Saturday, November 15, 2008
Friday, July 11, 2008
Nyiragongo
A little damp, but tucked warmly into my sleeping sack, I began falling asleep to the sound of waves crashing against the shore. A sound I haven’t heard since last summer’s days spent near Lake Michigan. Some argue the sound is the cure-all for sleepless nights, as would a variety of drug companies that produce those sound imitating clocks. I commend the attempts of reincarnation, but lets be honest, no manufactured noisemaker captures such soothing melodies.
The sound waves that were gently rocking me to sleep were unique to themselves. They were heard at 3470m and were accompanied by an orange florescent glow. Their movement and collision with the air produced a warm steam that hovered over us. They were distant, yet my ears fell into the confusion that the shore was only 10 meters away. For those following and aware of the geographical location of DR Congo, you’re probably trying to decipher whether I hitched a ride to one of the oceans for a sunset or at least was resting next to one of the Great Lakes of Africa on a windy night; neither an ocean, nor a great lake; not even a river, but Nyiragongo, the infamous volcano that stands tall in the natural Goma skyline.
Thanks to a few mishaps I was able to spend a couple extra days in Goma where I was taking some R&R and visiting friends from the organization Heal Africa (see below). Though I was anxious to get back to Beni, the planned volcano trip was a very appealing and once in a lifetime opportunity…a unique one. Just a month earlier the volcano was closed due to the conflict that continues to plague the Goma region. It had just reopened a week or two earlier. We began our trek on a late Saturday morning…5km hike, 2km vertical, as indicated by our guide. We were 10, a variety of people from local conservation workers to a traveling journalist to a MONUC civilian employee. A fun and intriguing crew accompanied by porters for water, gear, and a ridiculous feast prepared by a Congolese friend.
The hike itself was worth the day spent. Nyiragongo provides a variety of terrain, including dense forest, volcanic rock slopes, distinctive highland vegetation, and lastly a steep 100-200 meter climb to the crater’s edge. The forest was mystical as a fog gently rolled in and sulfuric steam rose from underground volcanic doors. The only real danger besides slipping and taking a tumble, were the vicious colonies of red ants that would occasionally gather on the forest path…stomp high and fast, if they get you, better strip!
We reached the top just after 5:00PM through a thick, low level cloud. It was a brutal, but beautiful hike, tainted a bit by a group of UN peacekeepers that were also seeking the wonder of the volcano or “out on patrol” as they would proclaim. They didn’t seem to understand what it meant to take your garbage with you, even after a couple polite requests and a few scoldings. Nonetheless, we all arrived safely and to the noise of the volcanic lake situated some 250 meters deep in the crater. The lake itself could not be seen, but the lava reflected an orange glow off of its nebulous vapors. We set camp quickly as the temperature dropped and a light rain began. We had just enough space to situate our tents comfortably between the crater’s edge and the steep slope. Since the view was limited we all nestled in one of the bigger tents for warming drinks, chapatti, chicken, and beef; not to forget entertaining conversation.
No one wanted to miss the opportunity to see the rare lake itself. So, a couple people stayed up late and would periodically check throughout the night. Two times I awoke to the yelling, “You can see it, everyone come!” And indeed you could. Fierce, scorching waves of lava would boil up or crash against the blackened shore. The sounds that helped me fall asleep bounced off the towering crater walls. The early morning hours brought with it a different look. The light from the early sun seemed to battle the intensity of the lava’s blaze, bestowing a purple haze. And, as hours passed by, the daylight eventually took control and cleared out any low level clouds providing a vivid view of the smoldering sea and the forgotten land that encircled us. We stood entranced by this spectacle and those with cameras found it quite difficult to put them away.
The descent was equally rewarding as the day before, perhaps a little harsh on the already fatigued legs. Still, I found time to admire the surroundings both near and far. Unfortunately, even high up on Nyriagongo you can’t escape the realities that lie in the valleys below. As we surpassed the halfway point, my eyes were captured not only by beauty of the terrain, but also the cluster of UN tagged roof tarps that covered hundreds of temporary homes. An IDP camp was visible in the distance. The same camp I believe I had visited a few days earlier and where children rushed to grab our hands and pet my “fur”. I asked a few of them where they came from…Masisi…where war continues to rage and people flee their homes from death, destruction, and the weapon of sexual violence. When you allow your mind to reencounter the reasons such a massive number of people are gathered together, their experiences, your stomach tightens for a brief moment, and disbelief, no matter how long you lived near such suffering, is revisited.
As our group descended the volcano, five of us pushed ahead and ended up resting at a midway point. We waited for the others to catch up, even grew concerned after awhile. When they arrived and we realized everything was ok, one of my companions asked what took so long. They responded, “We were having discussion on how to solve the problems that plague DR Congo.” My friend Cristina asked, “What did you come up with?” Their response, “Leadership.” This comment has echoed in my head since and gives me further encouragement, assurance, and understanding that the work and vision initiated through CI-UCBC is not only unique, but a highly-needed initiative to provide peace, reconciliation, healing, and development to DR Congo.
During my time in Goma I toured the different projects of Heal Africa. A solid and well respected organization that provides a holistic approach to healing the results of war, specifically sexual violence. We visited transition homes where healing victims learned to sew, bake bread, and prepare soap for micro-enterprises; Mawi Hai (Living Stones) agriculture production area, the hospital, and Healing Arts Center. The organization makes a significant and crucial impact in healing the wounds that have been caused from the ravaging war. Please visit www.healafrica.org.
When I first arrived in Goma, we headed over to Yole!Africa to watch a sort of “battle of the bands” featuring young, local hip hop artists and musicians. Through my time in Goma, I had the opportunity to spend time with the artists and the founders of Yole!Africa. The organization promotes expression through the arts (photography, film, and music) for the purpose of healing, advocacy, and culture. It is unique to the city of Goma and an incredible outlet for the youth and street children. You can read more about the group at www.baobabconnections.org.
The sound waves that were gently rocking me to sleep were unique to themselves. They were heard at 3470m and were accompanied by an orange florescent glow. Their movement and collision with the air produced a warm steam that hovered over us. They were distant, yet my ears fell into the confusion that the shore was only 10 meters away. For those following and aware of the geographical location of DR Congo, you’re probably trying to decipher whether I hitched a ride to one of the oceans for a sunset or at least was resting next to one of the Great Lakes of Africa on a windy night; neither an ocean, nor a great lake; not even a river, but Nyiragongo, the infamous volcano that stands tall in the natural Goma skyline.
