TGIF! Indeed, especially as I was just informed that we are going to have a long weekend (maybe too late to plan for anything when you find out about a Monday off on Friday at lunch, BUT certainly better than previously in Rwanda, where the government would issue some completely useless communiqué about free Mondays really late on Sunday nights…)
Not an easy Friday, though, as I took part in pretty much the scariest meeting ever: the OCHA security briefing. “OCHA is the part of the United Nations Secretariat responsible for bringing together humanitarian actors to ensure a coherent response to emergencies. OCHA also ensures there is a framework within which each actor can contribute to the overall response effort,” says their web site. And they are certainly an amazing resource when you work in some God forsaken places. Among many other things: they remind you, in a very formal setting, how dangerous everything is around you, and how exposed you actually are when you do your work.
Not that I didn’t know Eastern Congo was not safe… Quite on the contrary… But still, during my many trips on the road and by air in the past 12 months I have kept a certain faith that things were going to be alright. And I have basically put my life in the hands of our security staff, our partners and even the local population at times, when we were doing field work in the middle of nowhere. And yes, we do get daily regional briefings, and they are not cheerful at all, but there was something about today’s meeting that gave me the creeps beyond the usual.
Attacks, ambushes, road blocks, fights, banditry, displacements, disease outbreaks, killings, lootings, rapes – you name it, and it was on the list of ‘routine’ things that have taken place around here during the past seven days. An Indian MONUSCO officer came in and clinically detailed all of these incidents, their supposed causes, and their potential bigger fallouts. And then he recommended we stay out of certain routes and, when in certain communities, try to contain rumors about more impending attacks that are driving everyone crazy.
WHOA! Lots to take in, for sure!
And a bizarre, two-fold feeling too: on the one hand I was quite charged and motivated by the vibe around (this was the closest I’ve ever been to a ‘situation room’); on the other I saw my vulnerability maybe clearer than ever before.
It’ll certainly take more than a long weekend to digest all this. And more than a few Fridays to get casual about these kinds of meetings...
Friday, July 29, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Boring - Think Again!
I wanted to begin this post writing that by and large this week has been remarkably uninteresting. But then I paused to think that maybe my hyper life-style and sometimes very high expectations of myself and people/things around me should not mean that some ‘quieter’ days are boring. And then I realized that even my ‘quiet’ times are actually pretty incredible – even if sometimes, hearing the out-of-this-world stories of my colleagues and new friends here, I consider my own life pretty standard… Yes, I know, perspective shifts all the time. Sometime, when they throw in stories from all over the world about how they were evacuated, robbed at gun-point, lived in compounds or had their cars high-jacked, I go ‘wow!’ and I find not much more to add…
And then there comes a weekend – let’s say the first ‘slow’ weekend I would have spent since coming back to Africa, settling into my new house, etc. – and a last-minute begging-request from my former employer: that I help out (i.e. pretty much do the entire media part) of the finally happening gorilla transfer (the one which I was supposed to cover last June, and that was postponed MANY, many, many times). So here I was, working like a maniac both Saturday and Sunday, from 4.30 a.m. onwards, on the Goma side, seeing these beloved orphaned gorillas at long last being transported/airlifted from Rwanda back to Congo (where they had originally been confiscated from poachers). And what a wonderful, emotional time it was too, getting together with my former colleagues from Rwanda and also meeting some cool filmmakers, with very precious advice for my camera work. What also helped, esthetically, was that the helicopter pilot was quite a hot guy – unfortunately, though, I didn’t get a chance to fly off with him… My next post MUST have ‘frequent helicopter rides’ on the job description!
Once the whole frenzy was over, my body simply collapsed from last weeks’ fatigue (I suspect that the Goma dust clouds might have something to do with it as well, even if I am not allergic or particularly sensitive to these things)… It has also been quite difficult to sleep in, as loud birds start their morning rounds VERY early, and our Congolese house staff are also very diligent at sweeping the yard and sending radio messages at 6 a.m… Hardly being able to breathe I have sort of crawled through Monday and Tuesday, and I am now about to be picked up for a first field assignment, some 2-3 hours’ drive on a bad road… If by tonight I am feeling slightly more energetic I plan to embark on a NYC reminiscent experience: salsa dancing, with an Italian instructor, on the shores of the lake.
Wait, was I about to say my life was ‘uninteresting’?!?
And then there comes a weekend – let’s say the first ‘slow’ weekend I would have spent since coming back to Africa, settling into my new house, etc. – and a last-minute begging-request from my former employer: that I help out (i.e. pretty much do the entire media part) of the finally happening gorilla transfer (the one which I was supposed to cover last June, and that was postponed MANY, many, many times). So here I was, working like a maniac both Saturday and Sunday, from 4.30 a.m. onwards, on the Goma side, seeing these beloved orphaned gorillas at long last being transported/airlifted from Rwanda back to Congo (where they had originally been confiscated from poachers). And what a wonderful, emotional time it was too, getting together with my former colleagues from Rwanda and also meeting some cool filmmakers, with very precious advice for my camera work. What also helped, esthetically, was that the helicopter pilot was quite a hot guy – unfortunately, though, I didn’t get a chance to fly off with him… My next post MUST have ‘frequent helicopter rides’ on the job description!
Once the whole frenzy was over, my body simply collapsed from last weeks’ fatigue (I suspect that the Goma dust clouds might have something to do with it as well, even if I am not allergic or particularly sensitive to these things)… It has also been quite difficult to sleep in, as loud birds start their morning rounds VERY early, and our Congolese house staff are also very diligent at sweeping the yard and sending radio messages at 6 a.m… Hardly being able to breathe I have sort of crawled through Monday and Tuesday, and I am now about to be picked up for a first field assignment, some 2-3 hours’ drive on a bad road… If by tonight I am feeling slightly more energetic I plan to embark on a NYC reminiscent experience: salsa dancing, with an Italian instructor, on the shores of the lake.
Wait, was I about to say my life was ‘uninteresting’?!?
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Hanging Out with The Stars
For the past week I’ve been waking up every morning in the amazing Orchid Hotel in Bukavu, overlooking from a high terraced garden the incredible lake, and then hanging out with the stars. Quite literally. And quite amazing for a first field assignment in this new job…
On paper I will be based in Goma (which is the most important town in the North Kivu region), but in practice I will be traveling pretty much all the time all over the place to see and write about the different programs we are running in this HUMONGOUS country. Bukavu is the capital of South Kivu, so last Saturday I took this short, two-hour, $50 trip on the speed boat (the normal, ‘popular’ boats take more than twice this time), deep in the heart of the most amazing scenery. The only other place I could somehow relate this to: the Norwegian Fjords, only with actually beautiful weather as a plus. The Kivu Lake is simply breathtaking, with small islands and mountainous shores, and with the tropical spin of banana plantations and amazing forest brushing the water. It is so spectacular that I developed a kind of boat-addiction from the very beginning, so during the week I hopped on our own speed boat a few times, both for pleasure and for traveling to remote islands and visit some of our health programs.
