Part 3 - Learning the ropes and racism

Day Five

Mama Anne Rolling her Kwanga

Jacques and I had a super lazy morning where we sat around eating fruit and talking to all the people that passed by. We even ended up drinking sugar cane wine which, disappointingly, really isn’t strong at all. In the afternoon I went to Mama Anne’s house to watch her make the Kwanga or Chikwang that is the staple of the local’s diet. It ended up being quite the neighborhood show again and she got a kitchen full of ladies helping her because they wanted to be on camera.

Rolls of Kwanga before that are wrapped and steamed

What a crazy amount of work kwanga is for a not very tasty product (In my humble opinion) that is worth almost nothing. It takes a year to grow, but here lies it’s selling point for the grower because once planted it requires almost no watering, weeding or care. Once ready it is dug up and carried back to the river (its heavy) where it is soaked for 3 days to let most of the cyanide wash away (yes cyanide). After that it is smoked for a day on the fire (remember the ladies have to carry all that wood back from the forest too) and then ground down to a fine powder (by hand). Then it is rolled with water in to a paste, steamed for an hour, kneaded for 15 mins, rolled in to logs, wrapped in leaves and raffia and steamed for another 5 hours. A lot of work. It takes women and entire 2 days to prepare enough kwanga for the family for a week, about 30 rolls. Each roll sells for $.10. 

Tristan and I have a theory that the Congolese are addicted to the trace amounts of cyanide that remain in the final product as all Congolese will claim they haven’t eaten if they haven’t consumed kwanga, even if they have had fish, beans, rice and vegetables. However anything prepared from cassava is heavy like a glue, so fills you up even more so than the same quantity of potatoes or beans would. A clear benefit for the poor and starving.

Anyway. I learned how to roll it, much to the delight of the local women.

The Royal Palms lining the football field

After the Kwanga making experience with the women I decided to balanced things out and joined the men watching the football game. Not being a football/soccer person I was able to observe that the men ran fast and kicked the ball well. The goalie we were sitting beside made some pretty awesome saves, and I couldn’t see the other goalie from my position as there were some serious hills in the field between him and I. I thought it was pretty cool that the field was in part surrounded by an old chief’s palace. Gentrification in Congo. My favorite part though was one of the forwards that was wearing an “Epic Fail’ T-shirt with an arrow to the left. I enjoyed explaining its meaning to the guys sitting next to me, but unfortunately didn’t get a photo. I love reading all the shirts in English that have been donated to goodwill and bought here on the streets and the wearer has no idea what they are wearing says. Some are
pretty funny. My all time favorite is my next door neighbor’s shirt. He is an ogre of a man (I mean that how it sounds) and often wears a shirt with a cartoon cat head that says, and I joke you not: “Eat my Pussy”.

A player footballing

During the evening the deaf and mute chief from a cousin village to Ilee came by. He’s quite the character, grunting and gesturing his way through life and stories. He has no formal training in signing but the locals seem to understand him pretty good. He’s in town, and has been a while in my understanding, to look for a replacement chief for his village, but with no luck so far. He was extra animated this evening because he’d just come from the forest where he saw one of the most dangerous snakes around, an Ibama. This snake has the radius of a forearm and is completely inky black. It lives in trees and falls on its prey (!).

Day 6

I slept in till 7:30 this morning and once again congratulated myself on finding a corner where I didn’t wake up to the impatient sounds of children waiting for the white person to appear.

Today we had committed to going to the primary and secondary schools to talk to the kids. I find these school visits rather tedious at the same time as knowing they are very important for the project and the communities. You have to go class to class and say practically the same thing increasing the complexity by each grade level. And of course its all in Lingala so everything has to be translated for me, or not, and then I end up day dreaming until I get caught out by a direct question. Actually, I understand a fair bit of Lingala now, especially on the subject of forests and development and conservation.

My favorite part is the kid’s questions and I always get those translated. So all went well, but slowly in the primary school. For the secondary school we asked if we could put all the classes together in an assembly. So there we stood, the 4 of us from ERA and the Principle, waiting for him to introduce us. And this is what he said: “Today you will see four visitors standing in front of you, but you will notice that one of these visitors in not like us because she has white skin. So I present to you this whitey.” I was shocked and I’m sure it showed on my face. I’m accustomed to standing out, and my skin being a subject of curiosity and discussion and that is fine, but you would expect the Principle of a secondary school to focus on some of the other important issues that we were there to present, you know, the environment, development, conservation, community livelihoods etc. My team took over and introduced us and began talking about the project but shortly in to this discussion he interrupted again to ask the assembly if they had ever seen white skin before (!!). Luckily the kids had a lot more sense than he and the exchange with them was wonderful regardless of his ignorant racism.