Thanks to a few mishaps I was able to spend a couple extra days in Goma where I was taking some R&R and visiting friends from the organization Heal Africa (see below). Though I was anxious to get back to Beni, the planned volcano trip was a very appealing and once in a lifetime opportunity…a unique one. Just a month earlier the volcano was closed due to the conflict that continues to plague the Goma region. It had just reopened a week or two earlier. We began our trek on a late Saturday morning…5km hike, 2km vertical, as indicated by our guide. We were 10, a variety of people from local conservation workers to a traveling journalist to a MONUC civilian employee. A fun and intriguing crew accompanied by porters for water, gear, and a ridiculous feast prepared by a Congolese friend.
The hike itself was worth the day spent. Nyiragongo provides a variety of terrain, including dense forest, volcanic rock slopes, distinctive highland vegetation, and lastly a steep 100-200 meter climb to the crater’s edge. The forest was mystical as a fog gently rolled in and sulfuric steam rose from underground volcanic doors. The only real danger besides slipping and taking a tumble, were the vicious colonies of red ants that would occasionally gather on the forest path…stomp high and fast, if they get you, better strip!
We reached the top just after 5:00PM through a thick, low level cloud. It was a brutal, but beautiful hike, tainted a bit by a group of UN peacekeepers that were also seeking the wonder of the volcano or “out on patrol” as they would proclaim. They didn’t seem to understand what it meant to take your garbage with you, even after a couple polite requests and a few scoldings. Nonetheless, we all arrived safely and to the noise of the volcanic lake situated some 250 meters deep in the crater. The lake itself could not be seen, but the lava reflected an orange glow off of its nebulous vapors. We set camp quickly as the temperature dropped and a light rain began. We had just enough space to situate our tents comfortably between the crater’s edge and the steep slope. Since the view was limited we all nestled in one of the bigger tents for warming drinks, chapatti, chicken, and beef; not to forget entertaining conversation.
No one wanted to miss the opportunity to see the rare lake itself. So, a couple people stayed up late and would periodically check throughout the night. Two times I awoke to the yelling, “You can see it, everyone come!” And indeed you could. Fierce, scorching waves of lava would boil up or crash against the blackened shore. The sounds that helped me fall asleep bounced off the towering crater walls. The early morning hours brought with it a different look. The light from the early sun seemed to battle the intensity of the lava’s blaze, bestowing a purple haze. And, as hours passed by, the daylight eventually took control and cleared out any low level clouds providing a vivid view of the smoldering sea and the forgotten land that encircled us. We stood entranced by this spectacle and those with cameras found it quite difficult to put them away.
The descent was equally rewarding as the day before, perhaps a little harsh on the already fatigued legs. Still, I found time to admire the surroundings both near and far. Unfortunately, even high up on Nyriagongo you can’t escape the realities that lie in the valleys below. As we surpassed the halfway point, my eyes were captured not only by beauty of the terrain, but also the cluster of UN tagged roof tarps that covered hundreds of temporary homes. An IDP camp was visible in the distance. The same camp I believe I had visited a few days earlier and where children rushed to grab our hands and pet my “fur”. I asked a few of them where they came from…Masisi…where war continues to rage and people flee their homes from death, destruction, and the weapon of sexual violence. When you allow your mind to reencounter the reasons such a massive number of people are gathered together, their experiences, your stomach tightens for a brief moment, and disbelief, no matter how long you lived near such suffering, is revisited.
As our group descended the volcano, five of us pushed ahead and ended up resting at a midway point. We waited for the others to catch up, even grew concerned after awhile. When they arrived and we realized everything was ok, one of my companions asked what took so long. They responded, “We were having discussion on how to solve the problems that plague DR Congo.” My friend Cristina asked, “What did you come up with?” Their response, “Leadership.” This comment has echoed in my head since and gives me further encouragement, assurance, and understanding that the work and vision initiated through CI-UCBC is not only unique, but a highly-needed initiative to provide peace, reconciliation, healing, and development to DR Congo.
During my time in Goma I toured the different projects of Heal Africa. A solid and well respected organization that provides a holistic approach to healing the results of war, specifically sexual violence. We visited transition homes where healing victims learned to sew, bake bread, and prepare soap for micro-enterprises; Mawi Hai (Living Stones) agriculture production area, the hospital, and Healing Arts Center. The organization makes a significant and crucial impact in healing the wounds that have been caused from the ravaging war. Please visit www.healafrica.org.
When I first arrived in Goma, we headed over to Yole!Africa to watch a sort of “battle of the bands” featuring young, local hip hop artists and musicians. Through my time in Goma, I had the opportunity to spend time with the artists and the founders of Yole!Africa. The organization promotes expression through the arts (photography, film, and music) for the purpose of healing, advocacy, and culture. It is unique to the city of Goma and an incredible outlet for the youth and street children. You can read more about the group at www.baobabconnections.org.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Disjointed Thoughts from an Operation Room
Her arm handled as a fragile piece of art, infectious flesh waiting to be removed, pieces missing. I slowly let go of her hand with her nod of approval as the doctors proceed. Curtain sheets close and dangle loosely on a string. I wait on a stool in the center of a dim operation room. Her screams pierce more than my eardrums. Her mother sits outside shaken, far from the scene. Her father was laid to rest a few years ago after discovering all his businesses were looted during the war. His heartbeat stopped due to the flood of anxiety and stress that followed. I periodically glance at the door, but remain, as if my responsibility has become father-like or my lonely presence means something…
Challenges arise fueling frustrations. Suffering. Pain. News displays war, Iraq, Afghanistan, food crisis, economic slowdowns, protests, and political upheaval. Oppression. Conflicts based on pride, power, selfishness, and vengeful traditions spurge on. Congo’s vast resources raped again. News forgets to display other significant events because George W Bush made some jokes. Southern televangelist with her perfected faux hair, dress neatly pressed, painted face, diamond jewelry makes distorted and empty promises in exchange for seeking hearts and money. Gospel of wealth battles Gospel of truth…no? Am I wrong to be disturbed? Close friend loses his father back home. Will she be alright, is she alright? Malaria round 2. Home…seems foreign and distant. Realization that I’ll be a foreigner in a land I’m supposed to know. In the same moment of thought, I take a deep breath, and try to swallow the tough texture of my own bitterness, my own pride, and my own ignorance.