The reason why I actually traveled to Bukavu, though, was to entertain some Hollywood, NFL, Nascar and private sector stars, who have come together to find a project and save the Congo… Easy to do, right? Well, actually kind of wrong. This country is SO big and complex, and has such a twisted post-colonial history and so many actors at play on the ground, that a ‘REAL’ solution is just not within anyone’s grip. Our stars, however, have been adamant that they can do something beyond the obvious pattern, so it has been quite entertaining in turn to see their thought-process related to this, accompanied by the most interesting comments and questions: “So this land was Belgian, right? And then what?”; “We should invest in conflict-free wine and call it ‘Delicious’”(they don’t grow grapes in Congo); “There are so many pregnant women around here, were they all raped?” (Bukavu happens to be known also as ‘the rape capital’ of the world); “So we're here to see some refugee camps, why are they not on the schedule?” (because there are none…); “I was thinking a few months back that I’d like to drive around here, but I’m glad I changed my mind. Man, these roads are bad!”, etc. etc… It will definitely be interesting to see what they come up with in the end. So keep your eyes on the media in the coming months, and you will certainly hear/see some big names talking about saving the Congo!
As they are heading back to their luxury homes later today, I will also take the boat back to Goma and hopefully have a few days in the same place to get my head around this new job – which from now on will hopefully only involve stars with shiny solutions on a NOT regular basis... Luckily my luggage also arrived (both from Kinshasa and from Rwanda), so I can envisage a couple of days of unpacking and decorating my new home. Very down-to-earth, star-free environment, to recalibrate and start anew. (Although I must confess that I definitely got hooked on one starry thing: an exquisite Chanel diamond white ceramic watch – which I duly googled and found that it costs around $10,000)…
On paper I will be based in Goma (which is the most important town in the North Kivu region), but in practice I will be traveling pretty much all the time all over the place to see and write about the different programs we are running in this HUMONGOUS country. Bukavu is the capital of South Kivu, so last Saturday I took this short, two-hour, $50 trip on the speed boat (the normal, ‘popular’ boats take more than twice this time), deep in the heart of the most amazing scenery. The only other place I could somehow relate this to: the Norwegian Fjords, only with actually beautiful weather as a plus. The Kivu Lake is simply breathtaking, with small islands and mountainous shores, and with the tropical spin of banana plantations and amazing forest brushing the water. It is so spectacular that I developed a kind of boat-addiction from the very beginning, so during the week I hopped on our own speed boat a few times, both for pleasure and for traveling to remote islands and visit some of our health programs.
The reason why I actually traveled to Bukavu, though, was to entertain some Hollywood, NFL, Nascar and private sector stars, who have come together to find a project and save the Congo… Easy to do, right? Well, actually kind of wrong. This country is SO big and complex, and has such a twisted post-colonial history and so many actors at play on the ground, that a ‘REAL’ solution is just not within anyone’s grip. Our stars, however, have been adamant that they can do something beyond the obvious pattern, so it has been quite entertaining in turn to see their thought-process related to this, accompanied by the most interesting comments and questions: “So this land was Belgian, right? And then what?”; “We should invest in conflict-free wine and call it ‘Delicious’”(they don’t grow grapes in Congo); “There are so many pregnant women around here, were they all raped?” (Bukavu happens to be known also as ‘the rape capital’ of the world); “So we're here to see some refugee camps, why are they not on the schedule?” (because there are none…); “I was thinking a few months back that I’d like to drive around here, but I’m glad I changed my mind. Man, these roads are bad!”, etc. etc… It will definitely be interesting to see what they come up with in the end. So keep your eyes on the media in the coming months, and you will certainly hear/see some big names talking about saving the Congo!
As they are heading back to their luxury homes later today, I will also take the boat back to Goma and hopefully have a few days in the same place to get my head around this new job – which from now on will hopefully only involve stars with shiny solutions on a NOT regular basis... Luckily my luggage also arrived (both from Kinshasa and from Rwanda), so I can envisage a couple of days of unpacking and decorating my new home. Very down-to-earth, star-free environment, to recalibrate and start anew. (Although I must confess that I definitely got hooked on one starry thing: an exquisite Chanel diamond white ceramic watch – which I duly googled and found that it costs around $10,000)…
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
UN Flight Taking Me Back Home
I have always had a thing for men in uniform (maybe not entirely coincidentally my two boyfriends were also more or less involved with their respective countries’ armies, although I rarely/never saw them in their officer attires). Anyhow, this could potentially be the one underlying explanation of why Eastern Congo does not entirely freak me out. In a space where there are hundreds of thousands of soldiers and numerous rebels belonging to God knows what factions, all carrying some pretty scary guns around and going on some terrible plundering/raping/killing sprees for any or no reason, I have managed to keep my emotions under control fairly easily. On top of it all, of course, there is the very large MONUSCO contingent (the largest anywhere in the world), trying to keep things relatively calm around here, so if you don’t bump into Congolese armed men then the Blue Helmets are certainly going to show up in your way pretty much wherever you turn.
However, I have never before been in a ‘military’ situation just like this morning, when in Kinshasa I was taken to the UN Terminal, to hopefully board a UNHAS (United Nations Humanitarian Assistance Service) flight to Goma. Backtracking for a second: my new employer, just like most major NGOs in Congo which have massive field operations requiring extensive travels, does not allow us to fly on any national carriers, given their horrible security record and measures. And, quite frankly, after the latest plane crash in Kisangani just a few days ago, I was quite happy to oblige and go for the safe UN flights. The only problem there: they are quite rare and extremely coveted, so more often than not the already exclusive people on the list get bumped and have to wait for another week or so until the next flight becomes available, as well as hope that no other more exclusive people called in all sorts of emergencies take over their seats again.
So yes, arriving at the small terminal I had strong doubts I’d be allowed to check in, but somehow this was my lucky Tuesday. After a couple of rather quick screens, during which I only had to present my new work-card and Ordre de Mission, I entered the waiting room only to find myself literally magnetizing the gazes of tens of men-in-uniforms, putting together the funnies looking ‘army’ ever: Nigerians, Chinese, Uruguayans, Egyptians, Congolese and Nepalese are the ones coming to mind now, some 12 hours later, when I can hardly believe that I was part of that scene. Too bad, however, that I had not quite anticipated that, so I was so NOT looking at my best (after being quite a knock-out in Kinshasa this past week) ;-) But so it happened that I was still a bit sleepy at 6.30 a.m., and wearing my field clothes since the rest of my luggage had been in the meantime shipped off by DHL (at a whopping price of $430 for 30 kgs).