When I was in university we sometimes reviewed the history of how Europeans first studied, explained and treated Africans. I’m not talking so much about slavery, more the then ‘science’ or at least how they ‘examined’ Africans. In the last week I’ve thought a lot about those first Africans that were brought to Europe and I think I can commiserate just a little with how they might have been feeling. Certainly not the fear and pain they must have felt, but when I see that look in some of the villagers eyes I think, this is what it must have felt like. Mom’s bring their kids to my tent specifically to stare at me. Women touch my skin and my hair and either recoil with shock, or hang on claiming it softer, stranger, or the same to all those staring that haven’t yet touched me. Children run screaming when I look in their direction, or huddle around in big groups whispering to each other every time I move. The do this for hours without tiring. It certainly is an interesting perspective to be looking out from. A contemplative perspective.

So I washed my clothes for the 1^st leg of our return trip tomorrow and spent some qt time with De Rock. I want a monkey L.  Afterwards I was walking by myself to the meeting with the local development committee and I passed a bunch of kids no more than 6 years old with bunches of Tondlo they had collected from the forest. I motioned that I wanted some and they obliged by dumping them in my purse. I then offered them some change but they all smiled, said “Mbongo Te” (no money) and continued down the street. I was positively touched. It speaks volumes to the difference between these isolated villages and those that are on the lake shore and often visited by NGOs and other ‘Aid Agencies’. I think these villages have a lot better base for development than those that expect hand outs do.

On the way back from the meeting I heard the drums and voices of the village choir group (don’t think choir, think African drum circle) and decided to join them. We waited on the outskirts of their lively circle and a few minutes later they stopped and turned to us. I motioned that I would like to record their songs on my iphone and they consented and started up again. For the next 30 minutes they drummed and sang and danced and I joined in with the dancing much to their delight. I learned some new dance moves which everyone was thrilled at, but I was most impressed with the little boy of about 8 that was on the drums, he didn’t stop the beat once. It was well gone dark by the time we finished and we were all sweaty and out of breath when we re-listened to parts of the recording. I will put it on a flash drive and send it back to them for their keeping and I have it as a memory forever of that time I had a dance party in the jungles of Africa.

For the rest of the night at our camp I had women coming up to me congratulating me on learning the Congolese dance moves. See, the whitey isn’t that different after all ;)

The Whitey posing with the family we stayed with for five days. They were so lovely and hospitable.

Day Five

Jacques and I had a super lazy morning where we sat around eating fruit and talking to all the people that passed by. We even ended up drinking sugar cane wine which, disappointingly, really isn’t strong at all. In the afternoon I went to Mama Anne’s house to watch her make the Kwanga or Chikwang that is the staple of the local’s diet. It ended up being quite the neighborhood show again and she got a kitchen full of ladies helping her because they wanted to be on camera.

What a crazy amount of work kwanga is for a not very tasty product (In my humble opinion) that is worth almost nothing. It takes a year to grow, but here lies it’s selling point for the grower because once planted it requires almost no watering, weeding or care. Once ready it is dug up and carried back to the river (its heavy) where it is soaked for 3 days to let most of the cyanide wash away (yes cyanide). After that it is smoked for a day on the fire (remember the ladies have to carry all that wood back from the forest too) and then ground down to a fine powder (by hand). Then it is rolled with water in to a paste, steamed for an hour, kneaded for 15 mins, rolled in to logs, wrapped in leaves and raffia and steamed for another 5 hours. A lot of work. It takes women and entire 2 days to prepare enough kwanga for the family for a week, about 30 rolls. Each roll sells for $.10.

Tristan and I have a theory that the Congolese are addicted to the trace amounts of cyanide that remain in the final product as all Congolese will claim they haven’t eaten if they haven’t consumed kwanga, even if they have had fish, beans, rice and vegetables. However anything prepared from cassava is heavy like a glue, so fills you up even more so than the same quantity of potatoes or beans would. A clear benefit for the poor and starving.

