In Goma, I learned that the chikudu is a valid mode of travel. I had assumed, on my first sight of this makeshift bike with a holding area for one knee (sort of a raised scooter), that the man pushing it was slightly handicapped. Then I was informed otherwise – they were used by perfectly healthy men to push around large loads. I thought cycle rickshaws were a morbid travesty, but they have been magnificently outdone.
Grandpa, taking many pictures on his phone (with the help of our driver – the leader of one of our major partners in Goma), got one chikudu driver to pose – caught in laughter at the land cruiser packed with foreigners.
BFG insinuated he was flirting with me; a cruel thing to say to someone who feels that a smile from a cute guy is equivalent to a marriage proposal. I maintain that he was flirting with Grandpa, if anyone, or with the caprices of foreigners.
We arrived at our guest house without further ado, where my room was titled Japan and my bedcovers really <3ed Moscow. I admired this subversiveness in a playground of the Cold War, assumed there was a similarly Allied Powers-themed room somewhere else, watched incomprehensible TV for a while just because it was incomprehensible TV in my room, and then took a walk to see how far the sidewalks went.
Not very far, is the answer to that question – roads were in the process of being built (which is more than can be said for our home base), and the black sediment of the lava that flowed through the city in 2002 was a nice change from the red dust of our benighted beloved city. Another difference was the presence of watchtowers at nearly every house – a remnant, I learned, from the imminent M23 invasion in 2012.
When we went out for dinner at the end of the day, I was complimented by a small girl who yanked my hair in a would-be surreptitious attempt to find out if if was real, and later called cher kuku by a particularly suave individual. I have no idea what he saw as we were walking through the dark, and Carrottop seemed certain he was calling us all dear chickens; I was just glad to arrive at the guest house without being propositioned. I had a tepid shower and settled down into what would be the most sleep I would get in 72 hours.
My eyes and sinuses were unexpectedly giving me problems the next morning – light just seemed a little too bright and my nose was imitating a sprinkler – so I skipped contacts, drank three cups of coffee more than usual, and girded my loins for the day.
I was sitting between the gearshift and Grandpa, which is a great spot if I couldn't have my personal favourite of 'bouncing around in the very back.' I truly didn't mind, aside from the fear of shifting gears with one of my massive thighs and stalling our trip indefinitely. Grandpa, for his part, was pretending he hadn't lived in a Kenyan village for a significant portion of his earthly existence, and taking pictures on his phone like a cheerleader on spring break, our faithful driver carefully slowing down for white people's whims and fancies.
We passed through stunning vistas of black rock and green life springing incorrigibly through it – surrounded by the same vitality and continuance of life in the people, conducting business, hauling fuel and flour, and building semi-durable housing. Soldiers apparently lived in hay huts; a small portion of their renowned menace has to be due to this practice – I'd be at least thrice again as angry as they usually look.
We passed the area in which Snow White (our Rwandan teammate) lived, and I fell in love immediately. There is no rhyme or reason to it – just love. I might've changed my mind if I'd seen her house (unless it was surrounded by helpful wild animals, which I cannot discount), but that first view of her village pulled at me.
I blinked rapidly – not to avoid crying, but because my left eye seemed to be functioning at a different pace than the rest of me, something within twisting as though it was trying to make a break for it. I was able to ignore this for the most part due to the scenery and planning where to build my straw, stick, then brick hut – growing hair and training future Olympic runners, my team helpfully offered.
Our real problems started when we crossed the first border between provinces.
We were required to show our documents, some of which Butters had left at home. Our resulting conversation in the office - a two-room wood shack with desks in, surrounded by small children screaming Good morning! until Officer Monday said he'd smack them - was mainly conducted between Captain, the Officer in Charge of Making Things Difficult on Monday (BS), Butters, and my watery eyes.
Officer Monday: So we need your passports and visas. He doesn't have a visa.
Everyone: *silence*
Butters: I didn't know I needed it. I have my visa; I need it to be in this country...
Officer Monday: But you don't have your visa here. You could be a mercenary for all I know.