With the burden of all those looks on me, which I clearly did not quite know how to handle, I thought I should keep myself busy and for starters decided to use the restroom. The ladies’ toilet, clearly marked, opened however with a urinal, which obviously threw me off balance even more. The next thing to do, after coming out of there quite startled, was to pace the big room and take a look at the strangest collection of posters I have ever seen: how to be safe around a helicopter; how to fight HIV stigma; how to approach the apron at the terminal; and, finally… how to take a UN flight. This last note was basically a list of all the things that had gone somewhat wrong with these flights in the last few months. Among them, bird attacks and humans crossing the runways to-and-from their fields just before planes landed. What was missing was a note about the UN plane that crashed in April (in which someone working for us actually perished), to give these ‘safe flights’ a more realistic touch…
Slowly, passengers for different destinations were called up front and handed a piece of paper acting as a boarding pass, and sadly it turned out that on my flight there were not going to be any men in uniform after all… Finally my turn came as well for the Kinshasa-Bukavu-Goma-Kananga-Kinshasa flight, and I boarded this really cute plane whose shape reminded me of a baby crocodile, with a really long, slender nose. It turned out it was actually a Mexican plane, and the crew consisted of the most endearing, chubby, middle-aged steward I have ever traveled with. He performed his duties in a rather homey manner as well, so I really totally enjoyed the flight, dozing off now and then and dreaming of Uruguayan soldiers.
When we landed in Bukavu, some three hours later, I felt how I was finally coming home, returning to the East after this crazy Africa criss-crossing from the past three weeks. I then came close to tears when we flew from Bukavu to Goma, over the most spectacular Lake Kivu landscape, and literally brushing by my dear Rwanda, of which I basically recognized every hill, hotel, beach. So close and yet so far, as upon arrival I actually handed my passport to some stranger who was returning to Kinshasa on the continuing flight, so that the guys at HQ could finally take it to immigration for my new work visa. I will henceforth be stuck in this country for at least two months, so God pray there’s no emergency or anything of the kind coming up!
However, I have never before been in a ‘military’ situation just like this morning, when in Kinshasa I was taken to the UN Terminal, to hopefully board a UNHAS (United Nations Humanitarian Assistance Service) flight to Goma. Backtracking for a second: my new employer, just like most major NGOs in Congo which have massive field operations requiring extensive travels, does not allow us to fly on any national carriers, given their horrible security record and measures. And, quite frankly, after the latest plane crash in Kisangani just a few days ago, I was quite happy to oblige and go for the safe UN flights. The only problem there: they are quite rare and extremely coveted, so more often than not the already exclusive people on the list get bumped and have to wait for another week or so until the next flight becomes available, as well as hope that no other more exclusive people called in all sorts of emergencies take over their seats again.
So yes, arriving at the small terminal I had strong doubts I’d be allowed to check in, but somehow this was my lucky Tuesday. After a couple of rather quick screens, during which I only had to present my new work-card and Ordre de Mission, I entered the waiting room only to find myself literally magnetizing the gazes of tens of men-in-uniforms, putting together the funnies looking ‘army’ ever: Nigerians, Chinese, Uruguayans, Egyptians, Congolese and Nepalese are the ones coming to mind now, some 12 hours later, when I can hardly believe that I was part of that scene. Too bad, however, that I had not quite anticipated that, so I was so NOT looking at my best (after being quite a knock-out in Kinshasa this past week) ;-) But so it happened that I was still a bit sleepy at 6.30 a.m., and wearing my field clothes since the rest of my luggage had been in the meantime shipped off by DHL (at a whopping price of $430 for 30 kgs).
With the burden of all those looks on me, which I clearly did not quite know how to handle, I thought I should keep myself busy and for starters decided to use the restroom. The ladies’ toilet, clearly marked, opened however with a urinal, which obviously threw me off balance even more. The next thing to do, after coming out of there quite startled, was to pace the big room and take a look at the strangest collection of posters I have ever seen: how to be safe around a helicopter; how to fight HIV stigma; how to approach the apron at the terminal; and, finally… how to take a UN flight. This last note was basically a list of all the things that had gone somewhat wrong with these flights in the last few months. Among them, bird attacks and humans crossing the runways to-and-from their fields just before planes landed. What was missing was a note about the UN plane that crashed in April (in which someone working for us actually perished), to give these ‘safe flights’ a more realistic touch…
Slowly, passengers for different destinations were called up front and handed a piece of paper acting as a boarding pass, and sadly it turned out that on my flight there were not going to be any men in uniform after all… Finally my turn came as well for the Kinshasa-Bukavu-Goma-Kananga-Kinshasa flight, and I boarded this really cute plane whose shape reminded me of a baby crocodile, with a really long, slender nose. It turned out it was actually a Mexican plane, and the crew consisted of the most endearing, chubby, middle-aged steward I have ever traveled with. He performed his duties in a rather homey manner as well, so I really totally enjoyed the flight, dozing off now and then and dreaming of Uruguayan soldiers.
When we landed in Bukavu, some three hours later, I felt how I was finally coming home, returning to the East after this crazy Africa criss-crossing from the past three weeks. I then came close to tears when we flew from Bukavu to Goma, over the most spectacular Lake Kivu landscape, and literally brushing by my dear Rwanda, of which I basically recognized every hill, hotel, beach. So close and yet so far, as upon arrival I actually handed my passport to some stranger who was returning to Kinshasa on the continuing flight, so that the guys at HQ could finally take it to immigration for my new work visa. I will henceforth be stuck in this country for at least two months, so God pray there’s no emergency or anything of the kind coming up!
Monday, July 11, 2011
Brilliant Day
Just because so many people got seriously worried after my previous post - here’s a positive one. Since I was trapped in Kinshasa for the weekend, I decided it was time to go for the main three important things in a new place: sightseeing, shopping, eating.
Now, it was a bit difficult to go for the first one, since we are actually not allowed to go on foot anywhere in the city, apart from a gated area around the embassies, next to the mighty Congo River (i.e. the border with the other Congo). And sightseeing from the car – well, yes, you do see a lot of concrete on the massive Avenue 30 Juin and a lot of dust everywhere else, and you get it how great things were under Mobutu (!) when everything was working properly(?) And you do also catch a glimpse of the fantastic villas from the colonial times, and happy you are indeed when friends and friends of friends happen to know people living there, and when you are invited to multiple garden parties every single night. But eventually that excitement also wears off, and by Sunday morning I was really dying to move my legs. I cautiously took my big camera bag (knowing that I would probably not be able to take any pics, due to the MANY absurd restrictions here), and together with Sara, a colleague visiting from London, we asked the driver to take us to the ‘walk place’ at 9 a.m.
