World AIDS Day

I’m not sure if you have been reading the news, but today, December 1^st, is World AIDS Day.  According to one news article I read, the intention of World AIDS Day is to raise awareness and money for research and medical care with the intention of eliminating the disease by 2030.  While an admirable goal, I think it will be difficult to obtain.  Here’s why:

When I was in Congo eight months ago one of the men I met told me that Congolese are more concerned about Ebola than AIDS.  Given our current predicament in Africa with Ebola, this seems poetic.  Back in April when I heard this I thought that was rather foolish.  Now, seeing how quickly Ebola spreads and how difficult it is to contain in Africa, where sanitation is grossly lacking, I understand his reasoning.  Nevertheless, I was surprised by his laissez-faire attitude toward the risk of HIV/AIDS.

Another man I met in Congo told me how AIDS was not a problem because, “we use the condom.”  Well, not long after that I learned what that meant.  The government and NGOs in Congo- Congo reportedly has more NGOs and UN Peacekeepers that anywhere else on earth- have launched nationwide campaigns to “condomize.”  That’s right, it’s so important we made it a verb!  While safe sex propaganda is everywhere in Africa it turns out there is a problem with the marketing message.  As someone who teaches Marketing, perhaps we need to be a little more direct.  Olivier went on to explain that in order to please their government, they wear condoms.  But, the whole point of sex is to join together bodily fluids.  So in order to achieve both goals, they wear condoms, but first cut they tip off so that bodily fluids may be exchanged. WHAT THE #&$*?????  Yes, that was my reaction too.

As I was telling my class last week, the good thing is that no one actually dies from AIDS in Africa.  Before I moved to Africa I had to take a physical.  As mandated by the Botswana government, I was required to have a TB test to enter the country.  Without the test I could not become a resident.  Sitting in the doctor’s office in Lubbock my doctor thought this was ludicrous.  “I can’t imagine they care if you bring this into the country, if anything, shouldn’t we be concerned about you being exposed to it while you are there?” she asked.  My doctor couldn’t even remember the last time she had administered the test, and as a result, filled out the form incorrectly. I ended up having to return a second time to get retested. But as I was saying no one in Africa dies from AIDS.  No, not at all.  But TONS of people die from TB.

You know, “The first rule of Fight Club is you don’t talk about Fight Club?”  Well, it’s kind of the same deal.  We talk endlessly about HIV/AIDS- go to this workshop, get tested, read this brochure, tell your friends.  Yet no one actually has it and no one dies from it.  I can’t tell you how many funerals I have been invited to (in Africa), where someone has died from TB.  Answer: A LOT.   People willingly talk about and show evidence if they DON’T have it, but AIDS patients in Africa are like unicorns, everyone has heard about it, but never actually seen one before.

As I was saying, I think the desire to eradicate AIDS in the next 15 years is admirable.  However, I have little hope that this can be achieved because I think there are a number of cultural barriers which make this a serious challenge.  I should also mention that perhaps the most significant explanation for why I think this will fail is because this is a “preaching to the choir” sort of situation.  In Botswana there is at least one newspaper article every week about HIV/AIDS.  Guess how many newspapers in Botswana ran front page articles about World AIDS Day? Not one.

In case you were interested, here are some of the medical PR campaigns I’ve seen around Africa.  Sleep under a mosquito net to avoid malaria:

Get your Yellow Fever vaccination:

Use a condom:

And this is also related to HIV/AIDS and methods to prevent the transfer of the disease from mother to baby during birth:

A Different Take on Race

Late Monday I sent a book chapter to my editor.  I awoke Tuesday morning to an email stating, “This is great!  We should talk ASAP. When can we chat?”  We agreed to Skype that night.  As the day progressed I became more excited about the positive tone of the email.  By the time our Skype appointment rolled around I had convinced myself I had A Sorcerer’s Apprentice situation on my hands.  You know how Mickey started off with that one broomstick?  And then it multiplied until he was surrounded by thousands?  I was convinced my 18 pages had grown into a full length book.  No such luck.

This Skype meeting was the first time my editor and I had actually seen each other.  Until that point in time I had no idea he was… black.  And the reason he wanted to talk to me was because I had several statements in my chapter about black Americans and how they are viewed by the locals when they go to Africa.  Since he found this so interesting, and surprising, I figured I would share some of the highlights of our conversation.

