for a long road trip and Josephine proceeded to get quite sick. Part of me thinks it might be motion sickness, as we snaked up and plummeted down the hills, steering around potholes at a determined pace. I even got a tad queasy. Any motion sickness definitely seemed to be extenuated by the back of the bus. I discovered during the weekend, Josephine tried to sit in the back and always seemed to get sick, unless I stuffed her with my precious supply of Tylenol. On the return trip, when we had to sit in the only remaining spots at the front of the bus, there was no motion sickness. (I think it may have also been stress, for Josephine. The final Rwandan leg of the trip bring back memories of the genocide for her.)

Despite my uncomfortable position, I ogled at Rwanda's beautiful country as we journeyed to Goma. Charles tells me Rwanda has been described as the Switzerland of Africa. I can see why. The difference is that Rwanda is more agrarian and appears more populated. Hills are irrigated from the valley to the very summits. I remember how, as a little girl next to mother in her garden, dirt was made of three components: mud, clay and sand. Mother would get soil for her garden containing more of one and less of the other. Mud was the primary soil component in Wisconsin, so dirt was blackish. In Rwanda it seems to be clay...clay and sand. The result - red roads. (In Congo, the ash remaining from nearby Nyiragongo's 2002 eruption seems to be the primary soil component.)

At Gisenyi (Rwanda’s pristine resort town across the border from Goma), we switched to a taxi, which took us to the custom’s office. I filled the proper paperwork with Rwanda, got a stamp in my passport and walked 50 paces into the Democratic Republic of Congo, for another stamp in my passport. Papa Babi, Nyanja’s father, works for customs, so it made crossing into the DRC easier. Congo’s corrupt, including the government officials. They generally don’t let people pass without some form of bribe. Having the Papa Babi connection made crossing the boarder easier. Still, they refused one of my $20 bill used to pay the $35 visa entry fee. The clean, fresh bill had a tiny tear and it was printed in 1999, not the past 5 years. So, I had to scrounge for acceptable, tattered Rwandan Francs. There was some Swahili commotion I didn’t understand. Then we left.

It was astounding how the world changed in the 200 paces between Rwanda and Congo.

Papa Babi and Josephine walked us to a little black VW Rabbit he had hired. At first I thought they’d hired it because Nyanja’s mother was so sick (she’d been vomiting next to me on the bus), but I later found it had been hired because of me. We piled in and proceeded to bump along, bottoming out every 50 paces and fighting with moto taxis, clumps of people, taxis, bikes and UN peacekeeping vehicles for a little square of road. We seemed to be zigzagging around. I wasn’t sure why. All I knew is that the idea of a restroom sounded very pleasant, but how to say that without being rude? I didn’t know. So, I remained quiet and watched and listened.
The black Rabbit came to a screeching halt. I looked around. This was where I would be staying? My heart fluttered. Yikes.

I got out of the car. A swarm of cute, filthy children buzzed past me, singing “Mzungo, Mzungo, Mzungo”. (That’s Swahili for me: white person.) A teenage boy came up and tried to kiss me. I slapped him. (Alison, I believe slapping to be quite appropriate in this instance.) Somehow, I managed to escape my maze of children and tumble after Papa Babi and Josephine. This was not home. (What a relief.) This was the market. They had brought me to get some meat, tomatoes, onions and beans. I wish I had good pictures for you, but I felt like I would have embarrassed Josephine and Papa Babi if I took out my camera. So, no pictures. Just memories. Papa chose which vendors we would approach. They sat in their little plywood booths, under an wobbly construction of sticks and plywood covering. One had a calf’s leg hanging from the unstable structure. Papa when up and negotiated for one kilo of the nicest part, the thigh. (They were being so good to me.) Then we found tomatoes, onions, peas and peppers from other vendors. Everyone started at me. I followed, wide-eyed with amazement and very much wondering if this country had restrooms. Probably not.

We returned to the little right-drive Rabbit, for one final car adventure on our trip to Papa Babi's. The taxi drive got distracted by one of his friends at the side of the road. All of a sudden there was this CRUNCH. This boy on a bike had been trying to sneak between the minbus two feet in front and the little black Rabbit. Our driver had hit him. The Boy-man looked terrified and the seat had come off his bike. Our taxi driver got out of the car. After a five minute Swahili shouting match (where about 25 bystanders piped in), the driver hopped back into the car and we drove away. I had no idea what had been said, though that is when I figured out the right-drive Rabbit was a private taxi.