Anyway. I learned how to roll it, much to the delight of the local women.

After the Kwanga making experience with the women I decided to balanced things out and joined the men watching the football game. Not being a football/soccer person I was able to observe that the men ran fast and kicked the ball well. The goalie we were sitting beside made some pretty awesome saves, and I couldn’t see the other goalie from my position as there were some serious hills in the field between him and I. I thought it was pretty cool that the field was in part surrounded by an old chief’s palace. Gentrification in Congo. My favorite part though was one of the forwards that was wearing an “Epic Fail’ T-shirt with an arrow to the left. I enjoyed explaining its meaning to the guys sitting next to me, but unfortunately didn’t get a photo. I love reading all the shirts in English that have been donated to goodwill and bought here on the streets and the wearer has no idea what they are wearing says. Some are pretty funny. My all time favorite is my next door neighbor’s shirt. He is an ogre of a man (I mean that how it sounds) and often wears a shirt with a cartoon cat head that says, and I joke you not: “Eat my Pussy”.

During the evening the deaf and mute chief from a cousin village to Ilee came by. He’s quite the character, grunting and gesturing his way through life and stories. He has no formal training in signing but the locals seem to understand him pretty good. He’s in town, and has been a while in my understanding, to look for a replacement chief for his village, but with no luck so far. He was extra animated this evening because he’d just come from the forest where he saw one of the most dangerous snakes around, an Ibama. This snake has the radius of a forearm and is completely inky black. It lives in trees and falls on its prey (!).

Day 6

I slept in till 7:30 this morning and once again congratulated myself on finding a corner where I didn’t wake up to the impatient sounds of children waiting for the white person to appear.

Today we had committed to going to the primary and secondary schools to talk to the kids. I find these school visits rather tedious at the same time as knowing they are very important for the project and the communities. You have to go class to class and say practically the same thing increasing the complexity by each grade level. And of course its all in Lingala so everything has to be translated for me, or not, and then I end up day dreaming until I get caught out by a direct question. Actually, I understand a fair bit of Lingala now, especially on the subject of forests and development and conservation.

My favorite part is the kid’s questions and I always get those translated. So all went well, but slowly in the primary school. For the secondary school we asked if we could put all the classes together in an assembly. So there we stood, the 4 of us from ERA and the Principle, waiting for him to introduce us. And this is what he said: “Today you will see four visitors standing in front of you, but you will notice that one of these visitors in not like us because she has white skin. So I present to you this whitey.” I was shocked and I’m sure it showed on my face. I’m accustomed to standing out, and my skin being a subject of curiosity and discussion and that is fine, but you would expect the Principle of a secondary school to focus on some of the other important issues that we were there to present, you know, the environment, development, conservation, community livelihoods etc. My team took over and introduced us and began talking about the project but shortly in to this discussion he interrupted again to ask the assembly if they had ever seen white skin before (!!). Luckily the kids had a lot more sense than he and the exchange with them was wonderful regardless of his ignorant racism.

When I was in university we sometimes reviewed the history of how Europeans first studied, explained and treated Africans. I’m not talking so much about slavery, more the then ‘science’ or at least how they ‘examined’ Africans. In the last week I’ve thought a lot about those first Africans that were brought to Europe and I think I can commiserate just a little with how they might have been feeling. Certainly not the fear and pain they must have felt, but when I see that look in some of the villagers eyes I think, this is what it must have felt like. Mom’s bring their kids to my tent specifically to stare at me. Women touch my skin and my hair and either recoil with shock, or hang on claiming it softer, stranger, or the same to all those staring that haven’t yet touched me. Children run screaming when I look in their direction, or huddle around in big groups whispering to each other every time I move. The do this for hours without tiring. It certainly is an interesting perspective to be looking out from. A contemplative perspective.

So I washed my clothes for the 1^st leg of our return trip tomorrow and spent some qt time with De Rock. I want a monkey L.  Afterwards I was walking by myself to the meeting with the local development committee and I passed a bunch of kids no more than 6 years old with bunches of Tondlo they had collected from the forest. I motioned that I wanted some and they obliged by dumping them in my purse. I then offered them some change but they all smiled, said “Mbongo Te” (no money) and continued down the street. I was positively touched. It speaks volumes to the difference between these isolated villages and those that are on the lake shore and often visited by NGOs and other ‘Aid Agencies’. I think these villages have a lot better base for development than those that expect hand outs do.