Before my trip to Congo I was visiting with some friends in Botswana.  As I told them about the plans for my trip, one of them, a Motswana, said to me, “You can’t go there! There are BLACK people there!”  I was shocked.  She was black.  The other four friends at that get-together were black.  I was the only white person I had seen in weeks.  I was ALWAYS surrounded by black people.  How was going to Congo different?  I couldn’t help but say quizzically, “Huh? I don’t understand.”  She went on to explain that she, and other Batswana, were not black.  They were brown-black.   And as you go further north people become “more black.”  “Ugandans and Kenyans, they are blue-black.  But the Congolese?  (She shakes her head.) They are black-black.”  It had never occurred to me that Africans had their own racial distinctions among themselves until that moment.  But this prompted me to start paying attention to this, and from that point forward I realized that they do differentiate.

When I visited Kenya everyone would immediately want to talk to me about Obama, of course.  “We are very proud to have a Kenyan as President of the United States.  He is a very good muzungu.”  I was surprised to hear Obama referred to as a muzungu, but figured it was because he was light skinned due to having a white mother.  I later came to learn that all African-Americans are muzungu (in East Africa).  Or lekogwa (in Southern Africa). Or obruni (in West Africa.)

Many African-Americans visit West Africa because of its slave history.  Ghana and Senegal in particular have become huge slave tourism attractions.  However, many black Americans who make the trip to these destinations leave less than satisfied.  I have been to some of these former slave prisons, dungeons and trading posts, and they are by nature, sad.  It’s understandable that people aren’t laughing and happy when they depart from these locations.  But African-Americans tend to struggle not just with the historical aspect, but also their interactions with locals while they are there.

When African-Americans travel to Africa they typically have the ideal that they are going “home” to visit “relatives.”  But when they arrive they are called “obruni.”  “Obruni” means “whiteman” but it refers to any non-African.  In other words, Europeans, Asians, people from the Americas are all called “obruni,” so it actually has a second meaning of “foreigner.”  This terminology projects the opinion that Africans do not see black Americans as “black Africans coming home.”

Some tourist destinations have realized this attitude is detrimental.  Ghana launched a PR campaign not too long ago designed to change the behavior of residents toward African-American visitors.  Ghanians were discouraged from referring to them as “obruni” and were instead told to say “akwaaba anyemi” which means “welcome brother (or sister).”

Our conversation lasted for the better part of an hour.  We bonded over our shared muzungu heritage, began planning my editor’s dream itinerary to visit Africa (he’s never been) and discussed my book.  Though I haven’t perfected my spell casting skills yet, at least it appears my new project is off to a good start.

Here are some photos from Bunce Island, a former slave fort in Sierra Leone:

The Camp of the Saints

A few days after I arrived back in the U.S. I went to a comedy show with my brother.  One of the comedians did a skit about how, “When I was a kid if I wandered out of the front yard my mom would tie me to a tree.  Now there are kids walking all the way from Honduras to Texas.”  WHAT?  I have to admit I didn’t know about the so-called “Border Crisis” until that comedy show because we didn’t get any news about it abroad.

I recently read the book, The Camp of the Saints.  The book was written in the early 1970s by Jean Raspail about a mass immigration which led to the destruction of western civilization.  In the story nearly a million people board dilapidated ships in India and sail to France.  It takes two months for the ships to make their way to the Mediterranean, and the majority of the book focuses on the attempts of the western governments to figure out how to handle the approaching ships.  There is a significant amount of debate by various parties about whether the ships should be sunk to prevent the passengers from landing where they are not wanted, whether aid should be given to assist them and then they should be encouraged to go elsewhere, or perhaps, even continue circling the globe as a new, floating nation-state, or whether they should be welcomed with open arms and provided with food, medicine, lodging, etc.  Ultimately, as the ships approach French shores there is mass chaos as many private citizens flee to surrounding nations, the government and army essentially break down entirely and abandon their posts, and the few hold-outs are brutally robbed, raped, murdered and run out of their homes.  The illegal immigrants become an invasion that destroys everything in its wake.

