Democratic+Republic+of+Congo

=Democratic Republic of Congo=

Geography:






Culture:

=Map:=



Narrative Assignments:

media type="file" key="bukavu.m4a" width="300" height="50" My Time in Bukavu, DRC

Madison K.

I did not realize how much the ports of Bukavu meant to me until that rainy evening, as I walked into the airport terminal, blinking rapidly and trying with all my might not to look back into the eyes of my newly acquired friends. It had been two years ago when I started this mad dash into a world completely unlike my own. I remember, fondly, how strange the ordinary customs in the Congo were to my very American lifestyle. To volunteer in the least developed country in the entire globe—well, it certainly took a combination of bravery, and also stupidity. I would abandon all of the comforts of my well-off life, my established job, and my family for longer than I thought was possible to bear. The need to experience a different culture didn’t save me from the many dilemmas I faced. But Bukavu, what began as tantalizing and difficult to grow accustomed to, turned out to be a mix of miracles, friendships, and food that, at the bitter end, I never wanted to leave. Bunme was the first person I met in South Kivu, who had welcomed me eagerly into her humble home, a small hut that was nevertheless more than her what many of her neighbors had. She had tight lips, a set of weary eyes, and steady hands. Never, in my time at her home, did I ever see her rest, whether she was laundering and performing normal chores for the day, or carrying the gallons of water from the well at least a mile away. The family counted on her for their survival. Her husband Adiel and two sons, both ten years of age, met me with respect; the children handing their fist for me to shake—a gesture towards their elders. I slept in the back room, and watched, day after day, Adiel, heading out to the various ports to fish and sell his catches, and the two children assisting their mother in whatever ways they could while she worked. The entire family woke up each morning at four, beginning right away with chores. Not only was I immensely surprised at their determined—almost synchronized—time to wake up, but also disoriented when, along with everyone else, I prepared for the day before the sun even came into the sky. But what interested me the most were the ports in Bukavu. They were the main importance of the town—every family had a person who worked at the ports, if not all of them.. The fish they caught fed them nicer than only crops could do, and the small money they made off of selling their merchandise helped in the miscellaneous items needed for families. One day, Adiel, after suffering the endless bombardment of questions I had for his line of work, asked me if I would care to accompany him to his job. Eager to explore, I followed him through the maze of neighborhoods until, at last, I could the see the faintest shimmer of blue past the early-morning fog. We walked straight to the bustling mass of people and stands directly by the waters. Heading into the marketplace, even at such an early hour, was like entering a battle zone head-on. The shouts of vendors and hurried bustle of men and women purchasing their various seafood was deafening, and there was the very pungent stench of fish that seeped from the area and their products. If Adiel had not led me to his stand, I would have been swarmed by the mass of people there. He showed me, the rest of the day, how his sales usually went—a heated bargaining match with close friends—and his sailboat, a rickety, patched-up thing, that nevertheless floated wonderfully on the tumultuous waves. It surprised me that women were as big a part of the marketplace as men were. They haggled, set up their fish stands, sold and bought products through the day. I felt at home in the equal-rights, a-sale-is-a-sale sort of feel of the ports, where everything was business and socialization at the same time with friends and the assortment of visitors. It intrigued me to the extent that I ended up spending my many days wandering the tiny center, bargaining in my butchered interpretation of French, and trying, with all my might, to barter a good price. One day, as I strode into the market, money tucked into my pocket, I found the perfect item that, without knowing it, I had been searching for all along. The sign, translated roughly by my uncertain eyes, read, “Large Salmon—Fresh and Cheap”. The main meals of my hometown were surrounded by the perfect properties of the salmon, how they could feed several people at a time and were largely proffered and very delicious. For the past few days, the water had thrown ships into disarray, causing my host family to make some drastic decisions in the size of servings while we ate. They never lessened my food, though—much to my protest. Now was the time to repay them for their graciousness. I approached the shop, where I immediately identified the owner, looking over two other subordinate workers. Adiel taught me this trick—find the tallest, cleaner dressed person and you will find the founder of the stand. And after finding the owner, you could haggle prices without the unsure hastiness of a second employee. You could lower the costs by a large sum, if you handled the situation correctly. The owner of this shop was a strong young woman with a slow smile and very sharp eyes. At the moment, she was displaying the many qualities of the thawing salmon in front of her in a rushed dialect. The man she spoke with was obviously familiar to her, yet she treated him as if to say that family and friend discounts were a nonplus in her domain. I waited patiently, examining the oddly intriguing fish that lay before me, listening to her commanding tone and wondering what approach I should take to effectively lower the price. Sweat ran from my palms and a slow rumbling formed in my stomach—the haggles of Bukavu were essential to your survival, and I couldn’t mess this one up. I needed this salmon more than I needed the money in my pocket and I was willing to give it all away for just one piece. But the trick, the very main portion of what bartering is, is not to show this. Because once you do, you’re stuck with paying the worst prices of all—//regular// price. When at last she sent the man off with a fish, she turned swiftly to me, eyeing me closely. In a thick accent of punctured English, she made out, “And what would you like today, Miss?”