After driving for probably another 15 minutes, the taxi pulled off the rood and, in 100 yards, up to a red metal gate. We all piled out, this time for real. We were home. Finally. It was a lovely home - white stucco walls, high ceilings. A front and side tile porch. Red concrete floors. Curtained white framed windows Much nicer than the surrounding blackened plywood shanties. In fact, it was wired for electricity and plumbing...for whenever the Congolese government got around to bringing infrastructure out to their village, at the very end of the minibus line from Goma. So that meant that I used the outhouse and washed in a pail of water. They kindly warmed my water, using the little charcoal stove. I was there special guest.

My first visit to the outhouse (featured right, the door at the very right), was a cultural experience. After I unfastened the lock, the slanted wooden door swung open to reveal a room, with a square hole cut out of boards in the very center. Mosquitoes swarmed just below that hole, above the cesspit of feces. There was no toilet paper and I couldn't find a latch to fasten the door from the inside. Josephine realized my predicament while I was inside, doing my thing with the door flapping open uncomfortably. She came to my rescue and locked me in. That was all very well and good until I wanted to get out. Being locked inside an outhouse isn't my idea of a pleasant experience.

After a plenteous serving of soda and fruit (sweet bananas, sour oranges, mangoes and the red fruit) we had a rest before heading into town to go to the supermarket...via an over-stuffed minibus. Everyone stared and shouted at the mzungo. I wish you could have all stuffed into the taxi with me. It was an experience I can't explain and will never forget. At Kivu Market (where expats shop in Goma), Papa Babi and Josephine insisted I pick whatever fresh bread I wanted. Nervous of exploiting their generosity, I tried to get day old bread. Unacceptable. They insisted. Fresh. So, I pointed to the baguette and sh. Those are usually delightful and cheap. They got three...but appeared absolutely shocked when they found out the price. Papa told me that they had "no more money". Of course I felt awful, wanted to pay and wasn't allowed.

Back home we began to cook. Have I mentioned how long cooking takes, done the Rwandan way? We started at 16:30 (half past 4). We finally ate at 20:30, four hours later. That was with the help of the houseboy. Granted, the "Rwandan way" means breaks for all the neighbors who stopped over. Still, Josephine prepared a feast for me. Meat. Peas. Beans. Rice. Ugali. French fries. We moved from cooking outside to cooking outside and inside. They let me watch the inside bit. (I wanted to do things, but every time I pantomime/asked, Nyanja's mom would laugh and shake her head. Josephine's sister came to help cook too. Her family - husband and two sons (Chuchu and Danny) came to help eat.

Me, attempting to eat Ugali the traditional way, was a source of endless amusement for everyone. Buckets of laughter followed every try. In the course of the evening her husband invited me to go to prayer with them the next morning. They are Jehovah Witnesses. The little wheels in my head spun. Not fond of Jehovah Witness by any means. However, I've heard that it is ruder, in Africa, to say no than to lie. And, there was this little part of me that was curious. It would be a cultural experience. The Congolese couldn't really peskily proselytize me. I live on the opposite end of the world. If anything, I’d have more of a basis for what I think. So, I said, if it was in English, I would go. In English? Yes, yes, yes.

Everything was in French – the smattering of Bible verses, the Hymn, the readings and Q&A from the Watchtower magazine and the final hymn. I was all fine and dandy, sitting, enjoying my cultural experience until this cute Congolese girl with an English “Watchtower” shifted across the isle, so I could read along. Then my blood began to boil. Nothing bothers me more than the misuse of Scripture. I think Jehovah Witness is a cult. They take scripture out of context ALL the time. Dad used to say that, if you picked and chose from Scriptures, you could manipulate them to say whatever you want. ("Judas went out and killed himself." "You go and do likewise."...Not that that is what I want.) Whenever the Jehovah witnesses came to our door, dad would have hour long conversations with them...until church leadership figured out it would be best to just have their people skip our house. Dad would ask their people to many troubling questions.