When I was in Africa I was in a number of countries with refugee camps.  I don’t think the situation with the illegal immigrants flocking to the U.S. is a refugee camp situation- yet- but it does remind me of them.  I was reading recently that the reason so many unattended children are among the mass of immigrants is because the Dream Act and a law stating that children from non-border countries can be granted asylum.  I don’t claim to know the full details of that legislation, but I understand that before any decision is made regarding whether someone is granted asylum or returned home that they are being transported to shelters for medical attention.  Hearing about the more than 100 shelters set up across the country for these immigrants reminds me of the refugee camps I saw in Africa.

When I was in Congo I drove through a refugee camp which was opened 20 years ago after the Rwandan genocide.  Still today nearly two million people live in that camp.  The people living there are criminals who would be tried by The Hague for war crimes if they returned to Rwanda.  This refugee camp which has been in existence for two decades is barely five miles from the border with Rwanda.  The crazy thing is that once you cross the border into Rwanda there is another refugee camp.  This camp is maybe two miles over the border in Rwanda.  The camp still stands but it is empty.  I asked my driver about the empty camp.  He told me that the camp remains intact because whenever rebel action in Congo gets really bad hundreds of thousands of people cross the border.  Whenever the action dies down the people return, but it is, according to him, a major challenge for the Rwandan government to get them out of the camp and send them home.  He said the government will often dismantle the camp with the people still in it, forcibly take them to the border, and then they will rebuild the camp a few days later because they know they will need it again shortly.  Very often when they begin tearing down the camps the refugees will fight back and flee into the forests because they would rather wander around on their own than go home.

 

I don’t know what will happen regarding this current “Border Crisis.”  It sounds like this Dream Act may be becoming a bit of a nightmare.  But the one thing I did learn in Africa is that once you open your doors it is very hard to close them, and almost impossible to return to sender.

The Poverty-Weather-Suicide Correlation

I’m enjoying the conference I’m currently attending because there are people here from all over.  Aside from me there are only two Americans, but there is a large contingent from Europe and Africa.  Since I am a bit unusual as I haven’t left Africa for the past year a number of people have approached me and asked a variety of questions about my time here on the continent.  Today I had a conversation with someone about poverty in Africa.  I told her that most government officials in Africa regard poverty as being out of their control, something they simply can’t change.  Just like they can’t predict or influence the weather, they can’t influence or change the occurrence of poverty.

Botswana is considered an upper middle income economy, but according to the World Bank 32.9% of the population still lives below the national poverty level.  Of course, Botswana is the wealthiest country in sub-Saharan Africa.  I know I’ve mentioned some of the unemployment issues in countries like Nigeria (54.7% of the population lives in poverty) and Zimbabwe (72% poverty), that Lesotho (56.6% poverty) used to be so poor that one of their primary exports was human blood, and that Congo (71.3% poverty) is so unfortunate they can’t afford to eat the cassava and instead they eat the leaves from the plant.  Poverty alleviation is a huge key term which you hear all over the place.  But the truth is most African leaders don’t think poverty can be cured, so they don’t really sweat it.

It should be noted that poverty alleviation is different from economic growth.  I have a friend who works for the World Bank.  His job is to identify aspiring entrepreneurs, give them micro loans- typically $1,000 or less- in an effort to get them to improve their socioeconomic status.  He can’t GIVE this money away!  He told me about a conversation he had with a fisherman.  The fisherman said he caught three fish each day and then sold them; that would meet his needs.  Mr. World Bank explained he would loan him money to buy a new boat, or new nets, or whatever he needed to improve his business so he could catch more fish.  The fisherman’s response: “I don’t need to catch more fish.” Mr. WB explained if the fisherman caught more fish he could send his son to university, or have the money if his wife got sick, or maybe just buy some milk for his family.  The fisherman said he didn’t need money in case those things happened.  He said when his wife got sick he would just catch five or six fish that day to buy her medicine or pay the doctor.

The reason the fisherman in the story didn’t want to earn extra money is because he would never get to save that money, so it was pointless.  The challenge with elevating Africa out of poverty and improving standards of living is because the culture here does not encourage future planning.  Family ties are important and everything is communal.  This means if the fisherman catches 10 fish and suddenly has more money his aunt in the village will show up and ask for the money to pay her medical bills.  If he catches 20 fish he won’t see any profit from that either because his distant cousin in the next village will ask for the money to pay the bride price for her son’s upcoming marriage.  If he catches 50 fish then the niece of his neighbor’s granddaughter in the country next door will show up on his doorstep asking for a loan to pay for her father’s funeral announcement.  And the cycle continues and never ends.