The moment we approached the river, on a beautiful street that reminded me so much of the promenade in Montreux on the Geneva Lake, few soldiers came up to us and started explaining this and that, until one actually said “you can go down to the river.” OK, that was unexpected. We left the high paved road and took a ton of run-down stairs until we actually came to the water. And there it was, the incredible, mythical, fascinating Fleuve Congo, that captured my imagination ever since I was a small child and heard tales of the frightful Heart of Darkness. Of course, on this particular stretch, where you have both capitals on opposite banks, the view is rather ‘civilized’, but when you think where this river – the deepest and second largest in the world - is coming from you do get the ultimate chills. It really is one of the most humbling sights I have ever laid my eyes on, and certainly the highlight of this week in Kinshasa.
Closely supervised by soldiers I was about ready to go back up, when one of them, having spotted my camera bag and smelling some dollars coming his way, very naturally suggested I take pictures. WHAT?!?! A soldier in Congo suggesting you take pictures!?!? And of the ONE place (the border) that all guide books and wise white people with vast Congo experience caution you against?!? OK, this was indeed a good Sunday morning. Still in disbelief, and quite nervous (I was actually thinking he’d take my camera at some point), I started flashing my Nikon left and right, in a sort of surreal excitement. The river was obedient, and calling, and of course all I could think of was floating away on it (apart from wanting to do the cross-country in the US and the trans-Siberian in Russia, the long trip on the Congo River from Kinshasa to Kisangani is right there, high on my priority list).
After the soldier expressly asked for money for coffee or beer, and we duly conformed, we felt like we had paid our way to take pics from the promenade as well. Bypassing only expats jogging and more soldiers guarding bushes and trees, we took this amazing walk, on which I came to think Kinshasa is really not THAT bad. Yes, it is outrageously EXPENSIVE, and FILTHY, and completely CHAOTIC, and just IRRATIONAL overall, but it does have the life, and the feel, and the grandeur, and the power of a really great city. And just when I was pondering on all that – here I was faced with the only other thing I always fantasized of in Congo: some sign with the Zaire name. It came to me from atop a very tall, ugly building, and the “Z” was obscured by a ladder, but no mistake – it was splashed there, for everyone entering the country from the port to see!!! Mobutu was indeed still alive, and probably dear to some people in that building, that the name he created for this country was still allowed. My faithful NIKON zoom did its job this time as well. And with this precious gem on my memory card, I really decided it was time to take off, before some other zealous official thought differently about our picture-taking spree.
The next thing on the agenda was shopping. The day before we had already purchased some pagne (the Congolese waxed-fabrics, in screaming colors), when our colleague Dorothy had arranged for us girls to go spend some money in some upscale shops, but today I really wanted to see the Marche Centrale. Unfortunately, though, it was a Sunday morning, and they were still far away from setting up and getting going, and I also kind of bowed to my own person wisdom giving me nudges (stop buying things, you cannot carry them, your bags are overflowing!), so instead we set up for this lovely road trip. We were going to see the bonobos!!!
For those of you who need some context: these guys, thought for a very long time to be some chimpanzee subspecies, are to be found only in the DRC, to the south of the Congo River, deep in tropical forest. I had heard lots of talks about them last year, since several of my gorilla colleagues had some experience with bonobos, but I had not seen them ever before. What I remembered best was something about their hyper sexuality – they basically have sex ALL the time, not only for reproduction but also for pleasure and for resolving conflicts in their society. The motto they are associated to, quite fittingly: “Make love, not war!”
We were certainly not going to see them in the wild, as that region is FAR, FAR away, and habituated bonobos are still not commonplace, so we went to this fantastic place just outside Kinshasa called Lola ya Bonobo (Paradise for Bonobos) – a very large forested sanctuary, where bonobos rescued from poachers are being rehabilitated. Of course, just like with gorillas or chimps, for every bonobo that has the luck to be saved and brought here, many others are killed, sold, eaten… But yes, it is a real jungle out there, and certainly not only for animals…
Some 60 bonobos are currently cared for here, in different fenced enclosures (but imagine that not as in a zoo-fenced, but as in a huge forest which has fences going throughout it). They are practically free to do whatever they want, but they are still closely monitored. The only thing that does not make any sense to me (coming from the Uber-strict gorilla world, where the human presence is sooo limited and heavily controlled): here there are basically no rules. Or, if there are, they are certainly not followed in any way. A bunch of school girls yesterday were about to feed the bonobos chips through the electric fence, when I just had to shout out. These guys are still supposed to be wild, and return to the wild some day (well, maybe), so any such close contact with humans can only be damaging. Then again, I was just a visitor there myself, so I had to get over my zealous over-protective attitudes and carry on.
It was, indeed, a delight seeing them. And not that I have anything against them having sex all the time (if anything, I applaud a species that has the guts and the time and the drive to do so), BUT there is one just about disgusting thing in this whole business: the female genital swellings, which obviously attract the other bonobos (males and females alike), but which to me looked like nothing more than gigantic tumors. Brrr. And quite frankly, even going beyond the looks – those things must make life SO incredibly uncomfortable. Quite a price to pay for being attractive...
But anyhow -- the bonobos are indeed adorable, and the long walk through the primary forest just what I needed and missed so much. And after such an active day, it was certainly time to delve into the next amazing Kinshasa has to offer: the Cossa Cossa.
They are, quite frankly, the best reason to come over here. The fantastic Congo River prawns, that I have had this week in all possible ways (with garlic, with pili-pili (chili sauce), on a ‘tropical skewer’ with pineapple and veggies, or in a casolette) are just divine. And yes, expensive, at an average of $25-30 a portion, so my finding Chez Philo, where they go for ‘only’ $15, was even more so a treat. I topped the day with a large Tembo beer (whose labels have fun, quick facts about Congolese history), and an actually very good moelleux (which is my all-time favorite desert, that I had had only in France, Belgium and NYC before), so I was indeed quite HAPPY for this brilliant Sunday in Kinshasa.
