The following three posts about my field mission may be liberally laced with expletives. I don't really use them, but sometimes it's so satisfying to just leave a gap between words for emphasis.
After a truly delicious Sunday lunch courtesy of Carrottop (reminding me again of the various – mainly culinary – benefits of a multicultural family), our evaluation team left our head office around 9am on Monday and arrived at our destination - 70kms away - by 2:30pm. The rough route through the jungle had muddy ruts as high as my head, despite the fact that we were in the dry season. Our incredibly experienced chauffeur made like an elf and climbed out the door and over these ridges in order to gauge whether our convoy of two land cruisers could nose through like giant, curious beetles, antennae waving.
I had already begun my regimen of water avoidance, and was thus fairly confident that I could last most of that day before having to make the difficult choice between peeing in my pants or asking four Congolese men to stop two vehicles to find good spot for the muzungu to see a man about a dog. The worst part is that with their fear about my safety, they may have drawn straws to see who'd have to hold my hand through the process.
Like I said, I don't fear death – indeed, difficult bathroom situations make me crave its sweet release.
I'd already made the mistake of asking where we'd be staying: at the priest's house.
The -- does that mean, I wondered idly. Will this priest give me food? Will he have water? A nice bathroom with a lock?
I decided there was no point in worrying about it because I was going to be there for four days and three nights - I would soon have no choice but to experience it.
Around this time, I learned that a friend's wife had just left him and taken their four children, one of whom was only a few months old. And she'd also sold all their household items. He only knew because a neighbour called. I sat, mildly devastated, and asked how he could take it all in stride.
“We are Africans.”
The -- does that mean, I wondered, trying to process this as some sort of reason within a reasonable situation.
We arrived and unloaded our belongings at a nice Catholic hostel run by three priests, which offered us separate bedrooms and a lockable bathroom with no toilet seat (I will be more specific next time). There was a slight misunderstanding on the part of the official in charge of the external evaluation of the project when, after inquiring several times that a given room was the toilet, he pointed at me and said, “You will stay here.”
The -- does that mean, I wondered, taken aback. I've got to be eligible for a manger at least. I had to pee, but I thought I'd been magnificently nonchalant about it; being female didn't mean I needed to live in a bathroom, for heaven's sake.
It turned out he'd thought it was a room with an attached bathroom – after working through this madness, we set off immediately to the central hospital to evaluate our project's impact in the area. Then we visited the regional official who had to authorise our presence there. He'd already left his office for the day, so we headed to back to the hostel and waited the four hours until dinner while my stomach informed me that dinner time was actually -- now.
The time wasn't entirely wasted – we had a wonderful conversation with some Catholic visitors about individual responsibility, the creativity and empowerment needed to solve local problems, and the need for self-reliance instead of the rapidly dwindling purse and patience of foreigners. I enjoyed listening to all this, but if one year of life here has taught me anything, it's that all the right words in the world need helping hands behind them. However, the Catholic church has been a force for peacebuilding here, though the leaders are often politicians (a dangerous combination against the naive and desperately poor).
It was also around this time that I learned that Ba-kosa from the province of Maniema are tall and love rice rather than foufou.
“Foufou is doubly fou [insane],” winked one resident with a grin.
And that even priests are not above racial jokes.
“Does anyone want banane [banana]? Anyone? Does anyone like Ba-nande [people of the Nande tribe]?”
“You're after Ba-nande now?”
“Yes! They should be chased out!”
All of this was said in good humour, but I always wonder when the line is crossed. I ate quickly so that I could muster strength for the battle ahead, slowly, gingerly gathered my toiletries, and locked myself in the bathroom with a shallow basin of water and a small metal bowl.
This didn't sound too bad in the grand scheme of things – it was a hot, dusty region in the grip of the dry season, and any water is a luxury. Too bad it didn't feel that way when I was huddled, naked and shivering, in a corner of the bathroom under a rusting showerhead and gripping a bowl of what felt like glacial runoff.
Oh, just grow a -- pair.
This proved impossible, but I did eventually manage to dump the bowl over myself and start a mental timer on the fastest bath ever with the most number of stifled screams. Luckily, the climate there was such that a minute after drying myself off, I was wonderfully warm again.
By 9pm, I was in a bed that felt like a herd of wild metal coils had been corralled by a fitted sheet in spurs. I'd already said a vague prayer that my brain would let me sleep despite the new surroundings; unfortunately, turning onto my stomach as I usually did was akin to having maxillofacial surgery without anesthesia. So I lay on my back, enjoyed the warmth even in the absence of socks and a hoodie, and slowly drifted into that velvet slope towards sleep...
...when my phone buzzed.
A careful dedication to ignoring my phone had ensured that very few people called me, so this had to be some sort of emergency. I'd informed Carrottop that I'd arrived, and we weren't in the habit of bedtime chats, so who...
Butters.
Thinking he must be near death, I croaked a hello and heard him repeat my name twice in varying tones of wonder. This was followed by an entirely one-sided conversation wherein he reminded himself that, while I usually never left home, I wasn't home that night because I was away...
I either said I love you / Good night, honey / Amen / a mix of all of the above before hanging up on him.
He's so delicate and needs more sunlight was my last dazed thought before I came fully awake and stayed that way past midnight in preparation for the next day.