As I continued my conversation with the woman at the conference today she asked me how Africans are able to withstand so much poverty, violence, government instability, persecution, disease and everything else they put up with.  Just last night I finished the book David and Goliath by Malcolm Gladwell.  In his book, Gladwell states that happiness is measured on a sliding scale in relation to one’s peers.  He states that Switzerland has the happiest people in the world.  However, Switzerland also has one of the highest suicide rates.  By contrast, Africans are significantly less happy because of all the challenges associated with living here, but since everyone else here is miserable (at least in terms of material possessions, wealth, etc.) the suicide rate is very low because they can’t look at others and be envious since everyone is in the same (sad) boat.

Money, Money, Money, Money...MOOOOOO-NEY!

Though I’m not scheduled to leave Africa for a few more weeks, I thought it a good idea to start going through all my belongings and trying to downsize as much as possible.  Believe it or not, I spent a good 20 minutes trying to streamline my wallet this morning.  As a rule, when I travel, I eliminate all unnecessary items from my wallet.  When friends come to visit and I see them carrying a wallet full of 10 different credit cards, their library card, their Red Cross blood donor card, their Social Security card, and countless other cards they will never use, but are highly likely to lose here, I cringe.  When I moved to Africa I brought the following: 1 personal credit card, 1 credit card for university-related/business purposes, 1 bank debit card, my travel insurance card, and my emergency evacuation/I’M IN A LOT OF TROUBLE GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE! supplementary insurance card.  That’s it!  I have since added a Botswana driver’s license.

Despite having the two credit cards and the debit card, I only use these about half the time.  Southern Africa has begun using plastic on a more regular basis, but Zimbabwe and most of central and east Africa still operate on a strictly cash system.  I knew cash would be necessary, so when I came here I brought $5,000 with me and have since changed or used most of it.  Similar to the patriotism displayed in my blog post about how I was proud to be an American and would NEVER give up my passport to obtain citizenship elsewhere, there is a lot to be said about the power of the U.S. dollar.  You know the commercial, “Visa: Accepted Everywhere”?  Not true.  It should really be, “U.S. Dollars: Accepted Everywhere.”  Though I should add that when travelling to Africa if you plan to bring a credit card, choose Visa.  My university card is a Master Card and I haven’t been able to use it several times because Master Card isn’t as widely accepted as Visa.  Apparently those Olympics commercials with Morgan Freeman ARE telling the truth.

As I was organizing my wallet today there was no need to go through my cards as those have remained stagnant.  But my supply of banknotes and coins has changed considerably.  My stash of U.S. dollars is barely enough to get me through the next couple months, but I can now rest assured that if I get stranded in any one of a dozen African countries I can buy a bottle of water, and in some cases, even dinner if necessary.  Here are some of the bills I’ve collected during my tenure in Africa:

(Left to right, top to bottom): Ugandan Shilling, Rwandan Franc, Congolese Franc, Ethiopian Birr, Zimbabwean Dollar (This is no longer in circulation. Zimbabwe has no official currency, so the U.S. dollar is primarily used, but you can now use 8 different foreign currencies as legal tender), Zambian Kwacha, U.S. Dollar, Kenyan Shilling, Namibian Dollar, Botswana Pula, Sierra Leonean Leone, South African Rand, and Lesotho Loti.

None of these bills are worth more than a dollar or two, except for the Rand and Pula which are about $20 and $23, respectively.  But I will definitely spend those as SA and Botswana are where I will be most of the time until I leave. 

The Dead Muzungu Market

Have you ever wondered when you donate to an organization where that stuff actually goes?  Let me tell you.

Actually, before I get into my story, let’s make sure we are all on the same page.  According to Phelan’s Dictionary:

Muzungu [moo-zune-goo]: (noun) Slang: a white person, a term used primarily in east and central African countries to refer to someone with light skin.

Ok, now that we have that key word defined, back to our regularly scheduled broadcast.

When you donate clothes or food or school supplies to an organization which claims to be helping orphans in Africa or homeless victims of a typhoon or some other depressed group in a land far, far away, what do you think actually happens to your donations?  Do you think those exact people actually get it and use it?  Survey says: NO.

