Arriving at Kinshasa’s Ndolo airport, in the heart of the city just north of my office, the contrasts inherent in life in the DRC immediately became manifest. The Mission Aviation Fellowship (MAF) maintenance crew was busily going over the aircraft, a Cessna 206, and weighing the cargo. Elsewhere on the airport the scene was more familiar (I rarely get to see maintenance done outside my driveway or the embassy compound): people walking around, some aimlessly, some to work or school, some hoping to sell a wide variety of items balanced on their heads. The airport’s emergency services crew were push-starting an ancient Berliot fire truck that wheezed and belched clouds of diesel exhaust before heading off to make several laps of the aircraft parking area, dodging the random people wandering the facility, parked and abandoned aircraft in various states of decay, and ramshackle “offices” that double as living quarters constructed from old shipping containers with doors and windows cut of them. So, there I encountered my old friend again: MAF struggling to impose order in the entropy of Ndolo Airport, and by sheer faith and force of will, succeeding.
Because I was traveling to The Interior and spending the night somewhere other than where the host country told me to spend the night (Kinshasa), I was obliged to go through the drill of les formalités, which every traveler to Africa will immediately recognize. These consisted of two offices: immigration and health. A fellow American was traveling with me, and he had that most valuable of assets provided by the organization with whom he was working: an expeditor. I did not, but I did have my diplomatic credentials, a diplomatic passport, an attitude, the ability to speak French, and a lot of paperwork with official looking stamps on it that declared I could travel when and where I wanted to on official business. After betting the expeditor I could get through the process faster than he could we entered the fray.
In an office no larger than a walk-in closet were two immigration officials behind desks piled with rumpled papers, decaying ledger books, and the all-important travel authorization stamp and ink pad. Also in the office were no fewer than a dozen people, mostly Congolese, waiving papers and money and shouting at the officials. Except for the absence of electricity (or any other technology for that matter), the shabby condition of the office, and the dress and language of the shouters, it resembled a scene from the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. At the door of the office was large man keeping another thirty or so would-be travelers at bay. Spying a small gap, maybe 10 centimeters wide, I showed my diplomatic credentials to the man at the door, stated shui diplomate (“shui” is short for “je suis” and means “I am” in French) and broke for the desk behind the gap. As is often the case when no weapons are present, moving purposefully and asking for forgiveness rather than waiting for permission paid off and I left the expeditor at the door struggling to explain why he was there without the passport’s owner. The harried official at the desk checked my passport, which has a barely legible diplomatic visa in it, and stared at it as intently and uncomprehendingly as a pig might regard a wristwatch. The expeditor was back with the other passenger, so it was time to move on: I showed the immigration official my impressive array of stamped and signed papers and politely reminded him of my position. After reading the documents, his eyes widened and said I needed to see monsieur le directeur. Oh dear.
He sent me to another office of the same size, but with two nattily dressed Congolese officials at desks and one forlorn looking mondele sitting in the corner whose papers were apparently not in order. Unaccountably, this office had electricity and was equipped with functioning computers (solitaire, anyone?), air conditioning, and a refrigerator. I handed my sheaf of documents to one of the “suits” and told him my destination was Kole. At that he looked at my quizzically and, without bothering to inquire into the nature of my business, shrugged and stamped the papers. Too easy, I think, heading to the health office and noting that the expeditor and passenger were in the crowded office being seen by one of the clerks. A Coca-Cola, the price of our bet, was going to be good as this day, like every day in Kinhsasa, was already hot and humid. Incidentally, Cokes taste much better in the Congo, either because they reportedly use cane sugar rather than corn syrup, because they still use glass deposit bottles, or because it’s the Congo and any manufactured product has a special allure here.
The health office was a dingy, unlit room with two tables and a refrigerator, presumably to hold yellow fever shots that are required for travel in the DRC for those who don’t already have them. This will be easy, methinks, as I hand the health official my two volume vaccination record already turned to the yellow fever page. He knits his brow and asks me where I’m going just as my competition enters the office and goes to the other health official. Drat, I guess he didn’t have see monsieur le directeur. “Kole,” says I, at which his face brightens. He informed me he worked in Kole for twelve years and had many friends there, one of which he wanted to send a letter. “Yes, yes, but the other clerk is already stamping my competition’s paperwork, so hand it over,” is what I’m thinking, but at this point I know it’s game over. Once a conversation starts in the Congo, extricating oneself from it is a painstaking and time-consuming process. The expeditor gives me a knowing smile and departs as my health official begins rummaging around for some scrap paper on which he can write a letter for me to deliver.
Fifteen minutes and a request for a visa later I return to the flight line to see my fellow passenger smugly stowing his bags and weighing in for the flight. I do likewise and the expeditor enjoys his Coca-Cola at my expense. No worries, as I am leaving Kinshasa and doing so in the hands of professionals who do not allow entropy to hold sway over their little corner of the world. I watch the pilot, Nate, do his preflight and carefully check the weight of passengers and cargo and know that I am in good hands. He shows us to our seats and briefs us on the flight and asks if we mind if he prays. The praying type myself, especially when traveling around Africa, I wholeheartedly agree and he says a simple and heartfelt prayer for our travel to The Interior.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Leaving Kinshasa
I’m back, and have no excuse for my long absence other than the fact that there is nothing quite like having two foreign armies, one of whom has been a sworn enemy for the past decade, cross the border at the invitation of a host government that can’t seem to manage the presence of several armed groups on its soil. Given the nature of my day job, trying to keep track of developments (let alone the reasons behind them) has been a full time job, and then some. Anyway, I am traveling away from Kinshasa right now, enabling me to escape the phone and emails for a few days and freeing up some time to post.
One of the greatest challenges we have encountered since moving to Kinshasa is that of leaving “Planet Gombé,” as we fondly call our neighborhood, to experience something of the country besides the little corner of it devoted to the business of making, keeping, diverting, and spending money (both public and private). Travel to The Interior or The Bush, as it is invariably and self-importantly known, is uncommon for the diplomatic community with the exception of trips to hot spots such as Goma. Those who get to The Interior (I prefer this term to The Bush after our recently concluded political experiment) gain almost legendary status, and I enjoy being a legend as much as the next bureaucrat. Thus I am constantly plotting ways to leave Kinshasa and see something of this amazing, frustrating, entropic country.
Given that Kinshasa has approximately eight million residents but lacks any viable public transportation system, just leaving the city can be a challenge. Even if one is fortunate enough to have a vehicle, just leaving the city means hours of battling the traffic I have described in previous blogs. Once one successfully negotiates the anarchy of driving in Kinshasa, one is faced with the decayed to nonexistent road infrastructure in the countryside. A particular challenge is the country’s hydrology, which necessitates bridges or fords. The terrain does not lend itself to the latter, and the former require some semblance of upkeep, making either choice a chimera here. Thus, traveling overland any more than 100-200 kilometers in any direction is impractical, even in a 4x4. Given that the DRC is the size of Western Europe or the U.S. east of the Mississippi River, 200 kilometers hardly rates as The Interior. A dirt bike light enough to carry in a pirogue across the many streams and rivers one is bound to encounter remains an option for those with the time and energy, but your chronicler does not have a surfeit of either. Finding fuel for the dirt bike is another challenge, but the “invisible hand of the market” even operates in the bush, and one can, surprisingly, find fuel if one is willing to pay an exorbitant amount for it.
Leaving Kinshasa by boat would be another logical choice, particularly in light of the mythical status traveling the Congo River has achieved since the travels of Henry Morgan Stanley and the publication of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Alas, the would-be escapee from the capital will find this option as daunting as overland travel. Barges do depart from Kinshasa for points in The Interior, but it can take up to two months to travel to the last navigable point on the Congo River, Kisangani, and the trip is rife with dangers and frustrations. These include but are not limited to maintenance issues with the overworked and under-loved water craft, multiple groundings on sandbars, river pirates, extortion by unpaid security forces, the opportunity to come down with a host of tropical diseases, the utter lack of sanitation, and the frustration that will inevitably build from weeks of being asked for things: money, a house, one’s possessions, a wife, a visa to the U.S. (complete with plane ticket, college tuition, and free room and board at a family member’s house), etc. These requests seem outlandish, but at one point or another I have heard them all, and in a society in which the average person has nothing excess, requesting a piece of a wealthy mondele’s excess can seem fairly reasonable and part of the natural order of things. Thus boats are out for now, although I do intend to descend (twice as fast as the ascent) the Congo River from Kisangani at some point in this tour of duty.
That leaves one choice for travel into The Interior besides walking: air travel. The DRC is dotted with air strips, some of them simply flat places with mown grass or scraped dirt, and others Cold War relics capable of handling modern fighter aircraft and, famously in the case of Gbadolite, chartered Concorde jets that once whisked former president Desire Mobutu Sese Soko to Europe on a whim. Of the handful of air carriers serving the interior, even fewer offer much in the way of security and dependability. One of these options is the United Nations Mission in the Congo (MONUC), which offers space-available travel on its aircraft for official business. Since almost all of my travel in the DRC is official, I have exercised this option on several occasions to visit Kisangani and Goma and have described these trips in previous blogs. Dependable and serving a wide variety of locations in the Great Lakes Region, MONUC remains the mainstay of official domestic travel in the DRC and without it the diplomatic community could not function. For all of its worth, however, it logically focuses on areas where it has troops present, so the chance to visit a location that has nothing to do with peacekeeping is a rare one.
My next few blogs will describe a trip to The Interior, to a village called Kole, where we maintain a small research station studying Monkeypox with an eye towards developing a treatment for it. MONUC does not serve Kole, so I had the privilege of using an alternate air service: Mission Aviation Fellowship (MAF). I patronized MAF when we lived in Chad and was impressed with the professionalism, courage, and devotion of its staff and the excellent condition of their aircraft. My recent flight to Kole confirmed my opinion of the organization and the important work it does in a harsh and often unsafe environment.