Is my presence on this stool, in this room, in this town, in this country, on this continent of significance? Is this about me, or Him? Self-righteousness or the true righteousness I wish to seek? Am I contained in a moment that repetitiously sleeps and awakes in the incomprehensible plan we hear and believe. Is this moment to be questioned by me or someone other than me. No…
Congolese grandmother, a saint in these eyes, enters the room to pray for the ill American who finds it easy to “curse his whiteness” and culture. Students surround their injured classmate in community. Visit their teachers. They are courageous, trusting, combating a century old mentality. Conversations focus on how THEY can be transformed and thus bring change to their country. A respected and beloved leader travels far from where his heart is to share an indescribable account and divine work. Doctor friend remains in his country to serve, treating the worse of tragedies in unparallel conditions. Another returns to the hospital in which he witnessed ruthless bloodshed and destruction. Constantly balancing responsibilities, he returns to his home and family, embracing his daughters as loving fathers should. “Fundamentally good” Academic dean, talented beyond belief, humbly pours himself into others. Local UN battalion reaches out. Reconciliation and transformation exists.
Laughing, writing songs about everyday beans and Tangawizi with Congolese family. Telling jokes about the guard that always sleeps. Seeing a University grow, people change, myself change. Football (soccer).on uneven fields. Ruwenzori Mountains catch my attention every time the clouds generously allow their brilliance. Congo skies, creation, reflect something bigger and unseen. Glimpses of a church visible without it’s walls. The Gospel not religion or fundamentalism, but life. Prayers felt halfway around the world. Never ending joyful greetings from children. An appreciation for language, culture respected and held. Home, not found in a building or location. An initiative acts as a vessel of change. That which is good, hearts that hope, eyes that love, and faith that exhales; rise above challenges and darkness.
Anywhere else, I would be bound in plastic, but sturdy chains. I’d be a chameleon to pop-culture (however defined) and those I erroneously revere. I would not be free to explore the invisible character of faith, nor learn to seek God. I would not see truth in clarity. I would not appreciate life or enjoy its adventure. It would not make sense. It would be too complicated to move. I would not understand grace or perceive the humility that comes before wisdom (Prb). I’d remain searching while trapped in my own intricate web of shame. I would feel far from home, and continue to crawl to belief, instead of embracing it.
Screams subside…the Cross recognized.
"curse my whiteness"-taken from lyrics of Brett Dennen
Challenges arise fueling frustrations. Suffering. Pain. News displays war, Iraq, Afghanistan, food crisis, economic slowdowns, protests, and political upheaval. Oppression. Conflicts based on pride, power, selfishness, and vengeful traditions spurge on. Congo’s vast resources raped again. News forgets to display other significant events because George W Bush made some jokes. Southern televangelist with her perfected faux hair, dress neatly pressed, painted face, diamond jewelry makes distorted and empty promises in exchange for seeking hearts and money. Gospel of wealth battles Gospel of truth…no? Am I wrong to be disturbed? Close friend loses his father back home. Will she be alright, is she alright? Malaria round 2. Home…seems foreign and distant. Realization that I’ll be a foreigner in a land I’m supposed to know. In the same moment of thought, I take a deep breath, and try to swallow the tough texture of my own bitterness, my own pride, and my own ignorance.
Is my presence on this stool, in this room, in this town, in this country, on this continent of significance? Is this about me, or Him? Self-righteousness or the true righteousness I wish to seek? Am I contained in a moment that repetitiously sleeps and awakes in the incomprehensible plan we hear and believe. Is this moment to be questioned by me or someone other than me. No…
Congolese grandmother, a saint in these eyes, enters the room to pray for the ill American who finds it easy to “curse his whiteness” and culture. Students surround their injured classmate in community. Visit their teachers. They are courageous, trusting, combating a century old mentality. Conversations focus on how THEY can be transformed and thus bring change to their country. A respected and beloved leader travels far from where his heart is to share an indescribable account and divine work. Doctor friend remains in his country to serve, treating the worse of tragedies in unparallel conditions. Another returns to the hospital in which he witnessed ruthless bloodshed and destruction. Constantly balancing responsibilities, he returns to his home and family, embracing his daughters as loving fathers should. “Fundamentally good” Academic dean, talented beyond belief, humbly pours himself into others. Local UN battalion reaches out. Reconciliation and transformation exists.
Laughing, writing songs about everyday beans and Tangawizi with Congolese family. Telling jokes about the guard that always sleeps. Seeing a University grow, people change, myself change. Football (soccer).on uneven fields. Ruwenzori Mountains catch my attention every time the clouds generously allow their brilliance. Congo skies, creation, reflect something bigger and unseen. Glimpses of a church visible without it’s walls. The Gospel not religion or fundamentalism, but life. Prayers felt halfway around the world. Never ending joyful greetings from children. An appreciation for language, culture respected and held. Home, not found in a building or location. An initiative acts as a vessel of change. That which is good, hearts that hope, eyes that love, and faith that exhales; rise above challenges and darkness.
Anywhere else, I would be bound in plastic, but sturdy chains. I’d be a chameleon to pop-culture (however defined) and those I erroneously revere. I would not be free to explore the invisible character of faith, nor learn to seek God. I would not see truth in clarity. I would not appreciate life or enjoy its adventure. It would not make sense. It would be too complicated to move. I would not understand grace or perceive the humility that comes before wisdom (Prb). I’d remain searching while trapped in my own intricate web of shame. I would feel far from home, and continue to crawl to belief, instead of embracing it.
Screams subside…the Cross recognized.
"curse my whiteness"-taken from lyrics of Brett Dennen
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Monday, June 2, 2008
Ishango-Hanging with Hippos at 0 degrees
When people think Africa, they think “safaris”. I don’t so much. But, I have an immense admiration for wildlife, the natural environment in general. One of our student’s father works with the Virunga National Park. He joyfully encouraged us to visit a place known as Ishango, about 3 hours south of Beni. I’ve been itching for another escapade, so we arranged a van, packed some kalangiti (beans), and headed out of Beni.
The road takes us closer to the Ruwenzoris. The jagged mountain top grew as we approached. We drove through some forest areas, but mostly along grass and agriculture land. Papaya plantations lined the road along with mud-thatch dwellings and slow villages. After an hour or so on the road, we entered an area where forest followed on the right and grasslands on the left. This natural exchange provided for the gathering of countless butterflies dancing along and across the route. For miles, we drove through this butterfly haven.