Here’s what really happens:  Salvation Armies and Goodwills and other non-profit organizations all over the world collect donations and then send them to communities of their choosing.  Very often those things get sent to Africa.  And while sometimes they are donations, very often someone, somewhere is making a profit.

In most cases if the clothes actually make it to their destination and are given free of charge to community members, those people turn around and sell them.  All over Africa I see little kids wearing t-shirts that say “Sexy Grandma” or mechanics wearing “Race for the Cure” bandannas.  The University of North Carolina must have a huge student group which collects clothing donations and sends them to Africa, because I think that is the most prevalent collegiate attire I see in every country on the continent.  And when I was in Congo last week I finally saw…… a guy on a motor bike wearing a Texas Tech sweatshirt!  I practically caused a traffic accident trying to talk to the TTU sweatshirt guy, but was unable to take a picture because there were half a dozen police officers standing nearby witnessing our conversation.  When I asked Mr. TTU Sweatshirt where he obtained his prized possession he told me he purchased it at the Dead Muzungu Market.

The Dead Muzungu Market is where your donations begin their second life.  The reason it is called the Dead Muzungu Market is because everyone shopping there believes the clothes previously belonged to dead muzungus.  Why else would someone get rid of perfectly good clothes?  Obviously, someone died which is why their clothes ended up all the way in Africa.

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, anything you own in Africa (car, refrigerator, phone, etc.) is used until it literately dies and cannot be used any longer.  So the concept of disposing of clothes which can still be worn does not make logical sense to anyone here.  Hence, if the clothes are still intact and can be worn there must be another reason someone got rid of them.  If the clothes didn’t fall apart and die, then their owner must have, thus creating the belief that all these clothes shipped from abroad belonged to now dead muzungus.

Keep this in mind and smile next time you donate your former sorority rush night t-shirt to your church group.  Chances are sometime in the future a taxi driver in Sierra Leone will be wearing it proudly and announcing to friends that he purchased it at the Dead Muzungu Market.

Umuganda Day

Last week when I was in Rwanda I noticed something HIGHLY unusual for Africa.  This:

Do you see it?  No?  Ok, here, look again:

Seriously? You don’t see it?  Ok, let’s try this one more time:

You STILL don’t see what I see?  Maybe I should have said, “Look what you don’t see in Rwanda.”  Here, let me give you a point of comparison.  Take a look at Nairobi, Kenya:

Or, in an effort to be very direct, here is Congo:

Now look back at the Rwanda pictures. Can you see the difference?  There is no trash in Rwanda!  NONE!

I actually didn’t realize the lack of trash in Rwanda initially until a friend was driving me around and all of a sudden I said, “Why is it so clean here?”  According to the guidebooks Windhoek, Namibia is supposed to be the cleanest city in Africa.  Having visited both Windhoek and now Rwanda I must disagree.  Kigali is the cleanest city in Africa, and Rwanda is the cleanest country, hands down.  

Typically in Africa when something breaks there is no attempt to repair it.  Is sits where you leave it until it disappears, which may be never.  If you are finished using something and don’t need it anymore, you do the same thing, toss it out without any attention paid to where it lands.  Thus, Rwanda is a very unique case study in this “all the world’s a trash can” culture across the continent.  I asked my friend about the unusual cleanliness of Rwanda and he said, “We adopted a shift in attitude and belief system and now everyone takes part in it.”

Apparently a few years ago the President of Rwanda decided to create Umuganda Day which takes place from 8am to 11am on the last Saturday of each month.  During these three hours all citizens are expected to participate in volunteer community service in which they clean streets, manicure green areas and repair public facilities.  It took about four years for everyone to really adopt the practice, but it has become so ingrained in the culture that people now make an effort to keep their community tidy on a daily basis.  I think there is a good possibility that the creator of Umunganda Day was a form Disney cast member as all the Rwandan residents have embraced the walk and scoop.

A Few Final Pictures from Congo

While there are 54 countries in Africa, a lot of those nations may look very similar to the outside observer.  And for good reason.  Many countries across Africa suffer from some of the same challenges: poverty, food shortages, health problems, etc.  In many ways Congo looked similar to several other areas I’ve been to, but there were a few distinctions, or at least phenomena which were more prevalent here than in other places, that I wanted to share.