Part II
Part III
Appendix
After a truly delicious Sunday lunch courtesy of Carrottop (reminding me again of the various – mainly culinary – benefits of a multicultural family), our evaluation team left our head office around 9am on Monday and arrived at our destination - 70kms away - by 2:30pm. The rough route through the jungle had muddy ruts as high as my head, despite the fact that we were in the dry season. Our incredibly experienced chauffeur made like an elf and climbed out the door and over these ridges in order to gauge whether our convoy of two land cruisers could nose through like giant, curious beetles, antennae waving.
 |
This
is my face hitting the window
as I tried to capture a more typical
view
|
 |
The
road rarely looked like this,
but it was a beautiful view nonetheless
|
I had already begun my regimen of water avoidance, and was thus fairly confident that I could last most of that day before having to make the difficult choice between peeing in my pants or asking four Congolese men to stop two vehicles to find good spot for the muzungu to see a man about a dog. The worst part is that with their fear about my safety, they may have drawn straws to see who'd have to hold my hand through the process.
Like I said, I don't fear death – indeed, difficult bathroom situations make me crave its sweet release.
I'd already made the mistake of asking where we'd be staying: at the priest's house.
The -- does that mean, I wondered idly. Will this priest give me food? Will he have water? A nice bathroom with a lock?
I decided there was no point in worrying about it because I was going to be there for four days and three nights - I would soon have no choice but to experience it.
Around this time, I learned that a friend's wife had just left him and taken their four children, one of whom was only a few months old. And she'd also sold all their household items. He only knew because a neighbour called. I sat, mildly devastated, and asked how he could take it all in stride.
“We are Africans.”
The -- does that mean, I wondered, trying to process this as some sort of reason within a reasonable situation.
We arrived and unloaded our belongings at a nice Catholic hostel run by three priests, which offered us separate bedrooms and a lockable bathroom with no toilet seat (I will be more specific next time). There was a slight misunderstanding on the part of the official in charge of the external evaluation of the project when, after inquiring several times that a given room was the toilet, he pointed at me and said, “You will stay here.”
The -- does that mean, I wondered, taken aback. I've got to be eligible for a manger at least. I had to pee, but I thought I'd been magnificently nonchalant about it; being female didn't mean I needed to live in a bathroom, for heaven's sake.
It turned out he'd thought it was a room with an attached bathroom – after working through this madness, we set off immediately to the central hospital to evaluate our project's impact in the area. Then we visited the regional official who had to authorise our presence there. He'd already left his office for the day, so we headed to back to the hostel and waited the four hours until dinner while my stomach informed me that dinner time was actually -- now.
The time wasn't entirely wasted – we had a wonderful conversation with some Catholic visitors about individual responsibility, the creativity and empowerment needed to solve local problems, and the need for self-reliance instead of the rapidly dwindling purse and patience of foreigners. I enjoyed listening to all this, but if one year of life here has taught me anything, it's that all the right words in the world need helping hands behind them. However, the Catholic church has been a force for peacebuilding here, though the leaders are often politicians (a dangerous combination against the naive and desperately poor).
It was also around this time that I learned that Ba-kosa from the province of Maniema are tall and love rice rather than foufou.
“Foufou is doubly fou [insane],” winked one resident with a grin.
And that even priests are not above racial jokes.
“Does anyone want banane [banana]? Anyone? Does anyone like Ba-nande [people of the Nande tribe]?”
“You're after Ba-nande now?”
“Yes! They should be chased out!”
All of this was said in good humour, but I always wonder when the line is crossed. I ate quickly so that I could muster strength for the battle ahead, slowly, gingerly gathered my toiletries, and locked myself in the bathroom with a shallow basin of water and a small metal bowl.
This didn't sound too bad in the grand scheme of things – it was a hot, dusty region in the grip of the dry season, and any water is a luxury. Too bad it didn't feel that way when I was huddled, naked and shivering, in a corner of the bathroom under a rusting showerhead and gripping a bowl of what felt like glacial runoff.
Oh, just grow a -- pair.
This proved impossible, but I did eventually manage to dump the bowl over myself and start a mental timer on the fastest bath ever with the most number of stifled screams. Luckily, the climate there was such that a minute after drying myself off, I was wonderfully warm again.
 |
The
same room without flash and
The Lightbulb That Could Barely Even
|
 |
My
hostel room with flash
|
By 9pm, I was in a bed that felt like a herd of wild metal coils had been corralled by a fitted sheet in spurs. I'd already said a vague prayer that my brain would let me sleep despite the new surroundings; unfortunately, turning onto my stomach as I usually did was akin to having maxillofacial surgery without anesthesia. So I lay on my back, enjoyed the warmth even in the absence of socks and a hoodie, and slowly drifted into that velvet slope towards sleep...
...when my phone buzzed.
A careful dedication to ignoring my phone had ensured that very few people called me, so this had to be some sort of emergency. I'd informed Carrottop that I'd arrived, and we weren't in the habit of bedtime chats, so who...
Butters.
Thinking he must be near death, I croaked a hello and heard him repeat my name twice in varying tones of wonder. This was followed by an entirely one-sided conversation wherein he reminded himself that, while I usually never left home, I wasn't home that night because I was away...
I either said I love you / Good night, honey / Amen / a mix of all of the above before hanging up on him.
He's so delicate and needs more sunlight was my last dazed thought before I came fully awake and stayed that way past midnight in preparation for the next day.
Part II
Part III
Appendix
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