Now, it was a bit difficult to go for the first one, since we are actually not allowed to go on foot anywhere in the city, apart from a gated area around the embassies, next to the mighty Congo River (i.e. the border with the other Congo). And sightseeing from the car – well, yes, you do see a lot of concrete on the massive Avenue 30 Juin and a lot of dust everywhere else, and you get it how great things were under Mobutu (!) when everything was working properly(?) And you do also catch a glimpse of the fantastic villas from the colonial times, and happy you are indeed when friends and friends of friends happen to know people living there, and when you are invited to multiple garden parties every single night. But eventually that excitement also wears off, and by Sunday morning I was really dying to move my legs. I cautiously took my big camera bag (knowing that I would probably not be able to take any pics, due to the MANY absurd restrictions here), and together with Sara, a colleague visiting from London, we asked the driver to take us to the ‘walk place’ at 9 a.m.
The moment we approached the river, on a beautiful street that reminded me so much of the promenade in Montreux on the Geneva Lake, few soldiers came up to us and started explaining this and that, until one actually said “you can go down to the river.” OK, that was unexpected. We left the high paved road and took a ton of run-down stairs until we actually came to the water. And there it was, the incredible, mythical, fascinating Fleuve Congo, that captured my imagination ever since I was a small child and heard tales of the frightful Heart of Darkness. Of course, on this particular stretch, where you have both capitals on opposite banks, the view is rather ‘civilized’, but when you think where this river – the deepest and second largest in the world - is coming from you do get the ultimate chills. It really is one of the most humbling sights I have ever laid my eyes on, and certainly the highlight of this week in Kinshasa.
Closely supervised by soldiers I was about ready to go back up, when one of them, having spotted my camera bag and smelling some dollars coming his way, very naturally suggested I take pictures. WHAT?!?! A soldier in Congo suggesting you take pictures!?!? And of the ONE place (the border) that all guide books and wise white people with vast Congo experience caution you against?!? OK, this was indeed a good Sunday morning. Still in disbelief, and quite nervous (I was actually thinking he’d take my camera at some point), I started flashing my Nikon left and right, in a sort of surreal excitement. The river was obedient, and calling, and of course all I could think of was floating away on it (apart from wanting to do the cross-country in the US and the trans-Siberian in Russia, the long trip on the Congo River from Kinshasa to Kisangani is right there, high on my priority list).
After the soldier expressly asked for money for coffee or beer, and we duly conformed, we felt like we had paid our way to take pics from the promenade as well. Bypassing only expats jogging and more soldiers guarding bushes and trees, we took this amazing walk, on which I came to think Kinshasa is really not THAT bad. Yes, it is outrageously EXPENSIVE, and FILTHY, and completely CHAOTIC, and just IRRATIONAL overall, but it does have the life, and the feel, and the grandeur, and the power of a really great city. And just when I was pondering on all that – here I was faced with the only other thing I always fantasized of in Congo: some sign with the Zaire name. It came to me from atop a very tall, ugly building, and the “Z” was obscured by a ladder, but no mistake – it was splashed there, for everyone entering the country from the port to see!!! Mobutu was indeed still alive, and probably dear to some people in that building, that the name he created for this country was still allowed. My faithful NIKON zoom did its job this time as well. And with this precious gem on my memory card, I really decided it was time to take off, before some other zealous official thought differently about our picture-taking spree.
The next thing on the agenda was shopping. The day before we had already purchased some pagne (the Congolese waxed-fabrics, in screaming colors), when our colleague Dorothy had arranged for us girls to go spend some money in some upscale shops, but today I really wanted to see the Marche Centrale. Unfortunately, though, it was a Sunday morning, and they were still far away from setting up and getting going, and I also kind of bowed to my own person wisdom giving me nudges (stop buying things, you cannot carry them, your bags are overflowing!), so instead we set up for this lovely road trip. We were going to see the bonobos!!!
For those of you who need some context: these guys, thought for a very long time to be some chimpanzee subspecies, are to be found only in the DRC, to the south of the Congo River, deep in tropical forest. I had heard lots of talks about them last year, since several of my gorilla colleagues had some experience with bonobos, but I had not seen them ever before. What I remembered best was something about their hyper sexuality – they basically have sex ALL the time, not only for reproduction but also for pleasure and for resolving conflicts in their society. The motto they are associated to, quite fittingly: “Make love, not war!”
We were certainly not going to see them in the wild, as that region is FAR, FAR away, and habituated bonobos are still not commonplace, so we went to this fantastic place just outside Kinshasa called Lola ya Bonobo (Paradise for Bonobos) – a very large forested sanctuary, where bonobos rescued from poachers are being rehabilitated. Of course, just like with gorillas or chimps, for every bonobo that has the luck to be saved and brought here, many others are killed, sold, eaten… But yes, it is a real jungle out there, and certainly not only for animals…
Some 60 bonobos are currently cared for here, in different fenced enclosures (but imagine that not as in a zoo-fenced, but as in a huge forest which has fences going throughout it). They are practically free to do whatever they want, but they are still closely monitored. The only thing that does not make any sense to me (coming from the Uber-strict gorilla world, where the human presence is sooo limited and heavily controlled): here there are basically no rules. Or, if there are, they are certainly not followed in any way. A bunch of school girls yesterday were about to feed the bonobos chips through the electric fence, when I just had to shout out. These guys are still supposed to be wild, and return to the wild some day (well, maybe), so any such close contact with humans can only be damaging. Then again, I was just a visitor there myself, so I had to get over my zealous over-protective attitudes and carry on.
It was, indeed, a delight seeing them. And not that I have anything against them having sex all the time (if anything, I applaud a species that has the guts and the time and the drive to do so), BUT there is one just about disgusting thing in this whole business: the female genital swellings, which obviously attract the other bonobos (males and females alike), but which to me looked like nothing more than gigantic tumors. Brrr. And quite frankly, even going beyond the looks – those things must make life SO incredibly uncomfortable. Quite a price to pay for being attractive...
But anyhow -- the bonobos are indeed adorable, and the long walk through the primary forest just what I needed and missed so much. And after such an active day, it was certainly time to delve into the next amazing Kinshasa has to offer: the Cossa Cossa.
They are, quite frankly, the best reason to come over here. The fantastic Congo River prawns, that I have had this week in all possible ways (with garlic, with pili-pili (chili sauce), on a ‘tropical skewer’ with pineapple and veggies, or in a casolette) are just divine. And yes, expensive, at an average of $25-30 a portion, so my finding Chez Philo, where they go for ‘only’ $15, was even more so a treat. I topped the day with a large Tembo beer (whose labels have fun, quick facts about Congolese history), and an actually very good moelleux (which is my all-time favorite desert, that I had had only in France, Belgium and NYC before), so I was indeed quite HAPPY for this brilliant Sunday in Kinshasa.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Bad Day
I've had a bad day. Or maybe just a Congo day. Either way, I am exhausted and at 9 pm I am still not sure where I will sleep tonight.