Petrol (gas) stations were few and far between.  I think I only counted three the entire time I was in the country.  So aspiring entrepreneurs will travel into town, purchase fuel, and then sell it in plastic water bottles scattered throughout the country.  If you remember during Hurricane Sandy last year New York residents began showing up at gas stations with empty 5-liter water bottles, or plastic gallon milk jugs because all the retail stores ran out of gas cans. But the gas stations refused to sell to anyone without a proper gas can due to safety regulations.  Congo does not appear to have those safety policies in place: (Sorry, you need to turn you head 90 degrees to the right.)

In 1994 after the Rwandan genocide, two million genocidaires crossed the border into Congo in less than a week to avoid being prosecuted for human rights violations.  The UN and international community set up refugee camps to accommodate the massive influx of people.  Those refugee camps still exist!  And they extend for MILES.  The reason those people are still refugees after 20 years is partly due to the fact they don’t want to go to jail for crimes during the genocide, and part of it is because they simply don’t have the money to return to Rwanda or move elsewhere:

During the volcanic eruption in 2002, the water pipes in Goma were destroyed.  They are attempting to lay new pipes, but I’m told digging through hardened lava is quite a chore, so it is slow going.  Similar to the fuel-filled water bottle ventures, here are people filling jerry cans in Lake Kivu and then cycling around town selling them:

As I mentioned, part of the reason for my trip to DRC was to visit the Tourism Program at the University of Goma:

The class I visited:

Do you see the wooden bike on the right hand side?  These things were all over the place in DRC.  It was the main method for transporting goods since no one really owned a vehicle:

And finally, the Nyiragongo Volcano:

Overall, it was an interesting trip to Congo.  I’m glad I went and can’t imagine ever going back.  But if nothing else, it gives me a new appreciation for… EVERYTHING.

Kelly of Kongo

During my visit to Congo I had one day free, so my guide suggested I go to Masisi in the Kivu province.  Granted, the Kivu area is where a lot of rebels hang out, and the day before we left I received an email from the U.S. Embassy reminding American citizens not to visit the area due to the tendency of bandits to kidnap, rape, steal vehicles, and “carry out paramilitary operations in which civilians and foreigners are targeted.”  Emmanuel told me, “No problem, no problem, we are staying in a private house overlooking the UN base there, so you will be fine.”

So, we went to Masisi.  We stayed in the gigantic home of a “very rich businesswoman who has lots of dealings with the president of the country.”  Translation: Corruption. At least that’s what it normally means.  But Emmanuel wanted to take me there because “Masisi is like the Switzerland of Congo.”  It was a little like Switzerland actually.  Lots of sheep and cows.  Actually, I think that’s where the similarity began and ended.  Feel free to judge the “Switzerland of Congo” for yourself:

Here was the house I stayed in on Mrs. Rika’s property.  It was one of about six houses there:

Emmanuel was right about overlooking the UN station:

In fact the UN soldiers held a volleyball game Sunday afternoon:

Here was the living room in my house:

Mrs. Rika’s family, which included her three adult daughters, two adult sons, their spouses, and their children, were all there during my visit.  Apparently they are avid horseback riders.  Having never ridden a horse myself, I was quite apprehensive about the prospect, but after some cajoling from the youngest son, Jordan, I agreed to give it a try.  However, I did not feel comfortable enough to take the reins myself- mostly because the road going down the mountain was incredibly steep and unpaved.  So Jordan told the horse keeper (I’m sure there is a more technical term, but I haven’t been able to come up with it yet) to take me down the mountain and to walk me to town if I could handle it.  The ride down the mountain was fine.  The ride to town was fine.  Then we began to approach town…..

As we approached town there were people everywhere.  They all stopped in their tracks and stared at me.  It was horrible.  I have to be the only person who enters a rural African village and all I could think to myself was, “This is SO embarrassing.”  I now know how the Queen of England feels.  Isn’t it strange to have everyone watching your every move?  Then again, maybe the Queen doesn’t think this behavior is odd at all.  I wasn’t sure whether I should wave or smile.  No one over the age of five was waving or smiling at me.  They were looking at me like I was an alien.  I would love to have known what they all said when I departed.  I honestly just felt like a total jerk.  Here comes this random white woman, riding a horse through the middle of town, with a local guiding the horse for her, she gets to the end of town, and then turns around and rides out.  I just felt like I was imposing on their lifestyle and had no right to do it.  Oh well, too late to take it back now.