On the way back from the meeting I heard the drums and voices of the village choir group (don’t think choir, think African drum circle) and decided to join them. We waited on the outskirts of their lively circle and a few minutes later they stopped and turned to us. I motioned that I would like to record their songs on my iphone and they consented and started up again. For the next 30 minutes they drummed and sang and danced and I joined in with the dancing much to their delight. I learned some new dance moves which everyone was thrilled at, but I was most impressed with the little boy of about 8 that was on the drums, he didn’t stop the beat once. It was well gone dark by the time we finished and we were all sweaty and out of breath when we re-listened to parts of the recording. I will put it on a flash drive and send it back to them for their keeping and I have it as a memory forever of that time I had a dance party in the jungles of Africa.

For the rest of the night at our camp I had women coming up to me congratulating me on learning the Congolese dance moves. See, the whitey isn’t that different after all ;)

Part 2 - Meeting Big Tree and De Rock

Day Three

My tent beside the hut at the back of my hosts parcel

I woke after a wonderfully deep sleep and enjoyed the luxury of brushing my hair in privacy without and audience because I had hidden my tent at the back of my host’s parcel away from all the others for that very reason. Today I needed to wash my clothes and we had a meeting with the Local Development Committee at 2pm. Big List!

I had a breakfast of oranges (I prefer to call them greens), bananas, coconut, dough balls (called banyans) and a granola bar that had come all the way with me from Austria. Then I returned to my tent and spied a tiny 2cm long worm type larvae. I threw it out of the tent. Upon further inspection worms were found under every stationary object in the tent. At least 100 were exiled but I still wasn’t sure of their source. I soon pinned it down to the only thing possible though, the four dried fish that Tristan had so kindly bought for me at the market in Inongo before I left (and upon spying them my gardener commented ‘you guys eat those?’). The fish were also unceremoniously evacuated.

Mambo, with the remains of the Tondolo at her feet

I washed my clothes without event at the house where the animateurs had camped previously as it was beside a well, thus easier to collect water. The locals were shocked that the white person/chief was able to wash her own clothes, evidently they had only met the type of whites that prove themselves to be completely useless in all practical areas. When I returned to the pyote  (palm-frond open-air shade) after hanging my clothes where Anne (the mama of the house) and the rest of the family were I discovered we had a new member of our group, Da Rock, a baby Red-tailed monkey. I picked Da Rock up and began petting him and he collapsed with squeaks of ecstasy into my chest. I am in love. We spent a blissful few hours there chatting, playing with De Rock and eating tondlo, a wonderfully sour fruit that grows naturally in the forest. I enjoyed sharing ‘sour’ faces with their youngest girl Mambo. Sometimes language isn’t necessary. 

 

My next task was to get drinking water from the spring (source in French). The village of 2,000 has one beautiful source for all its drinking water. I asked the middle daughter, Noella, to come with me so I could stock up my canteen. The sourse is beautifully clear and there are strict rules in the village for not using it for any other reason. However, it is generally children who collect water for their families and if their hands or canteens are contaminated it can put the entire village at risk of sickness. This happens in many villages in our project area every year, especially  during times in the rainy season when water from all areas mixes and run over. In fact that very evening the Capita (mayor) of the village was walking around the village and announcing the news. One of the items was that people were washing dishes in the source and that this was not allowed.  I haven’t been able to be very prudent with my consumption of food and water on this trip. No boiling, no washing my own pots. But, so far so good, luckily I have been here for 2 years and my stomach was pretty tough to start with anyway. 

At the spring with some ladies also collecting water

We spent the rest of the afternoon with the local development committee teaching them about climate change, the project and how they can begin to steward development in their own village. There were many many questions which is my favorite part. I always take care to have the questions translated from Lingala to French if I don’t understand because what the locals want to know is so important to me.

 After a lovely meal of boiled snake fish and kwanga I fell asleep in my tent content with the sounds of real African drums this time.