It all started at our nice Sultani Hotel this morning, when our entire delegation (senior staff from every province) was basically kicked out to make place for - apparently - the South Korean presidential delegation. OK, I get political sensitivities and all, but I am outraged at our logistics guy, who seemed totally unfazed. His only reaction - throwing of all of our stuff in the back on a car, with an unknown destination TBD. I cannot even stress enough my utter annoyance, at the fact that I had to pack again my three + suitcases that I've been now living out of for more than 2 weeks, just to be told that on Friday morning we'd have to move yet again...
I thought I knew better, though, as I was totally planning to fly out to Goma on Friday, and I also thought I had made all arrangements for it (i.e. asking our extensive logistics team to book me a seat). When I arrived at the office they were all smiles, but soon they started punching the bad news. First, as we are only allowed to take UN flights, we are also only allowed to have 20 kg of luggage with us - and paying overweight simply won't do. I could not emphasize enough that I would want my luggage there WITH me, so a whole machinery started looking into DHL options to ship my stuff a day in advance of my flight (i.e. Thursday). Of course, as proforma for shipping came in, so came the other piece of fantastic news: I was totally cut off the Friday flight, and I was now looking at next Tuesday at best... In the meantime my passport was being taken to immigration but my work card was not yet ready, so I was in Kinshasa without identity, without accommodation, without luggage. Exactly what I had dreamed of in this mad city. Add to that the fact that yesterday, as I was using my personal Vaio for work, my charger fried, and the news was that no Sony chargers were to be found anywhere in Congo, and in the meantime they gave me this CRAP DELL with an impossible French keyboard, and all was just terrific. In the midst of all this I also had to reconfigure my entire schedule, as Mary, the girl that was supposed to give me an extensive briefing, had just gone gone down with malaria...
As meetings came and went, and as the evening was drawing closer, I was sort of becoming slightly impatient. The system we have here - with rotating drivers and cars - is all nice in principle, but certainly not that great during rush hour, when cars are totally stuck God knows where and the mobile phone networks simply do not work. So there I was, at 6.30 pm, frantically calling an unanswerable driver phone, while on the other line trying to find out at least what the name of the new hotel was. No real luck on either end, until someone rushed to our office and mentioned 'the bus was downstairs and all have to go now'. It turned out we had been rented a bus, that no one wanted to take in the end, since they were all about to go out. I was so tired, though, that I decided to get a lift. And there I was, all by myself in a 20-seater, that stumbled every 2 meters on the way to an unknown destination.
When we finally arrived to this no-name construction behind a thick fence I was really at the end of all my wits. A few guys came up from nowhere and showed me through a narrow hall to the reception window, and then through another narrow hall to my room - where, MIRACULOUSLY, all my bags (tagged an untagged?!) were waiting for me... In my delight, coupled with the excitement to see a really nice room, I almost overlooked the fact that the mosquitoes were literally swarming in there. When I was quite directly attacked, while still standing, and pointed to the guys that there was no moustiquaire and that I absolutely needed one, they were quick to rebut me "But why, there are absolutely no mosquitoes in here, as you can see!"
At that moment all I could do was get the hell out of there and ask for a large beer. And a moustiquaire and insect repellent. And surely, they did provide a Primus as well as some anti-insect canned product, which finished at the first attempted spraying. At the same time I was trying to negotiate for some dinner, and the best I could do was get a fried quarter of a chicken, with some rice and two tomato slices for 20 bucks. Clearly, this was NOT going to make me happy.
While I was waiting for my dinner in the nicely hidden garden, by the pool, I was duly informed that 'the technician' called to buy and fix the moustiquaire had defected. Just as well, I thought, as he was the tiniest man I had ever seen, trying to estimate how to deal with a problem hooked to a ceiling of at least 4 meters high, without any ladder or any tools. As I was biting into my delicious soso breast, I was also quite naturally courted by this fat, middle-aged Congolese man sitting at the next table. Small talk all you want, of course, I was thinking, until I almost choked when he mentioned he has just returned from... Maramures (the most picturesque part of Romania). Wait, WHAT?! He then went on a rant telling me how much Romanians and Congolese are like each other, because they prefer living in large groups. La Roumanie, c'est presque comme l'Afrique, he concluded, and that's when I decided it was time to go back to the mosquitoes.
After another round of negotiations with the reception guy, who took me to five other rooms to prove to me the 'no-mosquito show', I decided to take the first one anyhow, at least to try it out. With the disgusting AC at full blow, malaria-Mary on my mind, and three personal sprays at peak (intoxicating myself to begin with), I am now maybe contemplating to let myself pass out and just hope to wake up to a more normal day... Then again, when you sign up for Congo, you pretty much forgo any right to any claimed normality...
It all started at our nice Sultani Hotel this morning, when our entire delegation (senior staff from every province) was basically kicked out to make place for - apparently - the South Korean presidential delegation. OK, I get political sensitivities and all, but I am outraged at our logistics guy, who seemed totally unfazed. His only reaction - throwing of all of our stuff in the back on a car, with an unknown destination TBD. I cannot even stress enough my utter annoyance, at the fact that I had to pack again my three + suitcases that I've been now living out of for more than 2 weeks, just to be told that on Friday morning we'd have to move yet again...
I thought I knew better, though, as I was totally planning to fly out to Goma on Friday, and I also thought I had made all arrangements for it (i.e. asking our extensive logistics team to book me a seat). When I arrived at the office they were all smiles, but soon they started punching the bad news. First, as we are only allowed to take UN flights, we are also only allowed to have 20 kg of luggage with us - and paying overweight simply won't do. I could not emphasize enough that I would want my luggage there WITH me, so a whole machinery started looking into DHL options to ship my stuff a day in advance of my flight (i.e. Thursday). Of course, as proforma for shipping came in, so came the other piece of fantastic news: I was totally cut off the Friday flight, and I was now looking at next Tuesday at best... In the meantime my passport was being taken to immigration but my work card was not yet ready, so I was in Kinshasa without identity, without accommodation, without luggage. Exactly what I had dreamed of in this mad city. Add to that the fact that yesterday, as I was using my personal Vaio for work, my charger fried, and the news was that no Sony chargers were to be found anywhere in Congo, and in the meantime they gave me this CRAP DELL with an impossible French keyboard, and all was just terrific. In the midst of all this I also had to reconfigure my entire schedule, as Mary, the girl that was supposed to give me an extensive briefing, had just gone gone down with malaria...