The DRC is a humbling place on many levels: the power of nature, the scale of greed and corruption, the tyranny of distance, and the allure of violent means to achieve ends make one feel small and vulnerable. MAF, however, manifests another, greater, power: that of a single-minded and selfless service to God and humanity as old as the two Great Commandments. The love they pour forth is no less humbling than the material phenomena described above, yet rather than making one feel small and vulnerable it shows what potential for good there is in humanity when its energy and intellect is directed towards positive and affirming metaphysical ends.
One of the greatest challenges we have encountered since moving to Kinshasa is that of leaving “Planet Gombé,” as we fondly call our neighborhood, to experience something of the country besides the little corner of it devoted to the business of making, keeping, diverting, and spending money (both public and private). Travel to The Interior or The Bush, as it is invariably and self-importantly known, is uncommon for the diplomatic community with the exception of trips to hot spots such as Goma. Those who get to The Interior (I prefer this term to The Bush after our recently concluded political experiment) gain almost legendary status, and I enjoy being a legend as much as the next bureaucrat. Thus I am constantly plotting ways to leave Kinshasa and see something of this amazing, frustrating, entropic country.
Given that Kinshasa has approximately eight million residents but lacks any viable public transportation system, just leaving the city can be a challenge. Even if one is fortunate enough to have a vehicle, just leaving the city means hours of battling the traffic I have described in previous blogs. Once one successfully negotiates the anarchy of driving in Kinshasa, one is faced with the decayed to nonexistent road infrastructure in the countryside. A particular challenge is the country’s hydrology, which necessitates bridges or fords. The terrain does not lend itself to the latter, and the former require some semblance of upkeep, making either choice a chimera here. Thus, traveling overland any more than 100-200 kilometers in any direction is impractical, even in a 4x4. Given that the DRC is the size of Western Europe or the U.S. east of the Mississippi River, 200 kilometers hardly rates as The Interior. A dirt bike light enough to carry in a pirogue across the many streams and rivers one is bound to encounter remains an option for those with the time and energy, but your chronicler does not have a surfeit of either. Finding fuel for the dirt bike is another challenge, but the “invisible hand of the market” even operates in the bush, and one can, surprisingly, find fuel if one is willing to pay an exorbitant amount for it.
Leaving Kinshasa by boat would be another logical choice, particularly in light of the mythical status traveling the Congo River has achieved since the travels of Henry Morgan Stanley and the publication of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Alas, the would-be escapee from the capital will find this option as daunting as overland travel. Barges do depart from Kinshasa for points in The Interior, but it can take up to two months to travel to the last navigable point on the Congo River, Kisangani, and the trip is rife with dangers and frustrations. These include but are not limited to maintenance issues with the overworked and under-loved water craft, multiple groundings on sandbars, river pirates, extortion by unpaid security forces, the opportunity to come down with a host of tropical diseases, the utter lack of sanitation, and the frustration that will inevitably build from weeks of being asked for things: money, a house, one’s possessions, a wife, a visa to the U.S. (complete with plane ticket, college tuition, and free room and board at a family member’s house), etc. These requests seem outlandish, but at one point or another I have heard them all, and in a society in which the average person has nothing excess, requesting a piece of a wealthy mondele’s excess can seem fairly reasonable and part of the natural order of things. Thus boats are out for now, although I do intend to descend (twice as fast as the ascent) the Congo River from Kisangani at some point in this tour of duty.
That leaves one choice for travel into The Interior besides walking: air travel. The DRC is dotted with air strips, some of them simply flat places with mown grass or scraped dirt, and others Cold War relics capable of handling modern fighter aircraft and, famously in the case of Gbadolite, chartered Concorde jets that once whisked former president Desire Mobutu Sese Soko to Europe on a whim. Of the handful of air carriers serving the interior, even fewer offer much in the way of security and dependability. One of these options is the United Nations Mission in the Congo (MONUC), which offers space-available travel on its aircraft for official business. Since almost all of my travel in the DRC is official, I have exercised this option on several occasions to visit Kisangani and Goma and have described these trips in previous blogs. Dependable and serving a wide variety of locations in the Great Lakes Region, MONUC remains the mainstay of official domestic travel in the DRC and without it the diplomatic community could not function. For all of its worth, however, it logically focuses on areas where it has troops present, so the chance to visit a location that has nothing to do with peacekeeping is a rare one.
My next few blogs will describe a trip to The Interior, to a village called Kole, where we maintain a small research station studying Monkeypox with an eye towards developing a treatment for it. MONUC does not serve Kole, so I had the privilege of using an alternate air service: Mission Aviation Fellowship (MAF). I patronized MAF when we lived in Chad and was impressed with the professionalism, courage, and devotion of its staff and the excellent condition of their aircraft. My recent flight to Kole confirmed my opinion of the organization and the important work it does in a harsh and often unsafe environment.
The DRC is a humbling place on many levels: the power of nature, the scale of greed and corruption, the tyranny of distance, and the allure of violent means to achieve ends make one feel small and vulnerable. MAF, however, manifests another, greater, power: that of a single-minded and selfless service to God and humanity as old as the two Great Commandments. The love they pour forth is no less humbling than the material phenomena described above, yet rather than making one feel small and vulnerable it shows what potential for good there is in humanity when its energy and intellect is directed towards positive and affirming metaphysical ends.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
A Tale of Two Airports, Part I
Greetings from Kinshasa. I regret the delay in my posts, but we spent Christmas vacation in Cape Town, South Africa and I made the conscious decision to spend the time “unplugged” since I spend so much of my time on the computer at work and dealing with my dissertation. Compounding the delay are some problems with our home computer, which has recently fallen victim to some kind of mal-ware, and a week’s backlog of email at work. I would just call a computer doctor for the former problem but in Congo these are few and far between, so getting the computer fixed will prove to be an adventure, as is the case with most everything in Kinshasa. In fact, the mundane subject of this post is illustrative of the phenomenon and of the larger qualitative differences between the Congo and South Africa that we recently experienced. Air travel to and from the Congo in the best of circumstances is a journey reminiscent of moving through Dante’s circles of Hell, which I will rename Circles of Chaos out of respect for his more existential work. It’s Chaos in the mathematical sense, by the way, not just human entropy. There is a pattern to the apparent disorder here, I just can’t detect it quite yet. When I do it will be time to move on. . .
First, purchasing the ticket is an adventure, because the airlines serving South Africa do not accept credit cards or personal checks. Solution: request permission to cash a large check at the U.S. Embassy and then hand carry close to $3,000 in cash to the travel agent to receive a paper ticket. For those of you my age or greater, you may remember the paper tickets with the red carbon paper copies of which I write. This sounds simple, but the travel agent works in two different locations depending on the time of day and running around Kinshasa with that amount of cash on hand can be unsettling, at least at first. I now think nothing of large wads of cash in my pocket, since we inhabit the cash-based Circle of Chaos.
Paper tickets in hand, one must now ensure that one gets to the airport in time to avoid getting bumped off the plane. Much of the expatriate and Congolese communities flee Kinshasa to spend the Christmas season in South Africa, and the airlines routinely overbook the flight to ensure a full plane and maximum profits. Thus, it’s on to the airport at 0830 for a 1300 flight. The trip to the airport, which is approximately 30 kilometers from downtown Kinshasa, is one that never becomes routine. Each commune, analogous to a county district or city neighborhood, has its own character and specializes in some product or service. Lining the main road from Kinshasa to the airport is an area that the city’s planners, if there were any, must have intended as park or green space. In a city of eight million with poor transportation infrastructure and little in the way of a formal legal system to regulate property ownership, this land serves as an informal commons for businesses and markets. One passes through the metalworking area, with ersatz grills, hand made gates and racks of all shapes and sizes, and roadside welding stands. RayBans apparently pass for welding goggles here. Next is the used car sales and maintenance section, with everything from sleek Mercedes Benz sedans to used German and Dutch bread delivery trucks and ambulances. The latter will soon be converted into the ubiquitous and over-crowded minibuses that pass for public transportation here by welding seats to the floor and cutting “windows” about the size of portholes but minus the glass in the sides. Consider the heavy rains pouring in the “windows” a free shower. Next is an area devoted to growing produce, decorative plants, and making thatch roofs. Naturally, there is an area chock full of open air bars, with colorful murals adverting Primus, Skol, and Tembo, three of Congo’s most common beers. As interesting and revealing as the trip is, it sometimes takes up to two hours to travel the thirty kilometers thanks to the abysmal road conditions, lack of mass transportation, vehicles that randomly break down or run out of gas, and utter disregard that most drivers have for basic rules such as traveling in a lane or even on the road, yielding, and merging. As much as I try to adapt to Congolese time and not fret about missing the flight, I have yet to achieve the Zen-like state required to overcome my Western notions of time and space, so the worry engendered by the trip itself represents the deeper traffic Circle of Chaos, one to which I have alluded in earlier posts on commuting in the Congo.
U.S. Embassy vehicles are easily identifiable by their “CD” (Corps Diplomatique) plates and, typically, American origin. The moment one pulls in to the airport parking area the normally lethargic atmosphere turns electric as the large group of inevitably young males loitering about the place sprint towards the vehicle. The movement reminds one of the old roller derby competitions that used to air on Channel 17, the “SuperStation,” when I was growing up, as the only rule is to get to the vehicle first and shoving, tripping, and elbowing are just part of the game. Imagine their disappointment when everyone gets out of the vehicle with rolling baggage, which have no doubt become the bane of baggage porters everywhere across the developing world. After establishing the fact that we don’t need any assistance in rolling our bags to the terminal, recriminations, pleas for money, food, a visa to the U.S., a house, a job, a wife, a car, a bicycle, or any number of other requests ensue. These continue for the 200 meter walk from the car to the terminal, after which we show our tickets to a police officer, who lets us enter the inner sanctum after asking for money, food, a visa to the U.S., a house, a job, a wife, a car, a bicycle, or any number of other things. It is here that one encounters another and still deeper Circle of Chaos, that of relative meanings of property, ownership, and wealth. The policeman, who is poorly paid if he is paid at all, and the young men so eager to “help,” who fill no place in the country’s formal economy, view mondele of all stations as extraordinarily wealthy and the surplus wealth we so jealously guard as available on request. After all, what good is wealth that is stored away and not used? If it isn’t being used, it must be available for someone else. We are extraordinarily wealthy in the fiscal and material sense in a relative way, of course, and this Circle of Chaos is born of the cognitive dissonance created as “it’s mine, I earned it” clashes with “from each according to his ability” under the umbrella of “do unto others.”