We picked up a wildlife park range on the side of the road and took a two-track road through savannah lands. Antelope were seen scattered through out the tall grass. The guide raised his voice to indicate we reached the equatorial line. The sun beat down hard on the land. It was “Africa”, as perceived by most people. For me, it was another setting in Congo to appreciate, breathe in, and admire.
We came to the campsite consisting of 3 family sized tents situated under grass-roofed shelters. Old colonial buildings remained untouched for years, but a few new buildings indicated progress and a glimpse of tourist hope. It was rightfully modest, as it’s location was the catalyst of admiration. Situated on a bluff over looking Lake Edward, the mouth of the Semiliki River, vast forest, and highlands in the background, the frame to small and feeble to capture.
An appreciation of my roots was exposed on this trip. The thrill of seeing Safari-like Africa and the eco-scene it brings did not leave me in a flippant, enthusiastic, response or frame of mind. My eyes stared quietly and my mouth spoke without magnification. It was gentle appreciation, engrained in the same admiration for the natural world witnessed in my youth. Whether watching Hippos lay indolent in a DR Congo river, or embracing the change of life expressed during the fall in Northern Wisconsin, there is something constant and respectful in it’s wonder.
The road takes us closer to the Ruwenzoris. The jagged mountain top grew as we approached. We drove through some forest areas, but mostly along grass and agriculture land. Papaya plantations lined the road along with mud-thatch dwellings and slow villages. After an hour or so on the road, we entered an area where forest followed on the right and grasslands on the left. This natural exchange provided for the gathering of countless butterflies dancing along and across the route. For miles, we drove through this butterfly haven.
We picked up a wildlife park range on the side of the road and took a two-track road through savannah lands. Antelope were seen scattered through out the tall grass. The guide raised his voice to indicate we reached the equatorial line. The sun beat down hard on the land. It was “Africa”, as perceived by most people. For me, it was another setting in Congo to appreciate, breathe in, and admire.
We came to the campsite consisting of 3 family sized tents situated under grass-roofed shelters. Old colonial buildings remained untouched for years, but a few new buildings indicated progress and a glimpse of tourist hope. It was rightfully modest, as it’s location was the catalyst of admiration. Situated on a bluff over looking Lake Edward, the mouth of the Semiliki River, vast forest, and highlands in the background, the frame to small and feeble to capture.
An appreciation of my roots was exposed on this trip. The thrill of seeing Safari-like Africa and the eco-scene it brings did not leave me in a flippant, enthusiastic, response or frame of mind. My eyes stared quietly and my mouth spoke without magnification. It was gentle appreciation, engrained in the same admiration for the natural world witnessed in my youth. Whether watching Hippos lay indolent in a DR Congo river, or embracing the change of life expressed during the fall in Northern Wisconsin, there is something constant and respectful in it’s wonder.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Prayer
“Some people think that we alter God’s will and plans through prayer, but it is actually our hearts that are changed. The unfulfilled potential of our soul is ever striving to reach beyond the limitations of this imperfect life.”
“The essence of prayer does not consist in asking for things, but in opening one’s heart to God. It is the desire for God himself, the giver of life. Prayer is communion with God, receiving him who is the giver of all good gifts, living a life of fellowship with him. It is breathing and living in God.”
Excerpts taken from Sadhu Sundar Singh – Essential Writings
Growing in such a culture as ours, prayer may lose its life. It may also be spiritualized, in a sense that creates false understanding of its purpose and it’s spiritual mode or influence. Yet, it is as vital as the air we breathe. In a world that is already disconnected from what God intended, it is our sustenance. Especially, during the times we cannot understand or perceive our Creator and His ways.
Last week, after we returned home from celebrating a 3-0 win over another local University in a soccer tournament, I received an SMS message. The wife and unborn child of one of our students had unexpectedly died. A few of us drove silently in the night to a clinic where he himself, was recovering from appendix surgery. We consoled him in his grief, and the our Congolese friends present, lifted their voices in perfected a cappella songs and prayer. He lost his lifetime companion and unborn child, carries a burden of concern for the well being of his children.
We gathered the following day near his home for the funeral. A production of messages, songs, and prayer. Again, the UCBC community surrounded their hurting brother, assisting with digging his wife and child’s resting place at the local Catholic mission grounds.
On the way to the mourning, are front tire popped with earsplitting sound. Not that a flat tire is uncommon, usually at least once a week. But, in this moment, my inner being reached that point of dissatisfaction with the situation…with God. Though unseen by all, the rest of the day it continued to irritate. I remained unnerved when I met with our student for words of encouragement, understanding, and prayer, but inside remained quietly distant throughout the day.
I confess, it is difficult for me to bend my knees and bow my head, but throughout my experience here I’ve learned what that truly means, and it’s significance to the life of a believer. Perhaps it is the culture and context here that has initiated meditation in the form of prayer. Maybe it’s just easier to pray with authenticity, not a traditional act done only around a table or in the presence of group. For, I find myself breathing God most, in the solitude of a room with only my silent echoes.
One thing will always remain constant, without prayer I would be innate, unable to find understanding or comfort, unable to give, unable to love. Trapped in bitterness, frustration, and my own self. Unable to adapt. Peace, would be distant. And the lungs of my heart, mind, soul, and whatever else makes us who we are, would not have the strength to breathe.
The past couple months we have witnessed a number of tragedies and challenges. So I ask for prayers for the following...
The student who lost his wife and unborn child. Pray for comfort and rest. Pray for the family as they make arrangements to help with the care of the children. Pray for the student as he grieves the loss of his life companion.
Another student, a Mama, lost her unborn child three weeks before the expected due date. She has recovered well, but please pray for continued strength and comfort.
The student who was hit by the truck is still recovering in the hospital. She continues to improve daily. The doctors are expected to conduct two graft operations. Please pray for guidance for the doctors and continued healing of her arm.
One of our volunteers and friend was hospitalized a week and a half ago due to malaria and dehydration. She is more or less fully recovered, but still feels a little tired and sore. Please pray for her continued strength and continued protection.
“The essence of prayer does not consist in asking for things, but in opening one’s heart to God. It is the desire for God himself, the giver of life. Prayer is communion with God, receiving him who is the giver of all good gifts, living a life of fellowship with him. It is breathing and living in God.”