As meetings came and went, and as the evening was drawing closer, I was sort of becoming slightly impatient. The system we have here - with rotating drivers and cars - is all nice in principle, but certainly not that great during rush hour, when cars are totally stuck God knows where and the mobile phone networks simply do not work. So there I was, at 6.30 pm, frantically calling an unanswerable driver phone, while on the other line trying to find out at least what the name of the new hotel was. No real luck on either end, until someone rushed to our office and mentioned 'the bus was downstairs and all have to go now'. It turned out we had been rented a bus, that no one wanted to take in the end, since they were all about to go out. I was so tired, though, that I decided to get a lift. And there I was, all by myself in a 20-seater, that stumbled every 2 meters on the way to an unknown destination.
When we finally arrived to this no-name construction behind a thick fence I was really at the end of all my wits. A few guys came up from nowhere and showed me through a narrow hall to the reception window, and then through another narrow hall to my room - where, MIRACULOUSLY, all my bags (tagged an untagged?!) were waiting for me... In my delight, coupled with the excitement to see a really nice room, I almost overlooked the fact that the mosquitoes were literally swarming in there. When I was quite directly attacked, while still standing, and pointed to the guys that there was no moustiquaire and that I absolutely needed one, they were quick to rebut me "But why, there are absolutely no mosquitoes in here, as you can see!"
At that moment all I could do was get the hell out of there and ask for a large beer. And a moustiquaire and insect repellent. And surely, they did provide a Primus as well as some anti-insect canned product, which finished at the first attempted spraying. At the same time I was trying to negotiate for some dinner, and the best I could do was get a fried quarter of a chicken, with some rice and two tomato slices for 20 bucks. Clearly, this was NOT going to make me happy.
While I was waiting for my dinner in the nicely hidden garden, by the pool, I was duly informed that 'the technician' called to buy and fix the moustiquaire had defected. Just as well, I thought, as he was the tiniest man I had ever seen, trying to estimate how to deal with a problem hooked to a ceiling of at least 4 meters high, without any ladder or any tools. As I was biting into my delicious soso breast, I was also quite naturally courted by this fat, middle-aged Congolese man sitting at the next table. Small talk all you want, of course, I was thinking, until I almost choked when he mentioned he has just returned from... Maramures (the most picturesque part of Romania). Wait, WHAT?! He then went on a rant telling me how much Romanians and Congolese are like each other, because they prefer living in large groups. La Roumanie, c'est presque comme l'Afrique, he concluded, and that's when I decided it was time to go back to the mosquitoes.
After another round of negotiations with the reception guy, who took me to five other rooms to prove to me the 'no-mosquito show', I decided to take the first one anyhow, at least to try it out. With the disgusting AC at full blow, malaria-Mary on my mind, and three personal sprays at peak (intoxicating myself to begin with), I am now maybe contemplating to let myself pass out and just hope to wake up to a more normal day... Then again, when you sign up for Congo, you pretty much forgo any right to any claimed normality...
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Jambo Kinshasa!
I could not quite believe yesterday morning, when at the airport in Kenya my boarding pass said ‘Nairobi-Kinshasa’. But there I was, on my way to this mighty city, far, FAR away from any other place in Congo I had been to. The flight was actually quite funny: we first crossed over to the other Congo (the ‘French’ one), to drop off and pick people up in Brazzaville, and then went up again for the shortest ever flight of my life: 8 minutes to Kinshasa. That’s right. We simply crossed the Congo river by air, and landed in the ‘Belgian’ Congo around 10.30 a.m. All safe and good, apart from a minor frustration: it was so cloudy out there that I could not take any pictures (after repeatedly haggling for a window seat). There will be other opportunities, of course, JUST that in these countries you should take whatever you can whenever you can (before they take away your camera or attempt to arrest you for God knows what reason).
But here I was, and off I was going into the immigration hall. From my previous experiences at airports in Congo, and based on all sorts of stories I’ve heard about this airport in particular, I was expecting some kind of trouble with my visa, or my vaccination certificate, or my looks, or my attitude, or something. However, to my utter surprise, everything went as smoothly as it could have gone, and in a few minutes only I was out in the baggage claim area not quite believing my luck. This place reminded me of a huge sort of public toilet: pillars covered in blue, chipped tiles, supporting a rather low roof, and windows that have not been washed in probably a decade. The baggage belts were also quite a scene: many officials were jumping up and down on them, and then in and out through the little hole meant for luggage to appear through, so it took about forever to get some bags flowing. And when they finally did, I could not quite understand what they were all about: some hundreds of humongous packs meant for douane came first, which meant we had to wait some half an hour for our regular stuff to begin rolling. In the end there I was, with everything intact, ready to step out and look for my driver.
Henri was duly there, waiting for me with a big sign, and fitting me readily into a big jeep. He also presented me with a large information package -‘First 24 hours in Kinshasa’- and suggested we stop by the office first to get the duty phone which was waiting for me. Impressive organization, I must say! Add to all the smooth operations a fantastic drive for the first 20 minutes or so, and I was beginning to wonder how come Kinshasa has all the bad names associated to it.
And then we hit THE traffic. I thought I had seen the worst in Nairobi, but this was hardly comparable. The gigantic Avenue 30 Juin (named after the Congolese independence day) is basically this half newly renovated boulevard with some 4 lanes each way, synonymous with the land of grueling concrete. All trees were cut off to make place for additional lanes a short while back, so it’s like this massive airport take-off runaway surrounded by mobile markets and stranded people trying to cross everywhere (with very little chance at it too). And then, when you get stuck, you really get stuck, in such a way that it is quite physically impossible to figure out how to get out of it all. We thus did not move for the longest time, and my energy levels were dwindling at an alarming rate, so much so that when I was dropped off at the hotel I completely crashed in the hallway. It did not help the fact that the reception guy at the rather fancy Sultani Hotel insisted he had no reservation in my name, and that they were so full there was no way he would accommodate me. Some half an hour later they did manage to find my name somewhere, and miraculously I could choose among several free rooms available. I was so tired that I even allowed myself to accept a room without a mosquito net (“cause there are no mosquitoes here!” (?!) said the guy, and decided instead to use just some spray and some preventive AC). In the meantime, I ordered at the restaurant some $14 spinach cannelloni (the waitress said they’d be ready in 10 minutes, so I figured 40 minutes would be about right), and with an eye on Wimbledon I fell asleep at 3 pm, only to wake after some 14 hours of the deepest sleep ever.
By contrast, since I didn’t really know many people here, and I had not scheduled anything in particular, I spent my Sunday mostly in the hotel, frantically enjoying a splendid internet connection. I went out just for lunch, with a colleague, and marveled at the ghost-town in the Gombe (expat) area – apparently with the July 4 weekend, the Americans are all celebrating out of the city, while the Brits had some sort of exclusive club-meeting to watch Wimbledon together. Resting well I did then, bracing for a crazy week full of meetings ahead.