The main (only) check-in terminal at the airport is a dome-shaped structure about the size of the Pantheon in Rome, but I doubt it will still be standing two millennia from now. At one time a fountain or statue must have stood at the center of the dome, but now all that is left are the decaying remnants of a foundation over which passengers and staff roughly tread. If one is new to the airport and is expecting to find signs or hear announcements indicating check-in times for one’s flight, one will be disappointed. The key, as in many things in the Congo, is to watch those around you for some kind of sign. Sure enough, after loitering around the “Pantheon” for an hour or so, there is a sudden movement towards the check-in counter reminiscent of that towards our vehicle upon entering the airport grounds, with the concomitant elbowing and shoving. One of the many privileges of diplomatic life is the “expeditor,” a host nation employee of the U.S. Embassy whose job is to assist the traveler through the departure and arrival process at the airport. Thus it is the hapless expeditor who joins the fray on your behalf, armed with your tickets, passports, an embassy badge, and a mixture of attitude, knowledge of the local language and culture, and connections. Meanwhile, one waits. This brings one to another Circle of Chaos: helpless waiting. After twenty years as a Ranger-trained cavalryman, paratrooper, and culturally-savvy civil affairs and foreign area officer who speaks the host country’s official language, it is in my professional DNA to act, yet acting in this case would only complicate the expeditor’s job and cause needless delay and frustration. Having been through the drill more than a few times, we have adjusted to waiting as a family fairly well, but I often travel with visitors from the other world: the one of linear time, orderly queues, credit cards, and mass transportation. Helpless waiting is not in the schema of these visitors, particularly senior ones, and as a result I vicariously visit this Circle of Chaos again and again in the course of my professional life.
Once check-in is complete and the nice customs official rifles our bags and requests money, food, a visa to the U.S., a house, a job, a wife, a car, a bicycle, or any number of other things, we can begin the climb out of the Circle of Chaos. In this case are again blessed with the chance to hang out in the Official Visitor’s Lounge, which is full of over-stuffed leather chairs and sofas, a large screen television showing Radio et Television Nationale du Congo, and relieved passengers. Once again, if one expects to be told when one’s plane is boarding one will be mistaken. Rather, the crowd surges to the door at some point and it’s “once more unto the breach” as a hundred “official” passengers attempt to squeeze through a single door to board the aircraft. In Part II I’ll compare and contrast this airport with the one in Johannesburg, South Africa. For now count your blessings the next time you are cooling your heels in some large, impersonal airport with operational bathrooms, coffee shops, and queues. Pax, Scott
First, purchasing the ticket is an adventure, because the airlines serving South Africa do not accept credit cards or personal checks. Solution: request permission to cash a large check at the U.S. Embassy and then hand carry close to $3,000 in cash to the travel agent to receive a paper ticket. For those of you my age or greater, you may remember the paper tickets with the red carbon paper copies of which I write. This sounds simple, but the travel agent works in two different locations depending on the time of day and running around Kinshasa with that amount of cash on hand can be unsettling, at least at first. I now think nothing of large wads of cash in my pocket, since we inhabit the cash-based Circle of Chaos.
Paper tickets in hand, one must now ensure that one gets to the airport in time to avoid getting bumped off the plane. Much of the expatriate and Congolese communities flee Kinshasa to spend the Christmas season in South Africa, and the airlines routinely overbook the flight to ensure a full plane and maximum profits. Thus, it’s on to the airport at 0830 for a 1300 flight. The trip to the airport, which is approximately 30 kilometers from downtown Kinshasa, is one that never becomes routine. Each commune, analogous to a county district or city neighborhood, has its own character and specializes in some product or service. Lining the main road from Kinshasa to the airport is an area that the city’s planners, if there were any, must have intended as park or green space. In a city of eight million with poor transportation infrastructure and little in the way of a formal legal system to regulate property ownership, this land serves as an informal commons for businesses and markets. One passes through the metalworking area, with ersatz grills, hand made gates and racks of all shapes and sizes, and roadside welding stands. RayBans apparently pass for welding goggles here. Next is the used car sales and maintenance section, with everything from sleek Mercedes Benz sedans to used German and Dutch bread delivery trucks and ambulances. The latter will soon be converted into the ubiquitous and over-crowded minibuses that pass for public transportation here by welding seats to the floor and cutting “windows” about the size of portholes but minus the glass in the sides. Consider the heavy rains pouring in the “windows” a free shower. Next is an area devoted to growing produce, decorative plants, and making thatch roofs. Naturally, there is an area chock full of open air bars, with colorful murals adverting Primus, Skol, and Tembo, three of Congo’s most common beers. As interesting and revealing as the trip is, it sometimes takes up to two hours to travel the thirty kilometers thanks to the abysmal road conditions, lack of mass transportation, vehicles that randomly break down or run out of gas, and utter disregard that most drivers have for basic rules such as traveling in a lane or even on the road, yielding, and merging. As much as I try to adapt to Congolese time and not fret about missing the flight, I have yet to achieve the Zen-like state required to overcome my Western notions of time and space, so the worry engendered by the trip itself represents the deeper traffic Circle of Chaos, one to which I have alluded in earlier posts on commuting in the Congo.
U.S. Embassy vehicles are easily identifiable by their “CD” (Corps Diplomatique) plates and, typically, American origin. The moment one pulls in to the airport parking area the normally lethargic atmosphere turns electric as the large group of inevitably young males loitering about the place sprint towards the vehicle. The movement reminds one of the old roller derby competitions that used to air on Channel 17, the “SuperStation,” when I was growing up, as the only rule is to get to the vehicle first and shoving, tripping, and elbowing are just part of the game. Imagine their disappointment when everyone gets out of the vehicle with rolling baggage, which have no doubt become the bane of baggage porters everywhere across the developing world. After establishing the fact that we don’t need any assistance in rolling our bags to the terminal, recriminations, pleas for money, food, a visa to the U.S., a house, a job, a wife, a car, a bicycle, or any number of other requests ensue. These continue for the 200 meter walk from the car to the terminal, after which we show our tickets to a police officer, who lets us enter the inner sanctum after asking for money, food, a visa to the U.S., a house, a job, a wife, a car, a bicycle, or any number of other things. It is here that one encounters another and still deeper Circle of Chaos, that of relative meanings of property, ownership, and wealth. The policeman, who is poorly paid if he is paid at all, and the young men so eager to “help,” who fill no place in the country’s formal economy, view mondele of all stations as extraordinarily wealthy and the surplus wealth we so jealously guard as available on request. After all, what good is wealth that is stored away and not used? If it isn’t being used, it must be available for someone else. We are extraordinarily wealthy in the fiscal and material sense in a relative way, of course, and this Circle of Chaos is born of the cognitive dissonance created as “it’s mine, I earned it” clashes with “from each according to his ability” under the umbrella of “do unto others.”
The main (only) check-in terminal at the airport is a dome-shaped structure about the size of the Pantheon in Rome, but I doubt it will still be standing two millennia from now. At one time a fountain or statue must have stood at the center of the dome, but now all that is left are the decaying remnants of a foundation over which passengers and staff roughly tread. If one is new to the airport and is expecting to find signs or hear announcements indicating check-in times for one’s flight, one will be disappointed. The key, as in many things in the Congo, is to watch those around you for some kind of sign. Sure enough, after loitering around the “Pantheon” for an hour or so, there is a sudden movement towards the check-in counter reminiscent of that towards our vehicle upon entering the airport grounds, with the concomitant elbowing and shoving. One of the many privileges of diplomatic life is the “expeditor,” a host nation employee of the U.S. Embassy whose job is to assist the traveler through the departure and arrival process at the airport. Thus it is the hapless expeditor who joins the fray on your behalf, armed with your tickets, passports, an embassy badge, and a mixture of attitude, knowledge of the local language and culture, and connections. Meanwhile, one waits. This brings one to another Circle of Chaos: helpless waiting. After twenty years as a Ranger-trained cavalryman, paratrooper, and culturally-savvy civil affairs and foreign area officer who speaks the host country’s official language, it is in my professional DNA to act, yet acting in this case would only complicate the expeditor’s job and cause needless delay and frustration. Having been through the drill more than a few times, we have adjusted to waiting as a family fairly well, but I often travel with visitors from the other world: the one of linear time, orderly queues, credit cards, and mass transportation. Helpless waiting is not in the schema of these visitors, particularly senior ones, and as a result I vicariously visit this Circle of Chaos again and again in the course of my professional life.
Once check-in is complete and the nice customs official rifles our bags and requests money, food, a visa to the U.S., a house, a job, a wife, a car, a bicycle, or any number of other things, we can begin the climb out of the Circle of Chaos. In this case are again blessed with the chance to hang out in the Official Visitor’s Lounge, which is full of over-stuffed leather chairs and sofas, a large screen television showing Radio et Television Nationale du Congo, and relieved passengers. Once again, if one expects to be told when one’s plane is boarding one will be mistaken. Rather, the crowd surges to the door at some point and it’s “once more unto the breach” as a hundred “official” passengers attempt to squeeze through a single door to board the aircraft. In Part II I’ll compare and contrast this airport with the one in Johannesburg, South Africa. For now count your blessings the next time you are cooling your heels in some large, impersonal airport with operational bathrooms, coffee shops, and queues. Pax, Scott
Monday, December 15, 2008
Christmas Tree Shopping. . . In Congo
This is my second post that separates a routine subject or activity with ellipses and the phrase, “in Congo.” Those who have had the distinct honor of serving out here will recognize the concept, if not the exact wording of this construction. Everyday events and activities take on new meanings out here, so ending most any phrase or sentence with ellipses and “in Africa” is weighted with meaning. I will use the purchase of a Christmas tree in Goma, Democratic Republic of the Congo as an example.