Excerpts taken from Sadhu Sundar Singh – Essential Writings
Growing in such a culture as ours, prayer may lose its life. It may also be spiritualized, in a sense that creates false understanding of its purpose and it’s spiritual mode or influence. Yet, it is as vital as the air we breathe. In a world that is already disconnected from what God intended, it is our sustenance. Especially, during the times we cannot understand or perceive our Creator and His ways.
Last week, after we returned home from celebrating a 3-0 win over another local University in a soccer tournament, I received an SMS message. The wife and unborn child of one of our students had unexpectedly died. A few of us drove silently in the night to a clinic where he himself, was recovering from appendix surgery. We consoled him in his grief, and the our Congolese friends present, lifted their voices in perfected a cappella songs and prayer. He lost his lifetime companion and unborn child, carries a burden of concern for the well being of his children.
We gathered the following day near his home for the funeral. A production of messages, songs, and prayer. Again, the UCBC community surrounded their hurting brother, assisting with digging his wife and child’s resting place at the local Catholic mission grounds.
On the way to the mourning, are front tire popped with earsplitting sound. Not that a flat tire is uncommon, usually at least once a week. But, in this moment, my inner being reached that point of dissatisfaction with the situation…with God. Though unseen by all, the rest of the day it continued to irritate. I remained unnerved when I met with our student for words of encouragement, understanding, and prayer, but inside remained quietly distant throughout the day.
I confess, it is difficult for me to bend my knees and bow my head, but throughout my experience here I’ve learned what that truly means, and it’s significance to the life of a believer. Perhaps it is the culture and context here that has initiated meditation in the form of prayer. Maybe it’s just easier to pray with authenticity, not a traditional act done only around a table or in the presence of group. For, I find myself breathing God most, in the solitude of a room with only my silent echoes.
One thing will always remain constant, without prayer I would be innate, unable to find understanding or comfort, unable to give, unable to love. Trapped in bitterness, frustration, and my own self. Unable to adapt. Peace, would be distant. And the lungs of my heart, mind, soul, and whatever else makes us who we are, would not have the strength to breathe.
The past couple months we have witnessed a number of tragedies and challenges. So I ask for prayers for the following...
The student who lost his wife and unborn child. Pray for comfort and rest. Pray for the family as they make arrangements to help with the care of the children. Pray for the student as he grieves the loss of his life companion.
Another student, a Mama, lost her unborn child three weeks before the expected due date. She has recovered well, but please pray for continued strength and comfort.
The student who was hit by the truck is still recovering in the hospital. She continues to improve daily. The doctors are expected to conduct two graft operations. Please pray for guidance for the doctors and continued healing of her arm.
One of our volunteers and friend was hospitalized a week and a half ago due to malaria and dehydration. She is more or less fully recovered, but still feels a little tired and sore. Please pray for her continued strength and continued protection.
Better Than Dusk
Vast storm clouds stand still in the frame, as silhouettes in the vibrant, yet placid sunsets. An occasional beam of fire would create an intermittent display of nature’s fury, but tranquility remains stoic. I watched in contentment as my brother, Grace (now Mama, as the joke continues in the house…I’m the Papa) brought back my attention to the simple foundation of life and nature, as that of which signifies creation. We laughed amidst my broken, but improving French…amazed how rain can fall a quarter (neighborhood) away, yet where we stand is untouched.
Every evening there is a period of final daylight that hypnotizes my visual senses. The sun bounces off clouds in a coordinated show of color that also magnifies formation. The display renders a change in atmosphere, a change in light, mystical in character and foreign to tired eyes. Some days it stops me in the middle of playing soccer or other days it makes me drop whatever I’m doing and captures my stare. Where I come from, summer evenings are long, characterizing the term “dusk”. But, here at .5 degrees north of the equator, before the fireflies begin to dance their night time jubilee, there is a moment that is better than dusk.
Every evening there is a period of final daylight that hypnotizes my visual senses. The sun bounces off clouds in a coordinated show of color that also magnifies formation. The display renders a change in atmosphere, a change in light, mystical in character and foreign to tired eyes. Some days it stops me in the middle of playing soccer or other days it makes me drop whatever I’m doing and captures my stare. Where I come from, summer evenings are long, characterizing the term “dusk”. But, here at .5 degrees north of the equator, before the fireflies begin to dance their night time jubilee, there is a moment that is better than dusk.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Land Of Promise
In March, I took a couple trips to Butembo, but have been late in posting. The following reflection is a blend of both excursions.
Unlike the Mambasa voyage, my ass welcomed the soft seat of a Toyota Corolla as we headed south. The commonly used road winded and climbed through the hills surrounding Beni. Perhaps lacking the uncertainty and adventure of a motorbike ride through the Ituri forest, I rested my head on the back seat and admired the culture and land. Banana trees and bamboo blanketed the hillsides leaving room for savannah and fields that helps sustain the local livelihood. Passing through villages, my mind surpassed a perception of poverty and strife, but rested in admiration of the simplicity of life. Maybe ignorance entangled with envy.
The 8th of March was “Women’s Day”, a day that celebrates the rights of women and includes parades, dancing, and feasts. A significant day providing hope, proclaiming justice, and encouraging respect for our sisters. On our way to Butembo, colorful “mamas” marched along the roadside singing and cheering. The women of UCBC also gathered for the celebration. It rained hard the day before and in the morning, turning the road into a slick and muddy passage. Women bathed their babies in the rushing streams, washed clothes, dishes, and a variety of household items. Resilient travelers continued pushing their bikes weighted with market goods and supplies of various kinds. Some waited under rusted roof tops and tree canopies for the rain to cease and the fierce, but welcomed, sunlight to dry their soaked clothes. As we neared Butembo, large monuments, brick factories, smoked. Large and white wedding-bell orchids lined the river’s bank, disclosing the water passage. How I admire this land.
Butembo is a bustling business town, a bit more developed and modern than Beni, but still exhibiting a collision of old and new. A European-like market and hundreds of boutiques lined its congested roads. One trip we wandered and located supplies for construction at the University, another trip was spent with a friend and board member. Our friend and supporter generously gave a Thanksgiving like meal and rich conversation.
On our way back to Beni, we made two stops. One was at a farm to look at cows…oh yeah, just like “Sconi”. I enjoyed inhaling the smells of cow manure and hide that I’d often catch headed to Minneapolis or Northern Wisconsin. Our friend Josh was visiting from Goma and was assisting us with agriculture ideas at the University. Nestled in the emerald hills, the farm and land resembled the infamous “shire”; peaceful, uncorrupted, and bountiful.