But here I was, and off I was going into the immigration hall. From my previous experiences at airports in Congo, and based on all sorts of stories I’ve heard about this airport in particular, I was expecting some kind of trouble with my visa, or my vaccination certificate, or my looks, or my attitude, or something. However, to my utter surprise, everything went as smoothly as it could have gone, and in a few minutes only I was out in the baggage claim area not quite believing my luck. This place reminded me of a huge sort of public toilet: pillars covered in blue, chipped tiles, supporting a rather low roof, and windows that have not been washed in probably a decade. The baggage belts were also quite a scene: many officials were jumping up and down on them, and then in and out through the little hole meant for luggage to appear through, so it took about forever to get some bags flowing. And when they finally did, I could not quite understand what they were all about: some hundreds of humongous packs meant for douane came first, which meant we had to wait some half an hour for our regular stuff to begin rolling. In the end there I was, with everything intact, ready to step out and look for my driver.
Henri was duly there, waiting for me with a big sign, and fitting me readily into a big jeep. He also presented me with a large information package -‘First 24 hours in Kinshasa’- and suggested we stop by the office first to get the duty phone which was waiting for me. Impressive organization, I must say! Add to all the smooth operations a fantastic drive for the first 20 minutes or so, and I was beginning to wonder how come Kinshasa has all the bad names associated to it.
And then we hit THE traffic. I thought I had seen the worst in Nairobi, but this was hardly comparable. The gigantic Avenue 30 Juin (named after the Congolese independence day) is basically this half newly renovated boulevard with some 4 lanes each way, synonymous with the land of grueling concrete. All trees were cut off to make place for additional lanes a short while back, so it’s like this massive airport take-off runaway surrounded by mobile markets and stranded people trying to cross everywhere (with very little chance at it too). And then, when you get stuck, you really get stuck, in such a way that it is quite physically impossible to figure out how to get out of it all. We thus did not move for the longest time, and my energy levels were dwindling at an alarming rate, so much so that when I was dropped off at the hotel I completely crashed in the hallway. It did not help the fact that the reception guy at the rather fancy Sultani Hotel insisted he had no reservation in my name, and that they were so full there was no way he would accommodate me. Some half an hour later they did manage to find my name somewhere, and miraculously I could choose among several free rooms available. I was so tired that I even allowed myself to accept a room without a mosquito net (“cause there are no mosquitoes here!” (?!) said the guy, and decided instead to use just some spray and some preventive AC). In the meantime, I ordered at the restaurant some $14 spinach cannelloni (the waitress said they’d be ready in 10 minutes, so I figured 40 minutes would be about right), and with an eye on Wimbledon I fell asleep at 3 pm, only to wake after some 14 hours of the deepest sleep ever.
By contrast, since I didn’t really know many people here, and I had not scheduled anything in particular, I spent my Sunday mostly in the hotel, frantically enjoying a splendid internet connection. I went out just for lunch, with a colleague, and marveled at the ghost-town in the Gombe (expat) area – apparently with the July 4 weekend, the Americans are all celebrating out of the city, while the Brits had some sort of exclusive club-meeting to watch Wimbledon together. Resting well I did then, bracing for a crazy week full of meetings ahead.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Africa Reloaded
So I did decide to stay on and move on at the same time. After an amazing vacation in Europe, last week I returned to Africa to take on a daunting mission: becoming the Congo media and information officer for a large humanitarian aid organization.
Luckily, the beginning of my assignment coincided with an advocacy and external relations workshop that they were holding in Nairobi, so here I was, learning about my new Congo job in Kenya and meeting new colleagues from across Africa and the US. It is now my last night here, and I am standing by the pool at the fabulous Silver Springs Hotel, bracing for a flight to Kinshasa tomorrow.
As hundreds of names of people, locations and programs are flying by me and flooding my new outlook inbox I am slowly getting ready for what will certainly be a CRAZY job. Since Congo is just about INSANELY BIG, it is actually considered not a country, but a region, with each province a sort of country on its own. I can already see myself criss-crossing this 2.4. million km2 territory, setting up a whole communications machinery and dealing with everything I could have ever imagined in ‘field work’. I am quite exhausted only at the thought of it all, but soooo excited to see all these places and help give those tens of millions in need a voice out there (yes, exactly, I am already learning the message, not to mention that my head is pretty much full of organizational jargon and strange acronyms). I am certainly pumped up by the Americans delivering this workshop (I felt a bit like back in class at Columbia, with this very forth-coming, hands-on-oriented approach, of which I had grown a bit apart in the last few years.)
It was all, actually, so professional, that I have been working some 12 hours a day (OK, with short breaks for the hotel gym and Masai shoe shopping). I was also thrown in cross-continental conference calls, with both staff around the world and journos interested in covering our work, that I am totally feeling part of something really BIG.
I can only hope I'll be safe and healthy in this momentous new chapter of my life, and that some day I will look back on it all and be convinced I made the right choice(s). See you in Congo!
Luckily, the beginning of my assignment coincided with an advocacy and external relations workshop that they were holding in Nairobi, so here I was, learning about my new Congo job in Kenya and meeting new colleagues from across Africa and the US. It is now my last night here, and I am standing by the pool at the fabulous Silver Springs Hotel, bracing for a flight to Kinshasa tomorrow.
As hundreds of names of people, locations and programs are flying by me and flooding my new outlook inbox I am slowly getting ready for what will certainly be a CRAZY job. Since Congo is just about INSANELY BIG, it is actually considered not a country, but a region, with each province a sort of country on its own. I can already see myself criss-crossing this 2.4. million km2 territory, setting up a whole communications machinery and dealing with everything I could have ever imagined in ‘field work’. I am quite exhausted only at the thought of it all, but soooo excited to see all these places and help give those tens of millions in need a voice out there (yes, exactly, I am already learning the message, not to mention that my head is pretty much full of organizational jargon and strange acronyms). I am certainly pumped up by the Americans delivering this workshop (I felt a bit like back in class at Columbia, with this very forth-coming, hands-on-oriented approach, of which I had grown a bit apart in the last few years.)
It was all, actually, so professional, that I have been working some 12 hours a day (OK, with short breaks for the hotel gym and Masai shoe shopping). I was also thrown in cross-continental conference calls, with both staff around the world and journos interested in covering our work, that I am totally feeling part of something really BIG.
I can only hope I'll be safe and healthy in this momentous new chapter of my life, and that some day I will look back on it all and be convinced I made the right choice(s). See you in Congo!
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