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
Monday, December 15, 2008
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.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The Unity of Opposites
One of my pet peeves (and something of which I am all too frequently guilty) is treating
Most obvious in this area are the economic contrasts, which permeate every aspect of life here and determine one’s station with a level of finality absent in the West since the Middle Ages. Poverty is well known and well documented in
Besides the tiny number of wealthy there is what passes for a middle class: expatriates, businessmen, and local professionals such as doctors and lawyers. Even at this level, however, the disparity between a middling expatriate bureaucrat such as myself and a renowned host nation medical researcher is significant, with the latter earning much less than the former. I had the privilege of visiting the offices of the doctor that discovered and reported the first outbreak of Ebola, and his office reminded me of my company orderly room when I was in the 82nd Airborne Division in the mid 1980’s, housed in wooden WWII barracks. This included his computer, which still ran DOS-based software and included a screen with glowing green dot-matrix letters that I haven’t seen in decades. Electricity? Sometimes, he replied. Compared to my spacious and comfortable office with multiple computers and generator-guaranteed power his space was modest to a fault. I still complain about my creaking internet connection, though.
Meanwhile the bulk of Kinshasa’s eight million inhabitants live a life reminiscent of Dickens’s London: for them no electricity or running water, no trash collection or postal service, no public transportation, and only the most rudimentary medical care. We ruefully call the part of town in which we live “Planet Gombe,” because it is so far removed from what the bulk of the populace experiences every day. A trip to the airport, which is on the outskirts of town, or to our favorite crafts business, which is run by the Mennonites and housed in a residential neighborhood outside Gombe, is enlightening. These neighborhoods typically consist of a warren of mud alleys lined with tin-roofed cinder-block shops and residences. Often there is an open sewage ditch choked with trash and refuse, which floods with the frequent heavy rains. Malarial mosquitoes breed in the standing water, creating ideal conditions for the continent’s number one killer. Rebecca cycles with a group of embassy folks on Sunday morning and the trips typically end up in the quartiers populaires, and these are an even better way of getting an appreciation of la vie Kinoise. I can’t bring myself to get up and move that early on a Sunday, particularly with church following hard on the heels of the ride, so I defer to Rebecca on her experiences.
So where’s the unity in the opposites? Life is precarious, even for the most wealthy, due to the political and economic instability that are rife here in the
As much as many in the West search for the “extreme,” be it in sports, consumer products, or recreation, daily life in Kinshasa is about as extreme as it gets for Congolese, who come in their thousands, rich and poor alike to the big city to pursue their dreams. As an expatriate I am insulated from life’s vagaries here, but in my discussions with my fellow congregants on Sunday and in my work-related interaction with Congolese I have at least a glimpse of it. As Thanksgiving weekend comes to a close and I ponder our many blessings, I note that few in the West can appreciate these extremes other than military personnel serving in combat zones, police and firefighters, medical professionals, those living with chronic illness, and others who confront the existential on a regular basis. Thus I am thankful for the material blessings that shield me from life’s hard realities but more thankful for and humbled by those brave souls who confront them with grace and poise on both sides of the
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