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 ;)