First, why purchase the tree in Goma rather than Kinshasa, a city sixteen times its size? Bottom line: price driven by supply and demand. An artificial tree in Goma cost me $40, where a similar tree purchased by Rebecca (I’m assuming its similar as I have yet to see it) cost about $140. Although Goma is in war zone and is besieged by rebels on all of the major routes leading to the town except for the one from Rwanda, most goods are substantially cheaper out here than in the capital. My new tree probably made its way from China to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, by boat and was transferred to a truck that drove across that country and through Rwanda before arriving at Goma’s Kivu Market (more about which later).
The tree Rebecca bought made its way from China by boat to the port at Pointe Noire, Republic of the Congo, at which point it was transferred to a smaller vessel and moved to a shallow-water port at Matadi, Democratic Republic of the Congo. From there it made its way via a creaky rail line or in a truck over tortured roads to Kinshasa to end up in the Express Plus Market, Hassan et Freres, or some similar store, or perhaps to a street vendor hopefully carrying it through the snarled traffic. The transportation costs were probably similar for both locations, but the cost of living at the two destinations could not be more different. Kinshasa, the world’s largest “francophone” city with approximately eight million inhabitants and considerable wealth (if in only a few hands), is a black hole of consumption that outpaces the pitiable transportation infrastructure available to deliver it.
Anyway, on to the tree search. Goma has hundreds of kiosks of various shapes and sizes but only one real store: Kivu Market. It is run by a Lebanese family, like so many successful businesses scattered across the continent in cities large and small. In a fit of ignorance of local happenings, I chose a Saturday just as school was letting out to do my shopping. As if that were not bad enough, Kivu Market was having a three-for-one special on chocolate cookies (imported from Lebanon, of course). The store, Goma’s largest but about the size of an American fast food restaurant, was jammed with a sea of white shirts and blue pants as students purchased dozens of boxes of cookies. I wedged myself in and took a walk around and discovered everything from a working butcher shop and bakery to toys, fitness gear, bicycles, medical supplies, clothes, and strollers (where one would use a stroller on Goma’s volcanic rock “roads” I have no idea). Unlike in Chad, where Lebanese stores were invariably patronized by expatriates, the store was full of young and old Congolese with a sprinkling of mzungu’s like myself.
After a quick look at the wares and the crowd I decided to move on to the purpose of my visit: an artificial sapin. The Christmas section was easily identified by the gaudy decorations and cacophony of competing holiday tunes emitting from a variety of swaying Santa’s, blinking wreaths, light-up nativity scenes, and the young Congolese man wearing a holiday vest and red ski cap. An elderly Congolese woman was scolding him because he wouldn’t demonstrate that the hula-dancing Santa she wanted to purchase actually worked. This attracted the attention of the Lebanese manager (invariably at hand), who had him open the box, insert batteries, and let Santa dance. This he did, to the delight of the customer, who snatched it away (complete with batteries), elbowed her way through the crowd of students waving their yellow cookie boxes at the hapless ladies manning the checkout counters, and left in triumph with the Santa hula-ing away in her arms.
After surveying the Christmas collection I regarded the trees. There was the obligatory white one and some tall ones that were too big for the aircraft I had to use to get back to Kinshasa. These were out. Then there was the tree whose needles blinked fuchsia, chartreuse, and turquoise to the tune of “Santa Clause is Coming to Town.” To add to the psychedelic color scheme was a garland of purple plastic cubes that spelled Merry Christmas, blinking each letter in turn. Between the flashing lights and the prospect of hearing “Santa Clause is Coming to Town” eternally repeated for the next month, I demurred on this choice. Then there were the artificial trees that look like somebody glued strips of Astroturf to coat hangers and stuck them in a wooden post. These didn’t pass muster, either.
Finally, like the little Christmas tree in the Charlie Brown special, I spied a simple green tree about five feet tall with decent looking fake needles. It’s only visible fault was the fake snow painted on the tips of the needles, but even this was done in a fairly subdued manner and the irony of buying a fake tree with fake snow on it in the Congo was appealing. Brightening at my find, I told the attendant that this was the tree for me and he told me it was fifty dollars. I explained that I was traveling on a plane and needed one still in the box if possible due to the size. This was above his level of authority, so next a succession of three other employees came to discuss the matter, invariably ending with the phrase “C’est pas normal” (most unusual). Apparently one buys the display tree in these parts, because they are already assembled and ready for use - it should not be left to the customer to make the effort (or so the Lebanese manager asserted).
Once we got past this intercultural moment the search for a tree in the box began. Clerks bustled in and out of the doors leading to the back, returning with a series of trees that had no resemblance to the one I wanted. After refusing to buy one I didn’t want several times, they agreed I could disassemble the display tree and purchase it. Next glitch: no price tag. Kivu Market is quite advanced in that it uses barcode scanners (this in a city without the most basic of public services). Without the price tag how do we know what to charge? I mentioned that the Christmas Clerk said it was fifty dollars, but his supervisor said it couldn’t be, because it had no price tag. At this point I had been in the store for more than an hour, but it is Einstein’s world out here and time is a relative thing. All the same it was time to move on the next meeting or whatever “important” thing I had on my schedule, so I broke the impasse by asking for the manager. The nice Lebanese man came over and said “forty-five dollars” and handed the attendant a chit that could be used to bypass the scanner. Victory, think I.
No so fast. I still need a box or bag large enough to hold the disassembled tree and ask the Christmas Clerk if he could find one. He jumps to it and returns proudly bearing a carton about the size of a hatbox. I point to the tree, which occupies a fairly large piece of the floor at this point and then to the little box, large enough to hold maybe three of the branches. Volume is not relative, at least at the speed of Africa, so I tell him I need a larger one. He shrugs and indicates that “y’a plus des cartons,” which I find as disingenuous as the waiters in the mess hall at West Point telling us they were out of hot water back in my cadet days. As I was about to just gather the scattered pieces of branch and trunk and carry it to my waiting vehicle I notice a case of diapers on the floor nearby. I ask if we can take them out and put them on the waiting shelf, which causes another flurry of clerks and “C’est pas normaling.” Enter the indefatigueable Lebanese manager, who exclaims, “Ici, le client est Roi!” (Here the customer is king!) and motions them to stock the shelves with the diapers and give me the box.
With minutes to spare I jam the various pieces into the box, which has already started decomposing after its arduous journey across east and central Africa. Naturally the main part of the trunk is a few centimeters too long, but in Africa such spatial problems are easily solved by punching a hole in the box and then taping around the stub sticking out of the box. It all fits (save the stub) and the Christmas Clerk does me the favor of wrapping it in several meters of packing tape, for which I am glad. Tomorrow as I board my airplane I will feel smug at the good bargain and the original packaging job. For years I have disdainfully watched passengers bound for Africa boarding their aircraft with a variety of random items with haphazard packaging. Now I join their ranks.
I guess I should end with something profound, but what can one say about a ninety-minute expedition to buy a Christmas tree? Perhaps the miracle of the market that they even exist in a place like Goma is one observation. The power of process and form over product and substance in bureaucracies across the continent, neatly contained in the phrase “C’est pas normal” is another. Most important, though is the unifying idea of the meaning of Christmas that transcends space, time, and culture: “Peace I bring you, not as the world giveth, but as do I.”
Pax,
Scott Womack
First, why purchase the tree in Goma rather than Kinshasa, a city sixteen times its size? Bottom line: price driven by supply and demand. An artificial tree in Goma cost me $40, where a similar tree purchased by Rebecca (I’m assuming its similar as I have yet to see it) cost about $140. Although Goma is in war zone and is besieged by rebels on all of the major routes leading to the town except for the one from Rwanda, most goods are substantially cheaper out here than in the capital. My new tree probably made its way from China to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, by boat and was transferred to a truck that drove across that country and through Rwanda before arriving at Goma’s Kivu Market (more about which later).
The tree Rebecca bought made its way from China by boat to the port at Pointe Noire, Republic of the Congo, at which point it was transferred to a smaller vessel and moved to a shallow-water port at Matadi, Democratic Republic of the Congo. From there it made its way via a creaky rail line or in a truck over tortured roads to Kinshasa to end up in the Express Plus Market, Hassan et Freres, or some similar store, or perhaps to a street vendor hopefully carrying it through the snarled traffic. The transportation costs were probably similar for both locations, but the cost of living at the two destinations could not be more different. Kinshasa, the world’s largest “francophone” city with approximately eight million inhabitants and considerable wealth (if in only a few hands), is a black hole of consumption that outpaces the pitiable transportation infrastructure available to deliver it.
Anyway, on to the tree search. Goma has hundreds of kiosks of various shapes and sizes but only one real store: Kivu Market. It is run by a Lebanese family, like so many successful businesses scattered across the continent in cities large and small. In a fit of ignorance of local happenings, I chose a Saturday just as school was letting out to do my shopping. As if that were not bad enough, Kivu Market was having a three-for-one special on chocolate cookies (imported from Lebanon, of course). The store, Goma’s largest but about the size of an American fast food restaurant, was jammed with a sea of white shirts and blue pants as students purchased dozens of boxes of cookies. I wedged myself in and took a walk around and discovered everything from a working butcher shop and bakery to toys, fitness gear, bicycles, medical supplies, clothes, and strollers (where one would use a stroller on Goma’s volcanic rock “roads” I have no idea). Unlike in Chad, where Lebanese stores were invariably patronized by expatriates, the store was full of young and old Congolese with a sprinkling of mzungu’s like myself.