In the end I rode a horse.  Not really.  In the end I sat on a horse while someone else made him move, and I managed not to fall off.  And I likely provided dinner table conversation for about a thousand people that night.  On a more positive note, I never met any rebels.  So I would have to say that overall it was a successful trip to Masisi.

Dinner of Champions

After four days in Congo I am… HUNGRY!  I tend to be a pretty adventurous eater, but even I have my limits.  For the past several days my meals have consisted of “vegetables.”  Vegetables are boiled cassava leaves.  I’m not sure that we really use cassava much in the U.S., but it is a starchy vegetable, similar to a potato, sometimes called manioc or yucca.   Point being you normally eat the potato looking vegetable, but in really poor countries, like Congo, you have to take advantage of the whole plant.  So, every time I go to eat I am given boiled cassava leaves.  Guess what they taste like.  Yes! Leaves! Or grass!  I have been able to choke down some of it purely out of guilt, but it is disgusting. I can’t take it anymore.

The other thing I’ve been served AT EVERY MEAL is boiled bananas.  This I don’t understand.  Bananas are so good plain.  Why ruin them by boiling them?  In case you were wondering, I highly advise AGAINST boiling your bananas.  It makes them completely tasteless, so, like the cassava leaves, also not enjoyable.

To round out your meal you get a serving of goat meat.  Now, I’ve had goat meat prior to visiting Congo.  And I liked it prior to visiting Congo.  Now I hate it.  See, we don’t realize how spoiled we are in western countries.  We go to the grocery store and can get boneless chicken breasts.  If you are on a diet and only want white meat, you can get your poultry without dark meat.  Since all the meat is cleaned ahead of time and the various parts of the animal are separated according to what people like to purchase, you could go your entire life without ever eating, or seeing, the heart or what we consider to be the other “throw-away” parts.  Here nothing is thrown away.  And when you are being served they just give you whatever part of the goat rises to the top of the stew when they dip the ladle in.  Thus, the goat meat typically has fat, some, SOME, emphasis on SOME meat which we would consider edible, skin, and then connective tissue.  I am convinced I have been served arteries and part of a heart at least once.  Oh, and bones, lots of bones.

Thank goodness I didn’t do a year of Fulbright in Congo.  I would have struggled.  I’m already struggling after four days.  I told my tour guide I couldn’t take it anymore and I wasn’t interested in eating the rest of my trip.  I brought some snacks with me and insisted I would eat those for the remainder of my time in Congo.  Glad I did some pre-planning.  Tonight I will be dining on some banana chips, beef jerky and dried mango.  I can’t wait:

Lava, Lava, Everywhere

As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, I am here in Goma, in the Democratic Republic of Congo for a few days.  Adjacent to Goma is the Nyiragongo Volcano, which is still very active.  You can actually see smoke coming from the top most days.  If you haven’t visited Pompeii in Italy, Goma would be a close second.  Though, if given the choice, I would recommend a trip to Pompeii first- much better food there.

Twelve years ago, the Nyiragongo Volcano erupted, spewing lava throughout the city of Goma.  Fortunately the lava moved slowly enough that most people were able to get out of its way, but over 500 people did die from asphyxiation.  The town wasn’t so lucky.  The entire town was covered by the lava, as deep as six meters in some places, destroying most buildings and leaving hundreds of thousands of people homeless.  The amazing thing is that most everyone remained in Goma afterward, and decided to rebuild.  Essentially all the buildings I’ve seen here are brand new (within the last 12 years at least) but they are built six feet higher than the previous city.  If you ever get the chance to visit Seattle, take the Underground Walking tour- same deal, today’s Seattle is built on top of Seattle from 100 years ago.

It’s illegal to take photos in Goma city, and most of DRC due to security concerns.  Again, glad I am here with a tour guide.  In my hotel today I met another muzungu who had just spent four days in jail- for taking a picture and getting caught.  So far Emmanuel has kept me out of jail and showed me different places where I can get away with taking photos.  But still, in order to take a picture I have to be in a moving vehicle and very sneaky.  It is like a drive by-photo op.  Though, as you will see, I am definitely not paparazzi material.  To give you an idea as to what Goma looks like, here is one neighborhood.  There is exactly one paved road in Goma, the road where all the NGOs are located. 

