We arrived home, I settled down to scribble memories, and my friend had
the first crack at a hot shower to remove the grit of Nyiragongo from her
skin. Around an hour after arriving,
when I was stepping out of a steamy shower, running my hands fondly over the
rock wall and mirrors of the dream bathroom, I heard the faint patter of rain
outside.
I was initially paralysed by relief that we hadn’t been stuck half-on a
steep volcano in the pouring rain, then overcome with joy that we were home and
scrubbed clean. Then came the
frustration that Bukavu, just hours away, was probably still dry as a
bone. I drowned my sorrows in a mug of
coffee as big as my head as my friend and I read quietly for hours on the front
porch.
And it is mainly populated by Dutch Christians – who, by the way, are
all preternaturally attractive and intelligent.
After dinner with a few fine specimens, I turned my thoughts toward the
next day.
I was slightly worried about how I’d get back to Bukavu; I’d been
planning to take a new taxi service through Rwanda, but everyone seemed leery
of it. The port was fairly close and apparently
the 6-hr boat ride was so lovely that nobody seemed to want to try another method. I soon gave in because I didn’t really care either
way; my life motto is less If it ain’t
broke don’t fix it and more It will
break, and when it does, there’s always duct tape.
Waiting in the heaving crowd that passes for a line at the ticket booth,
I held on to my passport and phone for dear life (as two friends had had to pay
for the return of both these items in the past week) and waited for my turn –
nearly on top of a small woman in front of me to prevent the entire population
of Goma from elbowing my spineless self aside.
However, I was identified as a mzungu
and pulled out for a fast track fairly quickly.
I hate this practice, but it’s hard to pretend stone deafness when the
crowd swallows and regurgitates you at the feet of the governmental official
who’s been screaming your race for the past 5 minutes. I handed over my passport, weeping on the
inside, crowd-surfed back to retrieve my luggage, and somehow ended up in
conversation with another government official in a track suit who’d remembered
me from my arrival on Thursday.
Complaining as I usually do, I mentioned that the line would work better
if it was actually a line; he sped off to the ticket booth, evidently on a
mission to ensure this, while I stared after him in mute shock. After a few careful evasions of giving out my
number, I found myself with my passport, phone, and luggage in the dining room,
which was the boat’s overflow cabin.
I was surrounded by two mothers with six children between them, all
under the age of 10. The eldest took
care of the one who couldn’t yet walk, so I suppose the system worked somehow.
It was hell and mealtime was worse.
I want fish!
No, I want chicken! I want
both! I want neither! Baby Luce is eating a tissue!
Baby Luce had a superhuman ability to create and ingest tissue -
apparently preferring it to the breast milk and sour milk mix she was receiving
and promptly vomiting - but the others settled down once they were liberally
coated in flying lettuce and mayonnaise.
Unfortunately, by that point I had already decided to get a radical
hysterectomy and file it as a business expense.
One mother, her hair seeming to have lost a glorious battle to the death
with a mole, looked at the time, at me, and said that this trip would last an
eternity.
Hey, you’re the one who thought recreating Noah’s ark
was more efficient than family planning, birth control, or a bus, so don’t even
pretend to be the victim here.
At first, I was left alone, but my lap apparently had a flashing vacancy
sign to one awed little girl, the magical Baby Luce, and eventually all the
other children as the boat faced one emergency after another.
First, there were screams from somewhere below deck. That time, the mothers grabbed all the
children and flooded to the rails with most of the rest of the passengers while
I, the sole foreigner, calmly waited for death beside a large cupboard of life
jackets. One little girl with a pretty
dress and Down’s syndrome began eating her neighbour’s plate of fish and fries –
I admired this pragmatism and once again resolved to undergo psychological
testing when I got home.
Some time later, I discovered that there had been a fire. I’m not sure that I would have done anything
differently if I’d known, but I might have been marginally more worried – over
whether I should let Carrottop and Grandpa know, as they are my current largest
stressors. The two moms shared that the
whole family was in here and could I imagine not leaving anyone behind in the
world?! I decided to use that very
phrase to broach the topic of my impending hysterectomy with my persistent
suitor (who, incidentally, has already laughingly requested two daughters and a
son), and smiled and nodded.
The second emergency came as we were already an hour late, long after my
hoodie and jeans had served as high-capacity napkins for various small humans
to whom I’d suddenly become Tantine! We were within sight of the port when we made
a 180-degree turn. I maneuvered my phone
from my pocket, around a deplorably sticky infant and preschooler, and started
crafting my last will and testament to Carrottop.
Thnk boat’s hijacked. Regret nothing. Nt jokng this
time. Thx for yr wrk w Seed!
I was debating the sensitivity of that last exclamation mark when the
mothers instructed the children who were awake to stay with Tantine and set off to protect their
young and their new sociopathic nanny.
“Do you know Rihanna? IRL?”
My eyes swiveled from the determined, rolling bottoms of a couple of
frustrated African mommas and settled on the beautiful, angular face of the
eldest little girl who had Real Questions.
As we were heading back to port, I learned that the boat had spotted a
capsized pirogue and had turned to
save the men and items within. Apparently
one man had drowned. I’m not sure if all
the passengers had claimed front row seats to watch or if we’d arrived too late,
or even which one of these options I’d prefer, but I was glad to have remained
with the children in any case.
After waiting around a half hour for the crowd at the port to disperse, I
saw that our late arrival had created a bottleneck and if I didn’t get out
then, I’d have to sleep on the boat as per my organisation’s safety
regulations. I crawled around and over people
(whom I belatedly realized had gathered for some sort of concert at the already
over-capacity port), making good time until I was blocked by a man in a safety
vest who screamed at me to wash my hands.
As I was staggering under the weight of a backpack half my height and a
couple of sleeping bags, I half-heartedly wet one hand with water from a bucket
whose handle had likely been touched by a bajillion people before me, adopted
at least that many new microbes (including the cholera they were probably
trying to prevent), and found a gregarious moto driver who was very pleased by
my bargaining skills, Swahili, and yelps.
After singing my praises to a gas station attendant, who then tried to
ask me out, he swerved away crowing, “In your dreams! Ha-HA - we Congolese love women, eh?!”
He met another moto-driving friend on the busy road and had a lively
conversation about me while I tried to muffle my screams. “Bring cows to our wedding!” he cackled as
they parted ways.
As he had cut me a deal and seemed more interested in teasing than
anything else, I climbed the stairs home with general satisfaction and a rueful
smile at what awaited me in the 6 months I had left…
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