After a quick look at the wares and the crowd I decided to move on to the purpose of my visit: an artificial sapin. The Christmas section was easily identified by the gaudy decorations and cacophony of competing holiday tunes emitting from a variety of swaying Santa’s, blinking wreaths, light-up nativity scenes, and the young Congolese man wearing a holiday vest and red ski cap. An elderly Congolese woman was scolding him because he wouldn’t demonstrate that the hula-dancing Santa she wanted to purchase actually worked. This attracted the attention of the Lebanese manager (invariably at hand), who had him open the box, insert batteries, and let Santa dance. This he did, to the delight of the customer, who snatched it away (complete with batteries), elbowed her way through the crowd of students waving their yellow cookie boxes at the hapless ladies manning the checkout counters, and left in triumph with the Santa hula-ing away in her arms.
After surveying the Christmas collection I regarded the trees. There was the obligatory white one and some tall ones that were too big for the aircraft I had to use to get back to Kinshasa. These were out. Then there was the tree whose needles blinked fuchsia, chartreuse, and turquoise to the tune of “Santa Clause is Coming to Town.” To add to the psychedelic color scheme was a garland of purple plastic cubes that spelled Merry Christmas, blinking each letter in turn. Between the flashing lights and the prospect of hearing “Santa Clause is Coming to Town” eternally repeated for the next month, I demurred on this choice. Then there were the artificial trees that look like somebody glued strips of Astroturf to coat hangers and stuck them in a wooden post. These didn’t pass muster, either.
Finally, like the little Christmas tree in the Charlie Brown special, I spied a simple green tree about five feet tall with decent looking fake needles. It’s only visible fault was the fake snow painted on the tips of the needles, but even this was done in a fairly subdued manner and the irony of buying a fake tree with fake snow on it in the Congo was appealing. Brightening at my find, I told the attendant that this was the tree for me and he told me it was fifty dollars. I explained that I was traveling on a plane and needed one still in the box if possible due to the size. This was above his level of authority, so next a succession of three other employees came to discuss the matter, invariably ending with the phrase “C’est pas normal” (most unusual). Apparently one buys the display tree in these parts, because they are already assembled and ready for use - it should not be left to the customer to make the effort (or so the Lebanese manager asserted).
Once we got past this intercultural moment the search for a tree in the box began. Clerks bustled in and out of the doors leading to the back, returning with a series of trees that had no resemblance to the one I wanted. After refusing to buy one I didn’t want several times, they agreed I could disassemble the display tree and purchase it. Next glitch: no price tag. Kivu Market is quite advanced in that it uses barcode scanners (this in a city without the most basic of public services). Without the price tag how do we know what to charge? I mentioned that the Christmas Clerk said it was fifty dollars, but his supervisor said it couldn’t be, because it had no price tag. At this point I had been in the store for more than an hour, but it is Einstein’s world out here and time is a relative thing. All the same it was time to move on the next meeting or whatever “important” thing I had on my schedule, so I broke the impasse by asking for the manager. The nice Lebanese man came over and said “forty-five dollars” and handed the attendant a chit that could be used to bypass the scanner. Victory, think I.
No so fast. I still need a box or bag large enough to hold the disassembled tree and ask the Christmas Clerk if he could find one. He jumps to it and returns proudly bearing a carton about the size of a hatbox. I point to the tree, which occupies a fairly large piece of the floor at this point and then to the little box, large enough to hold maybe three of the branches. Volume is not relative, at least at the speed of Africa, so I tell him I need a larger one. He shrugs and indicates that “y’a plus des cartons,” which I find as disingenuous as the waiters in the mess hall at West Point telling us they were out of hot water back in my cadet days. As I was about to just gather the scattered pieces of branch and trunk and carry it to my waiting vehicle I notice a case of diapers on the floor nearby. I ask if we can take them out and put them on the waiting shelf, which causes another flurry of clerks and “C’est pas normaling.” Enter the indefatigueable Lebanese manager, who exclaims, “Ici, le client est Roi!” (Here the customer is king!) and motions them to stock the shelves with the diapers and give me the box.
With minutes to spare I jam the various pieces into the box, which has already started decomposing after its arduous journey across east and central Africa. Naturally the main part of the trunk is a few centimeters too long, but in Africa such spatial problems are easily solved by punching a hole in the box and then taping around the stub sticking out of the box. It all fits (save the stub) and the Christmas Clerk does me the favor of wrapping it in several meters of packing tape, for which I am glad. Tomorrow as I board my airplane I will feel smug at the good bargain and the original packaging job. For years I have disdainfully watched passengers bound for Africa boarding their aircraft with a variety of random items with haphazard packaging. Now I join their ranks.
I guess I should end with something profound, but what can one say about a ninety-minute expedition to buy a Christmas tree? Perhaps the miracle of the market that they even exist in a place like Goma is one observation. The power of process and form over product and substance in bureaucracies across the continent, neatly contained in the phrase “C’est pas normal” is another. Most important, though is the unifying idea of the meaning of Christmas that transcends space, time, and culture: “Peace I bring you, not as the world giveth, but as do I.”
Pax,
Scott Womack
Saturday, December 13, 2008
A Tale of Two Cities. . . In the Congo
As I type this entry I am on a forty-passenger launch traversing Lake Kivu south to north listening to the Dixie Chicks and Alan Jackson on my iPod and, until just now, reading a Cormac McCarthy book, Blood Meridien. Both seem to fit this environment in their own way. The cities of Bukavu and Goma should have much in common, both being on the lake and within the borders of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, but the contrasts are stark for reasons both natural and man made.
Goma, on the northern shore of Lake Kivu, is the capital of North Kivu province and is for all practical purposes, a besieged city of about 500,000 locals and tens of thousands of expatriates. Rebels, both home grown and foreign-born, dot the landscape around Goma and control the major roads leading in to the city. The city itself is filled with white sports utility vehicles bustling hither and yon and bearing a myriad of nongovernmental organization logos and fluttering pennants tied to HF radio antennae. United Nations vehicles are the most visible single presence, which is not surprising given the scale of the task they have been given by the UN Security Council. Delegations of “disaster tourists” move about the city in convoys performing an endless litany of assessments and studies. Every third lakeside villa seems to have an NGO logo, and restaurants and hotels are consistently full of healthy expatriates drinking Primus, Mutzig, and Tembo beer. Sitting lakeside with one’s back to the city and facing a quiescent Rwanda just across the river, it is hard to imagine that a complex humanitarian problem is unfolding just meters away.
As one moves away from the lake and enters the popular quarters, the scenery changes to small shops and ateliers and a warren of shacks constructed of cinder block and volcanic rock. Evidence of the 2005 eruption of the nearby volcano is everywhere once one leaves the shores of the lake. The lava flow still runs right through town and across one end of the airport’s runway, rendering one third of it unusable. Driving on the lava flows is the worst ride I have experienced on the continent, and that says much given my previous travels here. The streets are full of people, all but the most destitute well dressed and amazingly clean given the ubiquitous black mud resulting from the heavy rains and volcanic soil. Public transportation in Goma consists mostly of motorcycles, which one can ride pillion-style to almost any part of the city for fifty cents. The ride is worth doing once, but dodging the crevices, potholes, mud, and SUV’s makes for an uncomfortable and dangerous experience.
Bukavu, on the other end of the lake, looks quite similar at first glance, but is a world apart. Although there are ample rebels present in the areas around the city, active combat has been sporadic at most and all sides concerned appear content to make money from the ample mineral and forest wealth in the area rather than ruining a good thing with combat. Goma exhibits a palpable level of stress as a result of the proximity of active fighting and the host of evils that attend it: rape, looting, random violence, disease, forced recruitment. . . the list goes on and is a chronicle of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. I use the masculine purposefully, as women in the region, save for a few extremists left over from the 1994 Rwandan genocide, are the victims and just want to be left alone to their families, their work, their communities, and their churches.
Anyway, Bukavu is a city of trade; waypoint for the gold, tin, coltan, charcoal, and timber that attract government entities, rebel groups, and businesses from across the globe. Although its roads are in pitiable condition, as most elsewhere in the country, they are choked with local traffic with only the occasional UN or NGO vehicle evident. Restaurants in Bukavu abound and cater to all types of customers, not just wealthy expatriates. Barges arriving at the various ports discharge a wide variety of wares, which are unloaded by hand and transported to markets in the city in a variety of ways: on the backs and heads of young and old, male and female, on wooden carts, and in vehicles in varying states of disrepair. The rich volcanic soil in the area makes this the DRC’s breadbasket, but one that is too far from Kinshasa to benefit either the residents of the city of eight million or the farmers who grow a wide variety of high quality produce. Cabbage heads the size of basketballs, beautiful vine-ripe tomatoes, bananas, pineapples, and all kinds of produce, all of it organic, are available in Bukavu for a pittance but cost the denizens of Kinshasa a mint. A rail line to Kisangani, last navigable point on the Congo River, and dredging and marking the river between it an Kinshasa would open up amazing possibilities, but the cost and complexity of such an operation would rival the Panama Canal and is simply out of reach for the time being.
Boat ride’s over, so I’ll close the blog here. Once the instability in the area dies down and normal air service resumes in eastern Congo, both cities can easily support a healthy tourist industry. The scenery is amazing, and in the space of one week one could easily visit a lake of lava, see highland and lowland gorillas, ski or sail on Lake Kivu, and enjoy the pleasant climate, fresh organic food, and the company of the invariably friendly, open locals.
Pax,
Scott Womack
Goma, on the northern shore of Lake Kivu, is the capital of North Kivu province and is for all practical purposes, a besieged city of about 500,000 locals and tens of thousands of expatriates. Rebels, both home grown and foreign-born, dot the landscape around Goma and control the major roads leading in to the city. The city itself is filled with white sports utility vehicles bustling hither and yon and bearing a myriad of nongovernmental organization logos and fluttering pennants tied to HF radio antennae. United Nations vehicles are the most visible single presence, which is not surprising given the scale of the task they have been given by the UN Security Council. Delegations of “disaster tourists” move about the city in convoys performing an endless litany of assessments and studies. Every third lakeside villa seems to have an NGO logo, and restaurants and hotels are consistently full of healthy expatriates drinking Primus, Mutzig, and Tembo beer. Sitting lakeside with one’s back to the city and facing a quiescent Rwanda just across the river, it is hard to imagine that a complex humanitarian problem is unfolding just meters away.