Anyways, that was a total aside. I have three more Congo stories to tell. The next is about the houseboy, _____. Saturday night, after all our guests left, Josephine & Papa Babi gave me the lantern to go use the outhouse. (By now, toilet paper had been found for the special guest. The houseboy was outside, washing dishes. I crept up the stairs, entered and locked the outhouse with the special nail latch to which Josephine had so kindly introduced me. Then I heard the other stairs on the opposite side of the outhouse creak. A rather uncomfortable sensation, given there are small cracks between the planks. Still, I tried to think the best of the situation as I returned to the house. Papa Babi and Josephine gave me the key to lock myself into my bedroom and a light by which to change. I could hear them chatting in the living room as I prepared for bed. I glanced out the window to see this shadow, shaped like the houseboy, right by the curtain crack. I rustled the curtains. The shadow disappeared. Back to brushing my teeth. In another minute, the shadow reappeared. I lifted the curtain again, only to experience the same disappearing act. The next morning, I was up and about before Josephine and Papa Babi. (I couldn’t help it. The roosters started to crow at 5 am and didn’t stop. It was like a “who can cock-a-doodle-do loudest” contest, not at all sleep conducive.) The houseboy was up and about too, scrubbing the floors. I approached my little peeping Tom, pantomimed hiding behind the curtain and then pointed at my window. He hung his head and shock it vigorously, frightened and guilty. I let it be. What could I do? I didn’t want to accuse him falsely, though I was 96% certain it had been him. I told the story to Nyanja, late Sunday night. She laughed it had to me him. See, she explained, he was deep in the African bush. I should have seen him take his first ride on a minibus. In fact, unbeknownst to me, our little right-drive black Rabbit had driving all over town to find him. He was lost somewhere in Goma. Nyanja said _____ had probably never seen a female mzungo before. He had been quite thrilled when I took his photo or tried to talk to him…I could even tell. Somehow, I couldn’t be angry with my peeping Tom anymore.

After prayer, Josephine took me to visit her sister’s family. Her sister’s home was more like the other ashen shanties…just larger, with land, a garden and animals. Josephine brought me over to the barn and laughed as I scrambled away from the birdhouse of pigeons that dived towards my head when I passed by. There were big pigs and little pigs, hens and chickens, cock, ducks, dogs, cats and ducklings, all living in relative harmony. Then Josephine took me into the main room, in her sister’s house. A large dining room table covered with a white embroidered tablecloth dominated the room. The walls were of plywood and a TV sat on the stand at the opposite end of the room. It felt like a kitchen, dining and family room combined. We, and other guests, sat around the table sipping Fantas and discussing the CIA. A fuzzy little duckling wandered around my feet, as I rested them below the table. The duck and hen came to visit, only to be shoed away. Discussing government theory with a little fluffy duck underfoot is not an everyday experience…at least not in my world. The contrast between intellectual aptitude starkly contrasted with wealth.

There is one final story to be told. However, for those of you who are concerned about my safety, please stop reading. For those who don’t care, pray continue. Josephine made the entire bus stop as soon as we got to Kigali she made me get off with her and get on a moto taxi. All I really wanted was to go home and shower, but no. I had to come to her home for dinner. Well, I’m glad I did. Nyanja translated the bits of story that I didn’t know, while it was still fresh in Josephine’s mind. A major bit was this. At the customs office, when I was entering the DRC, they wanted a bribe. No bribes provided. Then they insisted that, while they knew I was being taken to the village, I couldn’t stay there. It wasn’t safe. I had to return to town in stay in the nice hotel, where all the expat’s congregate. This is the reason for the commotion in the customs office. That’s why they had moved on of the stove inside to cook, after it got dark Saturday night and why they gave me the key to lock myself into the room at night. When Nyanja told me the whole story, I playfully accused Josephine of lying. Nyanja’s mom replied that it was too hard to explain. It wasn’t in the dictionary.

The DRC is a tumultuous place. Many of the Hutu Power, who perpetrated Rwanda’s genocide 14 years ago, had gone into hiding there. Raids are still common. The government is totally corrupt. I’m glad I didn’t know where I stayed wasn’t considered safe…until my return. I would have still done it, but been so nervous.

So. That way Congo. Signing off, safe and sound in Rwanda. Yan and Susy arrive today. We head to the mountains tomorrow, to prepare to climb Karisimbi. More adventures to come soon.