As we drew near to Beni, the road follows the hillside. The Ruwenzori Mountains remained tall and unchanging in the distance. A couple 100 meters down laid a look out point. The sight was unforgettable, especially as the sun slowly descended beyond the horizon. Mystical hills outlined the valley in which Beni rested. Rivers and streams below were tenderly exposed by an angelic, ashen mist. The evening came quickly, but my eyes captured enough of the serenity to relay a whisper to my ears… “ A land of promise.”
Unlike the Mambasa voyage, my ass welcomed the soft seat of a Toyota Corolla as we headed south. The commonly used road winded and climbed through the hills surrounding Beni. Perhaps lacking the uncertainty and adventure of a motorbike ride through the Ituri forest, I rested my head on the back seat and admired the culture and land. Banana trees and bamboo blanketed the hillsides leaving room for savannah and fields that helps sustain the local livelihood. Passing through villages, my mind surpassed a perception of poverty and strife, but rested in admiration of the simplicity of life. Maybe ignorance entangled with envy.
The 8th of March was “Women’s Day”, a day that celebrates the rights of women and includes parades, dancing, and feasts. A significant day providing hope, proclaiming justice, and encouraging respect for our sisters. On our way to Butembo, colorful “mamas” marched along the roadside singing and cheering. The women of UCBC also gathered for the celebration. It rained hard the day before and in the morning, turning the road into a slick and muddy passage. Women bathed their babies in the rushing streams, washed clothes, dishes, and a variety of household items. Resilient travelers continued pushing their bikes weighted with market goods and supplies of various kinds. Some waited under rusted roof tops and tree canopies for the rain to cease and the fierce, but welcomed, sunlight to dry their soaked clothes. As we neared Butembo, large monuments, brick factories, smoked. Large and white wedding-bell orchids lined the river’s bank, disclosing the water passage. How I admire this land.
Butembo is a bustling business town, a bit more developed and modern than Beni, but still exhibiting a collision of old and new. A European-like market and hundreds of boutiques lined its congested roads. One trip we wandered and located supplies for construction at the University, another trip was spent with a friend and board member. Our friend and supporter generously gave a Thanksgiving like meal and rich conversation.
On our way back to Beni, we made two stops. One was at a farm to look at cows…oh yeah, just like “Sconi”. I enjoyed inhaling the smells of cow manure and hide that I’d often catch headed to Minneapolis or Northern Wisconsin. Our friend Josh was visiting from Goma and was assisting us with agriculture ideas at the University. Nestled in the emerald hills, the farm and land resembled the infamous “shire”; peaceful, uncorrupted, and bountiful.
As we drew near to Beni, the road follows the hillside. The Ruwenzori Mountains remained tall and unchanging in the distance. A couple 100 meters down laid a look out point. The sight was unforgettable, especially as the sun slowly descended beyond the horizon. Mystical hills outlined the valley in which Beni rested. Rivers and streams below were tenderly exposed by an angelic, ashen mist. The evening came quickly, but my eyes captured enough of the serenity to relay a whisper to my ears… “ A land of promise.”
Monday, April 28, 2008
Accident
We jumped in the “clinging to life” Izuzu and sped down the main route to locate the accident and take our student to the hospital. We did not see the common crowd that gathers at such a scene, nor any students. We rushed to the hospital, silent. A student had been hit by a truck while walking home from the University.
Upon our arrival, we were immediately directed to the emergency waiting room. The female student laid on a bench as another student, held her, and acted as a back rest. Her mother upset outside. Others tried to calm and distract her from the brutal injury and agonizing pain. Her arm was wrapped in a white shirt, now crimson red. She cried in Swahili and tears. As I pushed my way through the soothing onlookers, I could sense the pain in the atmosphere. I slowly grabbed her other hand, knuckles clenched white as they prepared for the powerful grip that signifies relentless pain. I felt useless, but in quiet prayer. Moments of relief would come in brevity.
The doctors were preparing the surgery room down the street. I gave her hand to another and walked out of the suffocating, heavy atmosphere to get the details of the accident. Emotion penetrated my mind and heart for a brief moment; enough to feel my eyes swell, but not enough to be seen; then quickly ducked elsewhere in my being. A teacher’s reaction? A friend’s responsibility? Brotherly love? Fatherly concern? Maybe all. I don’t know sometimes.
A doctor friend informed us they were ready and she was transported a few “blocks” to the surgery room. Her family accompanied her and a few students and myself would follow suit moments later. We sat quietly on the porch outside the room. At one point, a doctor opened the door and handed her older brother his sister’s necklace. Unfortunately, when her mother saw this, it symbolized something more dreadful, and she fainted. As soon as she awoke from her brief break from a mother’s heartache, the rest of us found some humor in the incident, and smiled.
She would spend 3-4 hours in surgery, her muscle detached from the forearm. It was bad. I returned later that night after taking care of the crew installing an internet system at the University. I turned the corner of the concrete structure and found 6 students outside of her room. They gathered in support of their classmate. I entered her room as she was mumbling a variety of words. The drugs still dominated her frame of mind, but aware enough to recognize concerned figures surrounding her. She sweetly greeted me and introduced her mother, then quietly reminded me her father had passed (he died of a heart attack shortly after he found all his businesses had been looted during the war).
At the end of this all, we know she will be ok. By grace, the truck struck her arm and not her body or head, and within this environment worse things could happen. However, this accident has pushed me across the line of approach and functions of this blog. Originally, I wanted to refrain from using it as a "fundraising tool", but realize it can no longer remain a mere storyboard and personal form of expression. The stories present the realities and experiences here in DR Congo, and specifically at UCBC, directly or indirectly. Owned by no one, but the characters themselves. And, ultimately reveal the needs of this initiative.
So, I candidly ask for your assistance and support with a specific need. Most students walk on average of 4 hours a day (2 hours there and back). This is a long trek on the dusty, main road. In addition, the main route has been the object of Chinese construction. The road is dirt smooth, for the most part, and new to the eager drivers. Consequently, the road is not the safest. Moreover, you can imagine the difficulties this presents; outside of physical fatigue, it leaves little time for other family responsibilities and studies.
As many of you know, we are raising funds for a UCBC bus. Please visit www.congoinitiative.org if you are interested in making a contribution. Click on donate and in the comments section please write "funds for bus".