This is where the local Congolese live:

It’s hard to tell in this picture, but this road is at about a 45 degree incline.  Lots of bumps along the way:

On the left side you see a house which appears to be falling down.  You have to feel bad for this guy.  The house was built after the volcano erupted in 2002.  A few years ago the government decided they wanted to widen the road.  So, they forced the family to move and knocked down the part of the house which was in the way of the road.  But, they didn’t bother to knock down the whole house.  There is barbed wire across the front of the building to make sure no one enters it.  I’m sure that makes it completely safe:

To Hellholes and Back

A few months ago I read a book titled, To Hellholes and Back.  The author wrote about the most prolific hellholes- according to him.  He selected one continent, one country, one city and one destination which he crowned hellholes and then proceeded to visit them.  These proclaimed hellholes were based solely on his opinion and I didn’t particularly value his alleged expertise.  For instance, he selected Walt Disney World as the destination hellhole.  Can’t say I agree with him on that point.

Another criticism I had was that he selected Congo to represent the continent of Africa.  I thought that was a particularly foolish and uneducated assertion considering there are 53 other African countries that would almost certainly argue that Congo does not adequately represent the entire continent.  Maybe I should send him a copy of my blog post Africa is a continent, not a country.

However, after spending the past three days in the Democratic Republic of Congo, I would have to agree with him that for the most part, yes, Congo is a bit of a hellhole.  I arrived in Goma, DRC on Saturday afternoon to what you would expect to find with most third-world, African countries… chaos and trash.  I am here to teach at the University of Goma, where they have a tourism program, for the next two days.

Since I knew there was a lot of red tape, corruption, and general risk in making this trip, I elected to organize my visit through a tour company.  And I’m thankful I did.  My guide Emmanuel picked me up in Kigali, Rwanda, drove me to the border, and helped me through the Rwandan and DRC immigration processes.  There were two other muzungus (white people in this part of Africa) attempting to enter DRC on their own.  All I know is that with Emmanuel’s help I went through in less than 10 minutes and did not have a curiously invalid visa, incorrect yellow fever card, or was solicited for $50 to make any of these invented problems go away.  As we were departing Emmanuel told me it was stupid for a muzungu to try to come to Congo on his own, “It will be a week and those two will pay a couple hundred dollars and still not be let in.”

I am actually with Emmanuel the entire time I’m in DRC.  He is my driver back and forth between my hotel and the university, and then I am doing some tours as well which he is guiding.  Speaking of hotels, I am staying at a four-star hotel in Goma next to the UN Hospital.  (See Mom, totally safe!) Apparently the stars mean something a lot different here than in the rest of the world.  Maybe at a five-star hotel I would get two out of the four light bulbs working, instead of just one:

Do you that lots of countries around the world have toilet paper shortages?  A friend of mine who works in the British embassy in Venezuela told me she was once mugged walking down the street with a package of 12-rolls of TP.  They ONLY took her toilet paper, not even her purse or her money.  I’m not sure if there is a TP shortage in Congo, but when I asked the front desk for some they didn’t have any:

The light in my room had one bulb, but that didn’t work:

Since there wasn’t a lot of space to move around in the room I tried to open the closet, and pulled the doorknob off:

Of course, I can’t complain because there was a free amenity I found on the top shelf of the closet.  A chocolate candy bar, which had obviously melted and then hardened back together.  Who knows how long that had been there:

Yes, I travel with a headlamp even when I don’t plan to go camping.  I really took this because I figured there could be power cuts, but thankfully I am conditioned to do this, even in four-star hotels, since the only light bulb in the room that worked was in the bathroom.

So, here’s the best part of my hotel:  After spending a long day all around Goma, I took a sponge bath using my Evian water (I feel like a Kardashian!) because there was no water coming from the tap.  Before tucking in to bed I went to use the toilet only to discover…. There was no toilet seat!  I don’t know how I missed that little detail earlier, but at 9pm I wasn’t about to ask the front desk to fix it.

Don’t worry; the lock on the door worked.  And in the event that failed I used the Phelan security method of piling all my luggage up in front of the door.

The morning after my first night in my luxury hotel I asked another muzungu staying there whether he recommended another place.  “Hell no! This place is the Ritz.  This is where all the foreign expats making the big bucks at the NGOs stay when they visit.  Those people would never stay in any of the other so-called hotels in Goma.  Those places are total hellholes.”  Really? You don’t say?