As one moves away from the lake and enters the popular quarters, the scenery changes to small shops and ateliers and a warren of shacks constructed of cinder block and volcanic rock. Evidence of the 2005 eruption of the nearby volcano is everywhere once one leaves the shores of the lake. The lava flow still runs right through town and across one end of the airport’s runway, rendering one third of it unusable. Driving on the lava flows is the worst ride I have experienced on the continent, and that says much given my previous travels here. The streets are full of people, all but the most destitute well dressed and amazingly clean given the ubiquitous black mud resulting from the heavy rains and volcanic soil. Public transportation in Goma consists mostly of motorcycles, which one can ride pillion-style to almost any part of the city for fifty cents. The ride is worth doing once, but dodging the crevices, potholes, mud, and SUV’s makes for an uncomfortable and dangerous experience.
Bukavu, on the other end of the lake, looks quite similar at first glance, but is a world apart. Although there are ample rebels present in the areas around the city, active combat has been sporadic at most and all sides concerned appear content to make money from the ample mineral and forest wealth in the area rather than ruining a good thing with combat. Goma exhibits a palpable level of stress as a result of the proximity of active fighting and the host of evils that attend it: rape, looting, random violence, disease, forced recruitment. . . the list goes on and is a chronicle of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. I use the masculine purposefully, as women in the region, save for a few extremists left over from the 1994 Rwandan genocide, are the victims and just want to be left alone to their families, their work, their communities, and their churches.
Anyway, Bukavu is a city of trade; waypoint for the gold, tin, coltan, charcoal, and timber that attract government entities, rebel groups, and businesses from across the globe. Although its roads are in pitiable condition, as most elsewhere in the country, they are choked with local traffic with only the occasional UN or NGO vehicle evident. Restaurants in Bukavu abound and cater to all types of customers, not just wealthy expatriates. Barges arriving at the various ports discharge a wide variety of wares, which are unloaded by hand and transported to markets in the city in a variety of ways: on the backs and heads of young and old, male and female, on wooden carts, and in vehicles in varying states of disrepair. The rich volcanic soil in the area makes this the DRC’s breadbasket, but one that is too far from Kinshasa to benefit either the residents of the city of eight million or the farmers who grow a wide variety of high quality produce. Cabbage heads the size of basketballs, beautiful vine-ripe tomatoes, bananas, pineapples, and all kinds of produce, all of it organic, are available in Bukavu for a pittance but cost the denizens of Kinshasa a mint. A rail line to Kisangani, last navigable point on the Congo River, and dredging and marking the river between it an Kinshasa would open up amazing possibilities, but the cost and complexity of such an operation would rival the Panama Canal and is simply out of reach for the time being.
Boat ride’s over, so I’ll close the blog here. Once the instability in the area dies down and normal air service resumes in eastern Congo, both cities can easily support a healthy tourist industry. The scenery is amazing, and in the space of one week one could easily visit a lake of lava, see highland and lowland gorillas, ski or sail on Lake Kivu, and enjoy the pleasant climate, fresh organic food, and the company of the invariably friendly, open locals.
Pax,
Scott Womack
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Kigali, 12 Years Later
Greetings from Goma, in the eastern portion of the Democratic Republic of the Congo. This is a bit surreal: I'm sitting on the peaceful shores of Lake Kivu listening to David Gray on my iPod and sending this post while only a few kilometers away the country is locked in a civil war and the complex humanitarian emergency that begot it. We're here to help in whatever small ways we can, so my posts will be a bit irregular because internet access is even more spotty out here than it is in Kinshasa.
As a result of the trip I will take a diversion from my series on the contrasts inherent in life in Kinshasa and describe a trip to Kigali, Rwanda and Goma, in the eastern portion of the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). One of the many compensations of my current lifestyle is the opportunity to travel and meet people from all walks of life in a wide variety of circumstances. In this particular case I was escorting a group of visitors to the region, which adds an interesting, and often frustrating, dimension to travel.
The trip began, as most of them in the DRC do owing to the lack of useable roads or navigable waterways, with a trip to the airport. By now the sights, sounds, and smells of the 20 kilometer journey have become commonplace, but with a dozen boisterous and inquisitive visitors along I have the opportunity to view the city anew and comment on the goings-on in Kinshasa on a Saturday morning. As with every morning, the city is full of people on the move and on the make. Markets are full of gesticulating customers and merchants haggling over their wares, the roads are choked with pedestrians and cars and vans crammed with passengers, and police convoys careen through the crowded streets escorting Big Men. Strangely for a city of 8 million where few can afford a car, there are not many bicycles or mopeds, perhaps due to the pervasive rain and poor drainage on the roads. Some communes (neighborhoods) are cleaning house this day, and women (invariably) are hard at work sweeping the streets with hand brooms made of reeds tied together in a bundle and shoveling the ubiquitous garbage into piles for collection, one hopes, later.
Upon arrival at the airport an embassy employee takes our passports and deals with the customs and immigration formalities while we cool our heels in the VIP lounge. To enter, we must first go through some security theater: our carry-on baggage is x-rayed and we must pass through the metal detector. My fellow passengers fret because they have pocketknives, bottled water, and other contraband on their persons owing to our use of a U.S. Air Force C-130 Hercules rather than commercial air. Not to worry, the guards let it all through without a shrug but must still go through the process. Form trumps substance at airports all over the world, so in this the Congo is not unique.
After the “security” check we move to the tarmac and weave through a jumble of cargo and passenger aircraft parked randomly on the ramp, some of which move without warning or ground guides. After a few minutes’ wait we board the aircraft to head east and sit on nylon benches in the forward portion of the aircraft. After having spent seven years of my Army career as a paratrooper, it is odd to board the aircraft via the front door instead of the ramp, and to do so without a parachute and 100 pounds of gear dangling from the harness. The C130 has a unique smell, and this triggers a host of memories of past experiences that have been softened by the passage of time. The scene is as familiar to me as my kitchen, except for the prevalence of iPod’s (to include mine) among the crew and my fellow travelers. A certain mixture of nonchalance and attention as the engines rev for takeoff, followed by immediate movement to sleeping, reading, and feeding stations in various corners of the aircraft ensues.
The flight is uneventful and the aircraft flies over a sea of trees the size of Western Europe, dotted by the occasional village evident by the red clay and shiny metal roofs of its residents. As one flies east the terrain is increasing hilly until the volcanoes that give the region its unique topography and fertile soil are evident. The sea of trees gives way to a sea of terraced farming plots as we cross over into Rwanda, the most densely populated country in Africa and a microcosm of the continent’s dreams and nightmares.
Arrival at Kigali’s sleepy airport is a stark contrast to our chaotic departure from Kinshasa’s and is only the beginning of a series of stark contrasts with the giant country to the west today, or even Rwanda itself twelve years ago. I was last in Rwanda in 1996, when approximately one million refugees returned to the country from then-Zaire in the space of two weeks. At that time the ramp was chockablock with aircraft supporting UN and nongovernmental organizations that were assisting; now the ramp was empty save for our aircraft and one cargo aircraft discharging its goods. A landlocked country with mountainous terrain and no riverine or rail network, Rwanda must import a large proportion of its goods via air, causing transportation costs to account for approximately 45% of any imported good.
The Kigali Airport’s terminal is the same one through which I processed in 1996, but the differences are striking this time. The customs and immigration authorities now speak English rather than French, and work with a quiet, polite professionalism that was unseen previously, only two years after the Rwandan genocide claimed over 800,000 victims. Gone was the bullet-shattered glass and pock-marked facade of the building; all was now in order, clean, and functioning properly. Shiny taxis with registration numbers awaited arriving passengers rather than the motley collection of vehicles normally found at airports on the continent.
Most striking, perhaps, was the utter lack of garbage evident as we departed the airport and moved to our hotel. Particularly noteworthy was the absence of plastic bags floating in the breeze and getting snagged in trees, which we called the “national bird of Rwanda” in 1996 and are the bane of African cities across the continent. The Government of Rwanda has abolished plastic bags and is persuading its citizens and international visitors to use canvas or traditional tote bags woven from reeds or grass in lieu of the unsightly, expensive, and environmentally damaging plastic ones.
Even in these moments of first (re)impressions I note change and continuity at work. During my last visit I was impressed by the discipline, focus, and hard work exhibited by the Rwandan people of all levels as they were in the process of rebuilding their shattered country. This continuity has brought about a striking change in Kigali’s appearance only fourteen years after genocide and civil war ripped the city apart. What remains unknown, and is perhaps unknowable, is whether or not the fundamental ontological change necessary to remove the root causes of genocide and internecine conflict in the hearts and minds of Rwanda’s citizenry is progressing as rapidly as the physical changes in Kigali. More to follow from Rwanda and Goma.
Pax,
Scott Womack
As a result of the trip I will take a diversion from my series on the contrasts inherent in life in Kinshasa and describe a trip to Kigali, Rwanda and Goma, in the eastern portion of the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). One of the many compensations of my current lifestyle is the opportunity to travel and meet people from all walks of life in a wide variety of circumstances. In this particular case I was escorting a group of visitors to the region, which adds an interesting, and often frustrating, dimension to travel.
The trip began, as most of them in the DRC do owing to the lack of useable roads or navigable waterways, with a trip to the airport. By now the sights, sounds, and smells of the 20 kilometer journey have become commonplace, but with a dozen boisterous and inquisitive visitors along I have the opportunity to view the city anew and comment on the goings-on in Kinshasa on a Saturday morning. As with every morning, the city is full of people on the move and on the make. Markets are full of gesticulating customers and merchants haggling over their wares, the roads are choked with pedestrians and cars and vans crammed with passengers, and police convoys careen through the crowded streets escorting Big Men. Strangely for a city of 8 million where few can afford a car, there are not many bicycles or mopeds, perhaps due to the pervasive rain and poor drainage on the roads. Some communes (neighborhoods) are cleaning house this day, and women (invariably) are hard at work sweeping the streets with hand brooms made of reeds tied together in a bundle and shoveling the ubiquitous garbage into piles for collection, one hopes, later.