Please pray for her: comfort amidst excruciating pain and healing.
Upon our arrival, we were immediately directed to the emergency waiting room. The female student laid on a bench as another student, held her, and acted as a back rest. Her mother upset outside. Others tried to calm and distract her from the brutal injury and agonizing pain. Her arm was wrapped in a white shirt, now crimson red. She cried in Swahili and tears. As I pushed my way through the soothing onlookers, I could sense the pain in the atmosphere. I slowly grabbed her other hand, knuckles clenched white as they prepared for the powerful grip that signifies relentless pain. I felt useless, but in quiet prayer. Moments of relief would come in brevity.
The doctors were preparing the surgery room down the street. I gave her hand to another and walked out of the suffocating, heavy atmosphere to get the details of the accident. Emotion penetrated my mind and heart for a brief moment; enough to feel my eyes swell, but not enough to be seen; then quickly ducked elsewhere in my being. A teacher’s reaction? A friend’s responsibility? Brotherly love? Fatherly concern? Maybe all. I don’t know sometimes.
A doctor friend informed us they were ready and she was transported a few “blocks” to the surgery room. Her family accompanied her and a few students and myself would follow suit moments later. We sat quietly on the porch outside the room. At one point, a doctor opened the door and handed her older brother his sister’s necklace. Unfortunately, when her mother saw this, it symbolized something more dreadful, and she fainted. As soon as she awoke from her brief break from a mother’s heartache, the rest of us found some humor in the incident, and smiled.
She would spend 3-4 hours in surgery, her muscle detached from the forearm. It was bad. I returned later that night after taking care of the crew installing an internet system at the University. I turned the corner of the concrete structure and found 6 students outside of her room. They gathered in support of their classmate. I entered her room as she was mumbling a variety of words. The drugs still dominated her frame of mind, but aware enough to recognize concerned figures surrounding her. She sweetly greeted me and introduced her mother, then quietly reminded me her father had passed (he died of a heart attack shortly after he found all his businesses had been looted during the war).
At the end of this all, we know she will be ok. By grace, the truck struck her arm and not her body or head, and within this environment worse things could happen. However, this accident has pushed me across the line of approach and functions of this blog. Originally, I wanted to refrain from using it as a "fundraising tool", but realize it can no longer remain a mere storyboard and personal form of expression. The stories present the realities and experiences here in DR Congo, and specifically at UCBC, directly or indirectly. Owned by no one, but the characters themselves. And, ultimately reveal the needs of this initiative.
So, I candidly ask for your assistance and support with a specific need. Most students walk on average of 4 hours a day (2 hours there and back). This is a long trek on the dusty, main road. In addition, the main route has been the object of Chinese construction. The road is dirt smooth, for the most part, and new to the eager drivers. Consequently, the road is not the safest. Moreover, you can imagine the difficulties this presents; outside of physical fatigue, it leaves little time for other family responsibilities and studies.
As many of you know, we are raising funds for a UCBC bus. Please visit www.congoinitiative.org if you are interested in making a contribution. Click on donate and in the comments section please write "funds for bus".
Please pray for her: comfort amidst excruciating pain and healing.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Nyankunde
Easter weekend, I departed for Nyankunde and Bunia. For those following, I wrote previously about the region and it’s past; an area I’ve heard much about through students and friends, but yet to visit. I was looking forward to a break from Beni and CI-UCBC activity and anxious for the 3-hour trip. Thanks to my friend and his reconciliation ministry, we had a free ride in a Toyota Hilux pick up, supped up with a giant loud speaker attached. I confess, elsewhere in the world, I’d be a little embarrassed. As we drove on the newly, Chinese engineered dirt road, we captured the attention of anyone within 1 km. Children, some clothed, some not, ran to the road’s edge with the first sound of rhythm. They bounced, twisted, shook, bobbed, smiled, jumped, laughed…and danced to the African gospel music. Their spirits’ cling to the rhythm and beats…pure joy manifested; embarrassment ceased to grip my mind.
The trip was as smooth as it gets in Congo…again, welcomed. Forests covering rolling hills followed our path, occasionally dissipating to allow the presence of savannah lands. Typical Congolese mud-thatched houses formed pockets of communities. As we neared Nyakunde, nestled in lush hills, wandering FARDC soldiers became more frequent. Conversation grew quieter. Charcoal writing in empty buildings and boutiques; a glimpse of an AK47 sketched among Congolese language graffiti in the black chalk. We arrived at the hospital and guesthouse around 1:00PM.
In the evening, I sat on the doorstep. Violet flora blossomed from gigantic fern-like trees. Feather-like petals slowly fell blanketing the ground beneath. Large fungi leaves created an umbrella for the trees’ joints. Evening came quickly and quietly, as did my contemplation. A paradise, only if my eyes did not surpass this natural beauty. Beyond it lay the empty shells of what were once hospital wards.
Nyankunde Hospital was THE hospital in this region…impacting, successful, well-known , serving ALL. On September 5, 2002, tribal militia streamed over the surrounding hills. Early in the day, my friend took us around the grounds. Building after building, home after home, stood still in time, empty, roofless, looted, and destroyed. Pieces of hospital equipment remained strewed across shards of tile and brick. The only life signs in these hollow structures were the natural, resilient vegetation that had been growing for the past 5 years. As we walked, my friend pointed out desolate houses of people I’ve previously met in Beni, including his own. He quietly explained what happened that day. Pointing to rafters of a ward where the chaplain hid for a week before being found and subsequently killed My friend’s own story, even when heard again, leaves what is beneath our skin static.
On Saturday morning, we awoke to an overcast and damp atmosphere. After eating the best bread in Congo, dense and sweet, like beer bread, we began a 3 km trek to the outskirts of town. The weather provided a gloomy aurora to the already dim setting. Though life moved on as with any Congo village, laughter, open-ended smiles, and curious eyes, the setting rendered what one would depict in a narrative or artistic expression of a war torn region. Though the answer revealed, I asked my friend, “Has much changed?” He responded quietly, “No”. We continued on, my friend greeting old friends and acquaintances. We came to a river where couple UN trucks pumped water into their barrels, as a Bradley-like tank waited. A significant number of peacekeepers curiously watched us walk by. Their base no more than a 1 kilometer away.