Day Four

Posing with my corbiel beside Mama Anne

I woke up with a start this morning because I remembered I had a date at 7am with Mama Anne to go to her field with her. When I arrived at her house she had a nice small basket for me to wear and a hoe for me to help her with. I donned the corbeil (basket) much to the amusement of her, my team, the neighbors and pretty much any one else around. We walked to her field with an entourage of women and thankfully it wasn’t much further than the edge of the village because the corbeil was cutting in to my shoulders already even though it only contained a hoe and my water. Every house-hold we passed said ‘the mundele is going to work in the field?’ they were shocked and amused. When we arrived in the field all of the women set to work to show me how to plant cassava. Its pretty basic, you simply hoe a mound and ram a piece of the old cassava stalk in to it. Easiest thing I’ve ever planted. Then you wait a year and you have a cassava tuber. I can see why it is their staple. In all their exuberance to show me how to do it we were clearing and planting fast. I asked Mama Anne if it was always like this: one day they go to one field and all help out and the next day they go to another’s? She said no, they are all here because of you. So then I laughed and said, well you are getting quite a lot of work done here then aren’t you? And she said yes, I really am.

The women all eager to demonstrate and be on film. If you look closely you can see the cassava stalks that have been planted in each mound

The women sang and hoe’d and we generally had a great time. Especially once I brought out my camera and started filming them. Everyone wanted to be on camera. A new rule was made that you could only be on camera if you were working. There was soon a shortage of tools.

On the way back she asked if I wanted to carry wood and I said yes of course. So I put my corbeil on and they loaded me up. It was about ¼ the load I see women carrying but it was super heavy and the straps were cutting in to my arms something fierce. I wonder what kind of toll that does to their bodies over the years. You would never see a man carrying a corbeil. That is woman’s work.

So we walked back in to town and the woman were singing and clapping their hands around me so we made quite the scene. When we finally arrived at the house we had a little dance party and then that was that. I have been having people come up to me now for the last 36 hours since and say “I heard you went to the fields”? and when I say yes they burst out in a big smile. *At the end of the week when I rode back through the villages I found that the news of me going to the field had reached as far as the lake 60km away that very same day.

We got word that the chief had come back from a trip he had left on because he had heard we were in his village. I was formally introduced and we had Lesolo, I also learned that his name meant Tall Tree, which his clan was particularly proud of as he owns one of the largest and sacred forests in the region. We have not had the easiest history working with the village and in fact two of our foresters were chased out of the village with guns two years ago, so it was an important meeting. The dude was so cool. His outfit was made out of the traditional material chiefs outfits are made of (red acrylic blankets with anything from Mickey Mouse to Summer flowers) but this time it was different, the shirt was cut in to a proper collar with a zipper and a big picket. But the best part was that he was wearing a cowboy hat exactly like the one I used to have. We had a great chat and he turned out to be just as wonderful as his hat.

Chief Tall Tree of Ilee

I took this the next day when it wasn't thundering and showering out

That night I had to wash my hair so I asked Mama Anne if she could boil water for me. I showered as the sun set and a thunder and lightening storm rolled in. The shower stalls are never completely private and usually have holes and/or you can see over the top. This one had both so the neighbor ladies got a lovely view of me lathering my hair. So worth it even with an audience and in the rain.

A Bike Ride in the Jungle

Day One

We left about an hour later than originally planned, which is pretty good for here. Kitoko was not very happy to realize I was leaving on the boat and she wasn’t coming with me. She followed the boat in to the water and then raced along the shore in the direction of the boat after we took off. She really has become attached to me lately.

So we arrived in Mpongoboli and loaded up the bikes. I’m always so amazed how they can attach so much baggage with just some vines as twine. I had the most stuff of course. Even though I had packed and repacked to take as little as possible.

 

We rolled on the same path we had a few months before with the WWF visitors we took to Bakele, over all the cool old bridges whose foundations are left over from Belgium times.

Bridges left over from the Belgians. You can see a boat under me. 

We arrived in Bakele without incident aside from deciding that wearing runners was a waste of time due to all the creeks we had to cross that were at least ankle deep. In Bakele we waited a long time for the local Animateurs (our community facilitators) to finish packing and join us. Although they had known for days we were going on a trip at this time it still took them 2 hours to be ready. Typical. While we waited we had ‘lesolo’ (exchange of news) with the chief, fixed our bikes, and ate oranges, which are actually green.