Me: *bugging eyes* A mercenary? He can barely grow a beard and plays the saxophone, for goodness' sake; if he were any more at ease, he'd be lying on the floor amid a pile of sticks. I'm more mercenary than he is and you're letting me through!
Officer Monday: So you can just stay here.
Butters: *uncharacteristically defensive* I have it – I've just never had to show it in this situation before. I didn't know I needed it, so is there any way to...
Me: *terminally protective* He just forgot it this time! Where is that aggravating calm now, Butters, you stoat.
Officer Monday: Forgot it?! How did you know to bring it?
Me: Uh, I-I've just travelled a lot and I usually--
Officer Monday: The person who brought it is defending someone who forgot! HA!
Me: Look, could we just go back to when you were angry with Butters? I don't mind that part so much.
Officer Monday: So he can just stay here and pay a fee and then he'll learn his lesson. It's a good lesson, as far as lessons go. THE POWER IS MINE, MWA-HA-HA-- ahem. Good day.
Everyone: *silences harder*
Captain: You know, this is the first time this has happened – he didn't know about this procedure. I'm his boss, and I'll ensure that this is the last time it happens. All we're asking is that you look at the situation with intelligence--
Me: *bugging eyes*
Captain: --yea, verily, grant us a measure of indulgence and allow us passage through your hallowed territory.
Angel Chorus: Aaaaahhhhhhhhh...
Me: Oh, blessed assurance, Jesus is mine.
Officer Monday: Oh, so you want some intelligence, you say--?
Me: Death, death, my kingdom for death. Um, he said--
Captain: I asked for indulgence.
Me: Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine...
Officer Monday: Okay. See you cats on the flip side.
Everyone: ...heir of salvation, purchase of God...
As this procedure was relatively painless for me, I didn't realise quite how much it had affected Butters until I got a good look at his even-paler-than-usual face half an hour later in Big Chicken's house. But in the end, we met up with most of our teammates for the first time since August and headed for the IDP camp with the immense containers of rice, potatoes, meat curry, and sombe they'd been preparing all weekend.
Upon arrival, we were ushered into a small, makeshift enclosure filled with goats kids, surrounded by their mothers and sisters – inside, there were drummers, dancers, and a festive atmosphere. We set up the food on tables, got a line going, and handed out spoonfuls of whatever we were in charge of. I had potatoes, but was demoted to rice. Then I think people wanted to demote me further as I was serving too much; I got to keep my position to the blistering end because there was nothing else I could be trusted to handle. I spooned rice onto metal bowls, pots, pot lids with a hole in the middle where the handle had broken off, jar lids, and even plates, sometimes.
Part I
Part III
Grandpa, taking many pictures on his phone (with the help of our driver – the leader of one of our major partners in Goma), got one chikudu driver to pose – caught in laughter at the land cruiser packed with foreigners.
BFG insinuated he was flirting with me; a cruel thing to say to someone who feels that a smile from a cute guy is equivalent to a marriage proposal. I maintain that he was flirting with Grandpa, if anyone, or with the caprices of foreigners.
We arrived at our guest house without further ado, where my room was titled Japan and my bedcovers really <3ed Moscow. I admired this subversiveness in a playground of the Cold War, assumed there was a similarly Allied Powers-themed room somewhere else, watched incomprehensible TV for a while just because it was incomprehensible TV in my room, and then took a walk to see how far the sidewalks went.
Not very far, is the answer to that question – roads were in the process of being built (which is more than can be said for our home base), and the black sediment of the lava that flowed through the city in 2002 was a nice change from the red dust of our
When we went out for dinner at the end of the day, I was complimented by a small girl who yanked my hair in a would-be surreptitious attempt to find out if if was real, and later called cher kuku by a particularly suave individual. I have no idea what he saw as we were walking through the dark, and Carrottop seemed certain he was calling us all dear chickens; I was just glad to arrive at the guest house without being propositioned. I had a tepid shower and settled down into what would be the most sleep I would get in 72 hours.