Upon arrival at the airport an embassy employee takes our passports and deals with the customs and immigration formalities while we cool our heels in the VIP lounge. To enter, we must first go through some security theater: our carry-on baggage is x-rayed and we must pass through the metal detector. My fellow passengers fret because they have pocketknives, bottled water, and other contraband on their persons owing to our use of a U.S. Air Force C-130 Hercules rather than commercial air. Not to worry, the guards let it all through without a shrug but must still go through the process. Form trumps substance at airports all over the world, so in this the Congo is not unique.
After the “security” check we move to the tarmac and weave through a jumble of cargo and passenger aircraft parked randomly on the ramp, some of which move without warning or ground guides. After a few minutes’ wait we board the aircraft to head east and sit on nylon benches in the forward portion of the aircraft. After having spent seven years of my Army career as a paratrooper, it is odd to board the aircraft via the front door instead of the ramp, and to do so without a parachute and 100 pounds of gear dangling from the harness. The C130 has a unique smell, and this triggers a host of memories of past experiences that have been softened by the passage of time. The scene is as familiar to me as my kitchen, except for the prevalence of iPod’s (to include mine) among the crew and my fellow travelers. A certain mixture of nonchalance and attention as the engines rev for takeoff, followed by immediate movement to sleeping, reading, and feeding stations in various corners of the aircraft ensues.
The flight is uneventful and the aircraft flies over a sea of trees the size of Western Europe, dotted by the occasional village evident by the red clay and shiny metal roofs of its residents. As one flies east the terrain is increasing hilly until the volcanoes that give the region its unique topography and fertile soil are evident. The sea of trees gives way to a sea of terraced farming plots as we cross over into Rwanda, the most densely populated country in Africa and a microcosm of the continent’s dreams and nightmares.
Arrival at Kigali’s sleepy airport is a stark contrast to our chaotic departure from Kinshasa’s and is only the beginning of a series of stark contrasts with the giant country to the west today, or even Rwanda itself twelve years ago. I was last in Rwanda in 1996, when approximately one million refugees returned to the country from then-Zaire in the space of two weeks. At that time the ramp was chockablock with aircraft supporting UN and nongovernmental organizations that were assisting; now the ramp was empty save for our aircraft and one cargo aircraft discharging its goods. A landlocked country with mountainous terrain and no riverine or rail network, Rwanda must import a large proportion of its goods via air, causing transportation costs to account for approximately 45% of any imported good.
The Kigali Airport’s terminal is the same one through which I processed in 1996, but the differences are striking this time. The customs and immigration authorities now speak English rather than French, and work with a quiet, polite professionalism that was unseen previously, only two years after the Rwandan genocide claimed over 800,000 victims. Gone was the bullet-shattered glass and pock-marked facade of the building; all was now in order, clean, and functioning properly. Shiny taxis with registration numbers awaited arriving passengers rather than the motley collection of vehicles normally found at airports on the continent.
Most striking, perhaps, was the utter lack of garbage evident as we departed the airport and moved to our hotel. Particularly noteworthy was the absence of plastic bags floating in the breeze and getting snagged in trees, which we called the “national bird of Rwanda” in 1996 and are the bane of African cities across the continent. The Government of Rwanda has abolished plastic bags and is persuading its citizens and international visitors to use canvas or traditional tote bags woven from reeds or grass in lieu of the unsightly, expensive, and environmentally damaging plastic ones.
Even in these moments of first (re)impressions I note change and continuity at work. During my last visit I was impressed by the discipline, focus, and hard work exhibited by the Rwandan people of all levels as they were in the process of rebuilding their shattered country. This continuity has brought about a striking change in Kigali’s appearance only fourteen years after genocide and civil war ripped the city apart. What remains unknown, and is perhaps unknowable, is whether or not the fundamental ontological change necessary to remove the root causes of genocide and internecine conflict in the hearts and minds of Rwanda’s citizenry is progressing as rapidly as the physical changes in Kigali. More to follow from Rwanda and Goma.
Pax,
Scott Womack
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Ceremony, Congo-style
One of the recompenses of life as a defense the attaché is the privilege of being invited to every major ceremonial event involving the host nation’s military. In defiance of the concept that all ceremonies are created equal, as with almost any idea originating from the West, Africa never fails to produce something in the “completely different” category. Such was the case this Thanksgiving as I bundled up in my green wool Class A uniform to join my colleagues in the sweltering heat of a Central African morning to watch the spectacle of a new Armed Forces Chief of Staff swearing-in ceremony unfold.
The first issue confronting anyone involving ceremonies in this part of the world is trying to figure out when, or if, they are actually happening. Invitations typically arrive the day of or the day after the event, so the usual modus operandi is to ask several sources from the host nation military and other embassies when rumor of a ceremony begins to circulate. This usually results in a variety of times, locations, and dates based on radio trottoir, or what the U.S. military refers to as the rumor mill. If it appears that there is a greater than even chance that the event is going to occur one must next consider the arrival time. Invitations, when received, normally have the attaché community arriving two hours prior to the start of the ceremony if it is one presided over by the Minister of Defense or President. Having arrived “on time” exactly once, in Chad, to find the venue empty except for the hapless soldiers in formation standing in the blazing sun on black pavement as their officers lounged in the shade of trees, I now arrive about 15 minutes prior to the stated time the Minister of Defense is supposed to be there, which is about average for the diplomatic community.
Arrival at the event is fairly low key once one gets through the cordon of Kalashnikov-toting guards wearing the ubiquitous sunglasses (even indoors), who look like extras from Blood Diamond or The Last King of Scotland. There is an obligatory metal detector which I inevitably set off owing to the Army bling I have earned over the years and my mound of pocket litter: cell phone, pocket knife, digital camera, keys, bottle opener, etc. I have learned to disregard both the guards and the metal detector and simply keep moving, which has yet to generate any reaction from anyone. Parenthetically, this tactic works well in most situations on the continent, particularly when in uniform: keep moving purposefully and the assumption is that whatever you are up to is authorized. Anyway, after the security theater a protocol representative in an expensive suit (you can tell because the label is always left on the sleeve as proof) and a bad tie (I once encountered a general in Chad sporting a Simpson’s tie with a mooning Bart exclaiming, “Eat my shorts, man” on it) carefully scrutinizes one’s invitation (as if it was the Oscars) and grudgingly lets you pass to an invariably attractive and colorfully dressed protocol assistant, who helps you to your seat.
Seats are marked with name plates, which the authorities remove upon delivering you to the bleachers, while remaining name plates are left out to expose to public censure those who dared to skip the important event. At this point the soldiers have been standing in the sun for two to three hours but, stoic and inured to these conditions as they are, I have yet to see one fall out or require assistance. Small talk with fellow attaché’s and diplomats follows until the tocsin heralds the arrival of the first of a series of Big Men.
Big Men are a feature of the landscape here, as they are in most places. Africa, however, treats them with a certain panache found lacking in the West. The first indication that someone important is coming is the sound of sirens coming closer, followed by a cloud of police on motorcycles sporting jackboots and white helmets and gauntlets. As they escort the Big Man they take both hands off of the handlebars to signal motorists off the road, all while dodging the potholes, pools of oil, piles of sand, and the other random detritus that litter African roads. After the motorcycles whiz by, bugles blare, commands are shouted, and protocol and press representatives rush to the arriving limousine, usually a black Mercedes surrounded by SUV’s and pickup trucks carrying squads of more of the Kalashnikov-toting extras evoked above. Upon arrival, the Big Man inspects the troops in a cursory manner to jazz music played in martial style while walking on a long red carpet upon which no mere mortal has trod. I once had the temerity to step on it because to otherwise get across it one had to leap, which was an insult to what little dignity I retain. For this I was scolded by the protocol assistant, who had somehow levitated over it in her form-fitting dress. After reviewing the troops, the Big Man moves to the seating area and occasionally nods to waiting dignitaries before sitting in the Big Man chair, often a gaudy, gilded contraption with a red velvet seat. Having sat in one of these a time or two, they are not as comfortable as they look, especially when covered in vinyl slip covers (Ginsu knife not included).
The ceremony itself unfolds like many of those one encounters in the West, with some interesting twists. The band strives mightily to sound martial but more closely resembles a struggling high school marching band. Africans are amazing musicians, but too often the band’s attempts at John Philips Sousa are as pathetic as my own attempts at playing Senegalese, Lingala, or Cape Verdian music. In the case of my latest ceremony the troops passed in review to the tune of Marching through Georgia, an old American Civil War tune about Sherman’s 1864 march to the sea, and Stephen Foster’s Old Folks at Home, a.k.a., Sewanee River. I couldn’t figure out whether or not they were trying to make a statement with their choice of music but decided against it; they just liked the way the tunes sounded. The Foster tune, with its minstrel lyrics, “All de world am sad an dreary. . .” was particularly ironic, although I doubt any other than a few Americans was aware of the song’s theme or cultural setting.
The parade portion also proceeds as one would expect, but with its own character. First the troops march past in formations composed of the various services: the Army, in matching uniforms but a mix-match of weapons in various stages of decay; the Air Force, which has exactly one operational aircraft (the President’s), the Navy, which has exactly zero operational seagoing vessels but does have speedboats for the river and matching AK-47’s, and the Republican Guard, pride of the Armed Forces. The latter goose step and chant as they pass the reviewing stand, which I still find disturbing after all of the WWII books I read growing up and the unit’s reputation as being hard cases.