The shock of an English-speaking native of the Congo was more than I could bear. Despite the situation, I smiled warmly to the familiarity of my natural language. Then, forcing myself to continue with the transaction, I spoke. “I would like a salmon, the biggest you have.” She then pulled out from behind her the largest salmon ever I had seen—large enough to feed Bunme, the rest of her family, me, and two or three of her neighbor’s families. The price read 20 Congolese Franks, a ridiculous price, and more than I was willing to part with. “I’ll pay you five Franks.” “For this? No.” “This fish is not fresh. I’ll give you seven for its size.” “It will feed many, whether or not it is fresh. Fifteen.” “Eight.” “Never.” “All right, ten, but no higher. The fish is not worth that much anyway.”

She stared, hard, at my set face, and calm composure. After a minute of intense contemplation, she replied with a curt “yes”, and then, after ripping the money from my fingers, ordered the other employee to wrap my prize. I walked out of the market, carrying a trophy in hand, ready to show my host family my food, but most commendable of all, my mastery of the ancient art of haggling. By intense teaching on Adiel’s part, and the mimicking of other talented bargainers, I had won my family and award beyond any other: that of survival. That night we ate like pigs, the salmon filling our stomachs more that we had been able to afford in quite a while. Sitting contentedly at the dining table, feeling the insides of our happy mouths was when I truly belonged in their family. Providing for the people that had given me a home for the past month balanced our relationship and set us as equals, natural buddies in their town for the next couple of years to come. The hard-set woman who I had haggled with turned out to be my most favorite friend. She came from a very privileged family, education-wise, as her father was a teacher. She was the only reason I understood Bukavu’s, and most importantly the Congo’s culture as fluently as I do today. Her hard-to-come-by-smile grew more as she and I became inseparable until the very end of my trip. She told me the extent of their internal wars, the strife they endured, and also the small miracles that occurred daily for them and let her begin her own business in the marketplace.

So in the end, as trudged slowly through the terminal of the airport, carrying a light suitcase and a worn-out ticket, I knew with sudden clarity what I would miss the most about the place. And that was, without a doubt, the people. Their hope and spirit and utter generosity are what made life not only bearable, but enjoyable for the past two years. They are what I hated to leave most of all. And knowing I would likely never see these remarkable people for a very long time, if ever again, I stopped suddenly, and turned around. Looking into the faces of my friends, who waved energetically, I smiled. I stretched one calloused hand high into the air and I waved back.

** A Day in the Congo **

media type="file" key="Honduras MW Audio 2.m4a" width="300" height="50" // Joshua Kim // The morning started at five am, which, while technically being morning, is an ungodly time to wake up. But even this early, it was warm. It never really got cold here, and the warmth sank into your body, filling it up. I went with the other men and their wives, many of which were only around 16, and ate with them. It was a peanut soup with a food they call fufu. Fufu is a food made by boiling starchy vegetables and flour and mashing it around until it reaches a paste-like consistency. While it's lacking in flavor, it fills you up, which, I suppose, is the point. It fascinated me to watch the other men eat. They took a glob of fufu and rolled it up before pressing into it with their thumb. With this, they scooped up some soup and swallowed the entire thing whole. That was what probably interested me the most: They don't swallow the fufu. But I'd been here long enough to know how to eat breakfast. I imitated the actions of the men, eating as they did. After the meal, I went with a man I had become friends with to the watering hole to fish. Bugs were up and about, buzzing around. His name was Joseph and was one of the first men to greet me when I first arrived here. The first dinner I had there was at his home. There, after we ate, I asked about the fufu. Then, he explained the process of making it as well as a story of how man had stolen the recipe for fufu from mosquitoes. And that's why mosquitoes constantly pester humans. Though, I think the humans got the short end of the stick on that deal. Mosquitoes pass disease around. Everywhere. But I digress. It was nice out as we sat on the edge of the reflectively still water. The sun had just started to come up and it shone in the water, a perfect orb of light. Waiting there for the fish, we saw many people go by. Women passed by, carrying insane amounts of water upon their heads. One strange thing I haven't quite gotten over yet is that these people have no concept of falling in love. You heard me right. I mentioned earlier that the wives of these men were only around 16. Young women are married off at young ages. As such, no one around here really gets the idea of falling in love. The happiness you feel is the happiness of family. It boggles my mind. But, of course, our idea of love boggles their minds. Fitting. I chatted with Joseph a bit as he fished and I sat. There we waited, talking and laughing. I tried to explain the concept of love to him, but he just didn't understand. I can see why, though. In retrospect, our idea of love is a bit selfish in their eyes. And these people are anything but. They're probably the poorest people I've ever known, but they're also the most generous. Joseph picked up on my spacing and commented on it. Even the way he worded it was nice. The Congolese weren't really keen on blatantly criticizing someone. I was thinking about a lot of things. Just everything I had learned in the short time I've been here. We ended up catching 3 fish, an excellent haul for someone with just a fishing rod. We waved goodbye as we went our separate ways. I quickly jogged to my home. I'm not really sure when the tin shack I reside in became my home, but it serves its purpose well. I ate outside in the balmy air as the day was beginning to fade. I watched the sun set, a blazing ball disappearing behind a horizon surrounded by a fiery orange sky. And with sunset, I turned in for the night. The next day starts at five.