and the ignominious end....
(Brought to you by the collaborative efforts of Diala and Paige, in a bit of a rush this morning as she is about to get on a plane for Qatar - we found out she got her work visa while we were in the DRC, so we cut our sojourn short and made it here in time to blog for you, pack her stuff and have one last Primus)
So like many well-heeled residents of Kigali, we decided to weekend in the lakeside city of Gisenyi. Why not, after all. It is a small place about three hours away, on the shore of Lake Kivu, which is itself on the edge of a very active volcano; the lake is therefore filled with all manner of volcanic gases. Swimming is permissible, but cut a wide berth around the bubbles.
So there we were, Sunday afternoon, on the beach at a lovely, family-style beer and brochette joint called The Bikini Club, when who should come striding along but a strapping German fellow, in need of change and, as luck would have it, free to spend a few minutes with us discussing his life as an aid worker in the Congo.
“Isn’t it dangerous?” we asked him.
“No, of course not. Goma [the city right across the border] is completely safe.The rebels stay right outside, in the jungle, and the volcano hasn’t erupted since 2002.”
Never easy to please, we were impressed. “It sounds charming.”
After a few moments of consultations (“I’m going right now!” added the German), we settled it.
“Diala, you pay for the beers; I’ll hail a moto. We’ll rendezvous out front and head for the Congo.”
“Done.”
And so just like that, we were at the border. Diala later described it to her dad as Qalandia Lite – there was a bit of questioning, the exchange of some money ($30 for an 8-day visa to La Republique de Congo), and a few raised eyebrows when we said where we’d decided to stay (“err.. the Shu Shu? The guidebook says it’s the cheapest place in town.”) but all in all, no problem. We got our first of several rides in a NGO-sponsored 4x4 courtesy of an Irishman, who also let us in on the safe watering holes in town, and gave us the usual briefing on safety: no motos after 2 AM, and don’t venture more than a kilometer past the roundabout. That side of town is held by rebels.
Next stop: the Shu Shu Guest Lodge.
We checked in, welcomed by a half-clothed woman and a three-foot tall pigmy. "Karibu!"
Diala was in charge of checking in while Paige spoke to her mom. (She left the bit about “I’m in the Congo” out, incidentally, though when Diala’s dad called later, he was given more info. “Dad, guess where I am!” said Diala. “No no, it’s a *country*”)
Everything seemed superb, given the circumstances: $10 for a room with mosquito net, the sheets were questionable but at least there was a lock on the door.
Diala: Great! Book it!
Woman: Two rooms?
Diala: No, we’ll stay together, the bed is very big.
The woman’s face suddenly turned serious as she scrambled for a polite way to justify her objection: had we been a male and a female there would be no problem, she said, but two women (or two men, for that matter) certainly could not share a room! She could get in trouble, she explained, and since the recent elections nobody is sure what could happen.
[Note: this is when Diala and Paige confirmed they were no longer in the Middle East. In this establishment, it appeared that sex, even paid sex, was totally halal. By contrast, if guests in the hotel were
not having sex, it was downright inappropriate. All of this was confirmed for us the next morning when we awoke to find a tri-lingual New Testament and string of half-dozen unmarked condoms on the bedside table. As our friend the Czech peacekeeper later explained, “Oh yes, those are UN condoms! I have a whole box in my car, they can't stop handing them out we don't know what to do with them.”]
Diala then began the slightly awkward and extended process of convincing them that we would in fact not be engaging in acts unfavored by the Congolese "state" - or at least what's left of it (that is to say, diamond trafficking, perhaps. Homosexual sex, of course not). And if the government, such as it was, happened to deem it necessary, on that particular night, to send an investigator to this particular hostel, Diala added helpfully, she was quite prepared to pretend that she was a man.
The naked woman and her smaller friend seemed okay with this plan; after sizing Diala up and discussing a bit between them, they could raise only one objection. “But what about your earrings?!”
Diala, fortunately, took that one in stride. Only mildly offended, she proceeded to demonstrate the easy removal of her earrings, and it was settled. The Plan would work—with the small addendum that before falling asleep, we piled all of our valuables (money, passports, camera, UN-issue condoms) into the bed with us. We thought under the pillow would be safer. That was until we looked under the pillow…
By the next morning, we were significantly more oriented. Out at our second bar of the night, we met the aforementioned Czech peacekeeper, who was in Goma on a brief respite from his post, 100 km into the jungle. He was endearingly elated to make our acquaintance. (“I am just so happy to be able to speak to real women after all these months in the forest. And you’re not even trying to sleep with me for money!”) MUNOC, the UN force of which he is a part, has about 17,000 peacekeepers in the DRC: we heard assessments of their effectiveness varying from “it’s a useless, shit force. Everyone is just here to make money” (the Czech soldier) to “the minute they leave, the country will fall apart” (the German aid worker). Anyway, theirs is a tough job: Paige read once that the DRC, a country the size of Western Europe, has only 300 miles of paved roads—and after visiting, we guessed that is probably an exaggeration. People said that 40 km from town, what horrific, unpaved, bumpy roads there were in the urban area gave way to total impassability. Many towns are simply unreachable.
That said, the Czech guy did offer to show us his base, in the "jungle". Ten hours to cross a mere 100 kilometers and, he estimated, about a half-dozen rebel-held checkpoints. (It's no problem. We are unarmed but you can buy a kalashnikov for 40 dollars - you have to clean it yourslef, of course) Diala, however, was nonplussed: “Eh checkpoints. Been there…”
The real site to see in Goma, anyway, is the ubiquitous volcanic ash. When the volcano erupted in 2002, it engulfed and destroyed the whole city. Now—as you will see when we finally upload photos—many areas of town consist entirely of new wooden houses perched atop thick layers of hardened black lava. The residents appear to have very industriously converted it into building material, chipping off pieces to use as bricks in their suburban-style fences. All in all, very interesting. Very other-worldly.
(Notice my Mzungu T-shirt, purchased in Tanzania and worn every day since. Except for in Kigali, of course. That would be plain stupid)