The parade ends with the band marching past and the drum major performing tricks with his baton to the delight of the crowd, who hoot and ululate in approval. Tossing it up and spinning it around are the usual feats, but my last ceremony included the drum major balancing the baton on his chin while marching in step and performing 180 degree turns. It was impressive, if more appropriate for a circus act than a formal military ceremony in the eyes of a Western-trained officer. The final bit of spice was the drum major salute as the band passed the reviewing stand. Granted that the drum major’s baton is a phallic symbol, but any pretense at subtlety was lost with as the salute consisted of placing the rounded end of the baton in the crotch and pointing it straight up as the drum major passes the VIP section. The inference was clear enough. . .
If you have made it this far then the cocktail is your reward. If the Big Man stays for the cocktail he is mobbed by attendees as his security details tries valiantly – and in vain – to keep them away. What they talk about I have no idea; I have never joined the fracas to find out. The food itself is standard diplomatic fare for this part of the world: brochettes, samosas, meatballs, egg rolls, etc, all with a nice covering of flies such that the food containers appear to move from a distance. I left my squeamishness behind at my first big ceremony, Chad’s National Day in 2002, so am unimpressed by the flies. Drinks are invariably large local lager beers or soft drinks served by the same colorfully dressed protocol assistants that seated the attendees. Nobody leaves before the Big Man, who departs to blaring sirens and revving engines in a cloud of dust and exhaust from poorly maintained diesel engines. At this point it is wise to exit, because the troops that spent up to five hours standing around in formation are inevitably hovering around the edges of the party like jackals waiting for their chance at the carcass left by their officers, the lions. At some unheralded point, the officers abruptly leave and their soldiers storm the tables in a flurry of elbows and shoving. Weapons are forgotten and left lying around like my kids’ Lego’s (not that they would be any more dangerous than Lego’s given their condition and the lack of ammunition available to the average soldier.) To avoid getting trampled I try to exit after the Big Man but before the officers leave, a feat of timing that requires extraordinary situational awareness as events turn very suddenly here.
After it’s all over I return home to air out my soaking wet wool uniform and consider how it is a metaphor for the slow evolution from the Cold War mentality that permeates our military culture. An expeditionary Army should have expeditionary uniforms, even for ceremonies, and I covet the poplin or tropical wool uniforms many of my colleagues sport. Then again, here I am attending ceremonies and eating and drinking for my country while my peers are in full battle gear in both literal and figurative hot zones. At the end of day and all of its maddening humor, I owe more than I can pay and am honored to be able to represent my country and my Army in this sweltering outpost of America’s foreign policy.
The first issue confronting anyone involving ceremonies in this part of the world is trying to figure out when, or if, they are actually happening. Invitations typically arrive the day of or the day after the event, so the usual modus operandi is to ask several sources from the host nation military and other embassies when rumor of a ceremony begins to circulate. This usually results in a variety of times, locations, and dates based on radio trottoir, or what the U.S. military refers to as the rumor mill. If it appears that there is a greater than even chance that the event is going to occur one must next consider the arrival time. Invitations, when received, normally have the attaché community arriving two hours prior to the start of the ceremony if it is one presided over by the Minister of Defense or President. Having arrived “on time” exactly once, in Chad, to find the venue empty except for the hapless soldiers in formation standing in the blazing sun on black pavement as their officers lounged in the shade of trees, I now arrive about 15 minutes prior to the stated time the Minister of Defense is supposed to be there, which is about average for the diplomatic community.
Arrival at the event is fairly low key once one gets through the cordon of Kalashnikov-toting guards wearing the ubiquitous sunglasses (even indoors), who look like extras from Blood Diamond or The Last King of Scotland. There is an obligatory metal detector which I inevitably set off owing to the Army bling I have earned over the years and my mound of pocket litter: cell phone, pocket knife, digital camera, keys, bottle opener, etc. I have learned to disregard both the guards and the metal detector and simply keep moving, which has yet to generate any reaction from anyone. Parenthetically, this tactic works well in most situations on the continent, particularly when in uniform: keep moving purposefully and the assumption is that whatever you are up to is authorized. Anyway, after the security theater a protocol representative in an expensive suit (you can tell because the label is always left on the sleeve as proof) and a bad tie (I once encountered a general in Chad sporting a Simpson’s tie with a mooning Bart exclaiming, “Eat my shorts, man” on it) carefully scrutinizes one’s invitation (as if it was the Oscars) and grudgingly lets you pass to an invariably attractive and colorfully dressed protocol assistant, who helps you to your seat.
Seats are marked with name plates, which the authorities remove upon delivering you to the bleachers, while remaining name plates are left out to expose to public censure those who dared to skip the important event. At this point the soldiers have been standing in the sun for two to three hours but, stoic and inured to these conditions as they are, I have yet to see one fall out or require assistance. Small talk with fellow attaché’s and diplomats follows until the tocsin heralds the arrival of the first of a series of Big Men.
Big Men are a feature of the landscape here, as they are in most places. Africa, however, treats them with a certain panache found lacking in the West. The first indication that someone important is coming is the sound of sirens coming closer, followed by a cloud of police on motorcycles sporting jackboots and white helmets and gauntlets. As they escort the Big Man they take both hands off of the handlebars to signal motorists off the road, all while dodging the potholes, pools of oil, piles of sand, and the other random detritus that litter African roads. After the motorcycles whiz by, bugles blare, commands are shouted, and protocol and press representatives rush to the arriving limousine, usually a black Mercedes surrounded by SUV’s and pickup trucks carrying squads of more of the Kalashnikov-toting extras evoked above. Upon arrival, the Big Man inspects the troops in a cursory manner to jazz music played in martial style while walking on a long red carpet upon which no mere mortal has trod. I once had the temerity to step on it because to otherwise get across it one had to leap, which was an insult to what little dignity I retain. For this I was scolded by the protocol assistant, who had somehow levitated over it in her form-fitting dress. After reviewing the troops, the Big Man moves to the seating area and occasionally nods to waiting dignitaries before sitting in the Big Man chair, often a gaudy, gilded contraption with a red velvet seat. Having sat in one of these a time or two, they are not as comfortable as they look, especially when covered in vinyl slip covers (Ginsu knife not included).
The ceremony itself unfolds like many of those one encounters in the West, with some interesting twists. The band strives mightily to sound martial but more closely resembles a struggling high school marching band. Africans are amazing musicians, but too often the band’s attempts at John Philips Sousa are as pathetic as my own attempts at playing Senegalese, Lingala, or Cape Verdian music. In the case of my latest ceremony the troops passed in review to the tune of Marching through Georgia, an old American Civil War tune about Sherman’s 1864 march to the sea, and Stephen Foster’s Old Folks at Home, a.k.a., Sewanee River. I couldn’t figure out whether or not they were trying to make a statement with their choice of music but decided against it; they just liked the way the tunes sounded. The Foster tune, with its minstrel lyrics, “All de world am sad an dreary. . .” was particularly ironic, although I doubt any other than a few Americans was aware of the song’s theme or cultural setting.
The parade portion also proceeds as one would expect, but with its own character. First the troops march past in formations composed of the various services: the Army, in matching uniforms but a mix-match of weapons in various stages of decay; the Air Force, which has exactly one operational aircraft (the President’s), the Navy, which has exactly zero operational seagoing vessels but does have speedboats for the river and matching AK-47’s, and the Republican Guard, pride of the Armed Forces. The latter goose step and chant as they pass the reviewing stand, which I still find disturbing after all of the WWII books I read growing up and the unit’s reputation as being hard cases.
The parade ends with the band marching past and the drum major performing tricks with his baton to the delight of the crowd, who hoot and ululate in approval. Tossing it up and spinning it around are the usual feats, but my last ceremony included the drum major balancing the baton on his chin while marching in step and performing 180 degree turns. It was impressive, if more appropriate for a circus act than a formal military ceremony in the eyes of a Western-trained officer. The final bit of spice was the drum major salute as the band passed the reviewing stand. Granted that the drum major’s baton is a phallic symbol, but any pretense at subtlety was lost with as the salute consisted of placing the rounded end of the baton in the crotch and pointing it straight up as the drum major passes the VIP section. The inference was clear enough. . .
If you have made it this far then the cocktail is your reward. If the Big Man stays for the cocktail he is mobbed by attendees as his security details tries valiantly – and in vain – to keep them away. What they talk about I have no idea; I have never joined the fracas to find out. The food itself is standard diplomatic fare for this part of the world: brochettes, samosas, meatballs, egg rolls, etc, all with a nice covering of flies such that the food containers appear to move from a distance. I left my squeamishness behind at my first big ceremony, Chad’s National Day in 2002, so am unimpressed by the flies. Drinks are invariably large local lager beers or soft drinks served by the same colorfully dressed protocol assistants that seated the attendees. Nobody leaves before the Big Man, who departs to blaring sirens and revving engines in a cloud of dust and exhaust from poorly maintained diesel engines. At this point it is wise to exit, because the troops that spent up to five hours standing around in formation are inevitably hovering around the edges of the party like jackals waiting for their chance at the carcass left by their officers, the lions. At some unheralded point, the officers abruptly leave and their soldiers storm the tables in a flurry of elbows and shoving. Weapons are forgotten and left lying around like my kids’ Lego’s (not that they would be any more dangerous than Lego’s given their condition and the lack of ammunition available to the average soldier.) To avoid getting trampled I try to exit after the Big Man but before the officers leave, a feat of timing that requires extraordinary situational awareness as events turn very suddenly here.
After it’s all over I return home to air out my soaking wet wool uniform and consider how it is a metaphor for the slow evolution from the Cold War mentality that permeates our military culture. An expeditionary Army should have expeditionary uniforms, even for ceremonies, and I covet the poplin or tropical wool uniforms many of my colleagues sport. Then again, here I am attending ceremonies and eating and drinking for my country while my peers are in full battle gear in both literal and figurative hot zones. At the end of day and all of its maddening humor, I owe more than I can pay and am honored to be able to represent my country and my Army in this sweltering outpost of America’s foreign policy.
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