My eyes and sinuses were unexpectedly giving me problems the next morning – light just seemed a little too bright and my nose was imitating a sprinkler – so I skipped contacts, drank three cups of coffee more than usual, and girded my loins for the day.
I was sitting between the gearshift and Grandpa, which is a great spot if I couldn't have my personal favourite of 'bouncing around in the very back.' I truly didn't mind, aside from the fear of shifting gears with one of my massive thighs and stalling our trip indefinitely. Grandpa, for his part, was pretending he hadn't lived in a Kenyan village for a significant portion of his earthly existence, and taking pictures on his phone like a cheerleader on spring break, our faithful driver carefully slowing down for white people's whims and fancies.
We passed through stunning vistas of black rock and green life springing incorrigibly through it – surrounded by the same vitality and continuance of life in the people, conducting business, hauling fuel and flour, and building semi-durable housing. Soldiers apparently lived in hay huts; a small portion of their renowned menace has to be due to this practice – I'd be at least thrice again as angry as they usually look.
We passed the area in which Snow White (our Rwandan teammate) lived, and I fell in love immediately. There is no rhyme or reason to it – just love. I might've changed my mind if I'd seen her house (unless it was surrounded by helpful wild animals, which I cannot discount), but that first view of her village pulled at me.
I blinked rapidly – not to avoid crying, but because my left eye seemed to be functioning at a different pace than the rest of me, something within twisting as though it was trying to make a break for it. I was able to ignore this for the most part due to the scenery and planning where to build my straw, stick, then brick hut – growing hair and training future Olympic runners, my team helpfully offered.
Our real problems started when we crossed the first border between provinces.
We were required to show our documents, some of which Butters had left at home. Our resulting conversation in the office - a two-room wood shack with desks in, surrounded by small children screaming Good morning! until Officer Monday said he'd smack them - was mainly conducted between Captain, the Officer in Charge of Making Things Difficult on Monday (BS), Butters, and my watery eyes.
Officer Monday: So we need your passports and visas. He doesn't have a visa.
Everyone: *silence*
Butters: I didn't know I needed it. I have my visa; I need it to be in this country...
Officer Monday: But you don't have your visa here. You could be a mercenary for all I know.
Me: *bugging eyes* A mercenary? He can barely grow a beard and plays the saxophone, for goodness' sake; if he were any more at ease, he'd be lying on the floor amid a pile of sticks. I'm more mercenary than he is and you're letting me through!
Officer Monday: So you can just stay here.
Butters: *uncharacteristically defensive* I have it – I've just never had to show it in this situation before. I didn't know I needed it, so is there any way to...
Me: *terminally protective* He just forgot it this time! Where is that aggravating calm now, Butters, you stoat.
Officer Monday: Forgot it?! How did you know to bring it?
Me: Uh, I-I've just travelled a lot and I usually--
Officer Monday: The person who brought it is defending someone who forgot! HA!
Me: Look, could we just go back to when you were angry with Butters? I don't mind that part so much.
Officer Monday: So he can just stay here and pay a fee and then he'll learn his lesson. It's a good lesson, as far as lessons go. THE POWER IS MINE, MWA-HA-HA-- ahem. Good day.
Everyone: *silences harder*
Captain: You know, this is the first time this has happened – he didn't know about this procedure. I'm his boss, and I'll ensure that this is the last time it happens. All we're asking is that you look at the situation with intelligence--
Me: *bugging eyes*
Captain: --yea, verily, grant us a measure of indulgence and allow us passage through your hallowed territory.
Angel Chorus: Aaaaahhhhhhhhh...
Me: Oh, blessed assurance, Jesus is mine.
Officer Monday: Oh, so you want some intelligence, you say--?
Me: Death, death, my kingdom for death. Um, he said--
Captain: I asked for indulgence.
Me: Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine...
Officer Monday: Okay. See you cats on the flip side.
Everyone: ...heir of salvation, purchase of God...
Upon arrival, we were ushered into a small, makeshift enclosure filled with
The sun burned, throwing too much light – more than my eyes wanted to see.
Part I
Part III
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