After Bakele we rode through 16km of forests, crops of cassava, mais and plantains and big beautiful blond savannahs that contrary to ones preconceived notions of a savanna are inundated, or, technically, semi-inundated, with water. So we walked our bikes through a small path that had been worn down over years of use and through big patches of mud that sucked my sandals off. There were also some welcomed sections of dry where it was better to ride so the pedals didn’t bang into your legs on the narrow trail but it was not always possible because the edges of the path kept bumping into your pedals and knocking you off kilter. A fine balance.

Arriving back in the forest with its open paths and swampy bridges was a welcome change.

We finally reached the village of Lobalu where we found the rest of the crew that we had organized to meet us there. We rested in front of the traditional chiefs house, well actually they call it a palace. Interestingly they plant these very original looking yucca like trees around the palace so it is easy to see from far away. When the chief dies the palace is abandoned and a new one built. We rode through new villages, new savannas and met wit another chief and had the lesolo. As the sky was going pink we had 4 more km to go and we rushed. At this point I was feeling very weak as we had rode over 40km all day in the humidity and heat. We arrived well after dark but all in tact.

We met everyone else at the camp resting but I knew I couldn’t sit down. I had to get my tent up or I would be sleeping in the dirt covered I mud and sweat. A lovely mama heated a bucket of water for me on a 3-stone fire (logs) and took me to her palm frond shower stall only to find that it had fallen down in the wind. We proceeded to the neighbors stall that required quite a few vines to be pulled out of it before I could enter. But regardless, it was an awesome bucket shower.

I attempted to sit with the others and make small talk but my blow up pillow was calling to me and I fell asleep on it by 8pm.

Day Two

I slept without waking until 4am and got up at 6am with a circle of kids surrounding my tent. I felt like a new woman.

Sunday is the only time where most of the village doesn’t go to the forest or the fields to work so there was quite the audience present to watch me brush my hair, eat and orange, brush my teeth and take down my tent. Every time I opened my bag or my tent door the entire crowd would lean in to see what I was going to pull out next. Sometimes it gets frustrating to be started at like and animal, especially when you are tired, or on hot days when they block the airflow (and children fart), but there isn’t much you can do about it.

Thunder and lightening were threatening in with sincerity on the horizon so we waited for most of the morning in weather that was so cool I went to get my cardigan. We ate what is actually one of my first Congolese meals since the first month I was here two years ago and I learned not to eat them any more and restricted my diet to rice and tomatoes. It actually wasn’t too bad. We also ate this fruit, Safu, that looks like a big purple pill. You boil them and eat them with salt. I had also decided I didn’t like these my first month in Congo but this time thought they were pretty good. It’s funny how your perspective changes.

So we finally decided the storm wasn’t going to come around 1pm when it was nice and hot for riding through km after km of flooded savannah. It was about this time that I remembered I had forgotten my deodorant. Fun times. The entire area of this part of the Congo basin, the river’s ancient flood plane, is only at its highest 300m above sea level, so when you get to areas that are lower than this they flood in the wet seasons between October and June. Savanna and forest alike are inundated for half the year.

I was constantly amazed at the variety and abundance of butterflies along the route. Blue, purple, orange, white and I even saw a bright green one which struck me as a strange colour for a butterfly. I came across some that had perished in the mud so I pressed them in my book.

After 17km we came to the town of Olynge Oye that started as a farm 30 years ago. I loved its name when I found out that it means: Come and stay if you want to stay, go if you don’t.

After passing the welcoming village we quickly came across our team of chainsaw bearing road clearing men (not wearing their expensive and imported safety gear). We had sent them 2 days ahead of us to clear the road because trees, huge trees, regularly fall on the path and make passing very difficult as you have to lift your bike over or under trees or push through the forest to get around them. I quickly learned how essential they were because now that we had passed them we were left to lift our bicycles and packs over these massive trees.

 
When we finally rolled in to Ilee, our final destination and over 60km of road later, the welcome was well worth the effort. We rode straight to the palace and were met by all the dignitaries (except for the chief who was away on a voyage to Kinshasa) with very un-Congolese speed. Children crowded around the hanger to see their first ever mundele (white person) and all the men exclaimed how touched they were that this mundele makasi (strong white person) had made such a hard journey just for them. After another dinner of boiled fish and Kwanga I went to my tent thinking “if only there were drums” and then they started. Ah, I thought , how perfect, and then I thought, but wait, those arent’ African Djembe type drums. Those are marching band drums. Sure enough I saw them in the morning, the visiting Catholic Band from a neighboring villages church marching out of town flutes and all.