We arrived at our destination, the house of a pastor and father of a student at UCBC. We took two motos to a village called Sando. The route allowed me to appreciate another environment in Congo, savannah and pastural land. Our bikes dodged big horned cattle, as I stood amazed by 10 ft high termite hills. The route eventually turned into a rocky and crater filled path, so we dismounted our blue horses and began to hike. Along the way, we picked delicious guava to nourish our bodies. Fifteen minutes passed before my ears captured the sound of rushing water. We eventually came to the river’s edge and vine-cable wire bridge that crossed the chocolate water. Thin, planked boards acted as our footpath. A few years ago, the bridge was strictly a netting of vines. The bridge also led to areas where my friend’s reconciliation ministry has worked with militias. At the crossing, we encountered one man that was on his way to visit a friend. They had met at one of the transcending reconciliation seminars. Coming from opposing tribes, their past intentions were to eliminate each other, now they’re gathering for meals.
Later in the afternoon we traveled to Bunia, a large town situated 3 or 4 hours north of Beni. The following morning, another friend took me via moto all over the town. Again, signs of the recent conflict were clearer. He pointed to buildings and Universities devastated by the war. Larger UN presence, a little residual sense of unease. Signs of development pushing through the cracks. I spent my Easter their to welcomed solitude, enjoying glorious Congolese meals at the guesthouse. The next afternoon we gathered our things and piled into the pick up. I situated myself on top of piled supplies in the truck’s bed among 7 other Congolese friends. We pulled a thick, blue tarp over our heads for shelter from the morning’s rain. For a moment in time, I felt like a product of smuggling…pure imagination.
Twenty minutes later the skies allowed the sun’s rays to penetrate the dark shields of the towering rain clouds. We eventually rolled the blue covering. Trucks passed by stacked 20 feet high with goods and people, packed in dire perfection, as one alteration would cause the transport to inevitably topple. Despite the diesel exhaust pouring into my lungs, I appreciated the setting surrounding our way. The rain’s remnants glistened off the hills and fields with the gentle touch of sunshine. Dark skies in the horizon provided a canvas of contrast. Moments later, streams of a color palette arced above our heads. At the end of the day, God’s presence always is felt last, covering anything that resembles iniquity or shadows of this world, or my own.
The trip was as smooth as it gets in Congo…again, welcomed. Forests covering rolling hills followed our path, occasionally dissipating to allow the presence of savannah lands. Typical Congolese mud-thatched houses formed pockets of communities. As we neared Nyakunde, nestled in lush hills, wandering FARDC soldiers became more frequent. Conversation grew quieter. Charcoal writing in empty buildings and boutiques; a glimpse of an AK47 sketched among Congolese language graffiti in the black chalk. We arrived at the hospital and guesthouse around 1:00PM.
In the evening, I sat on the doorstep. Violet flora blossomed from gigantic fern-like trees. Feather-like petals slowly fell blanketing the ground beneath. Large fungi leaves created an umbrella for the trees’ joints. Evening came quickly and quietly, as did my contemplation. A paradise, only if my eyes did not surpass this natural beauty. Beyond it lay the empty shells of what were once hospital wards.
Nyankunde Hospital was THE hospital in this region…impacting, successful, well-known , serving ALL. On September 5, 2002, tribal militia streamed over the surrounding hills. Early in the day, my friend took us around the grounds. Building after building, home after home, stood still in time, empty, roofless, looted, and destroyed. Pieces of hospital equipment remained strewed across shards of tile and brick. The only life signs in these hollow structures were the natural, resilient vegetation that had been growing for the past 5 years. As we walked, my friend pointed out desolate houses of people I’ve previously met in Beni, including his own. He quietly explained what happened that day. Pointing to rafters of a ward where the chaplain hid for a week before being found and subsequently killed My friend’s own story, even when heard again, leaves what is beneath our skin static.
On Saturday morning, we awoke to an overcast and damp atmosphere. After eating the best bread in Congo, dense and sweet, like beer bread, we began a 3 km trek to the outskirts of town. The weather provided a gloomy aurora to the already dim setting. Though life moved on as with any Congo village, laughter, open-ended smiles, and curious eyes, the setting rendered what one would depict in a narrative or artistic expression of a war torn region. Though the answer revealed, I asked my friend, “Has much changed?” He responded quietly, “No”. We continued on, my friend greeting old friends and acquaintances. We came to a river where couple UN trucks pumped water into their barrels, as a Bradley-like tank waited. A significant number of peacekeepers curiously watched us walk by. Their base no more than a 1 kilometer away.
We arrived at our destination, the house of a pastor and father of a student at UCBC. We took two motos to a village called Sando. The route allowed me to appreciate another environment in Congo, savannah and pastural land. Our bikes dodged big horned cattle, as I stood amazed by 10 ft high termite hills. The route eventually turned into a rocky and crater filled path, so we dismounted our blue horses and began to hike. Along the way, we picked delicious guava to nourish our bodies. Fifteen minutes passed before my ears captured the sound of rushing water. We eventually came to the river’s edge and vine-cable wire bridge that crossed the chocolate water. Thin, planked boards acted as our footpath. A few years ago, the bridge was strictly a netting of vines. The bridge also led to areas where my friend’s reconciliation ministry has worked with militias. At the crossing, we encountered one man that was on his way to visit a friend. They had met at one of the transcending reconciliation seminars. Coming from opposing tribes, their past intentions were to eliminate each other, now they’re gathering for meals.
Later in the afternoon we traveled to Bunia, a large town situated 3 or 4 hours north of Beni. The following morning, another friend took me via moto all over the town. Again, signs of the recent conflict were clearer. He pointed to buildings and Universities devastated by the war. Larger UN presence, a little residual sense of unease. Signs of development pushing through the cracks. I spent my Easter their to welcomed solitude, enjoying glorious Congolese meals at the guesthouse. The next afternoon we gathered our things and piled into the pick up. I situated myself on top of piled supplies in the truck’s bed among 7 other Congolese friends. We pulled a thick, blue tarp over our heads for shelter from the morning’s rain. For a moment in time, I felt like a product of smuggling…pure imagination.
Twenty minutes later the skies allowed the sun’s rays to penetrate the dark shields of the towering rain clouds. We eventually rolled the blue covering. Trucks passed by stacked 20 feet high with goods and people, packed in dire perfection, as one alteration would cause the transport to inevitably topple. Despite the diesel exhaust pouring into my lungs, I appreciated the setting surrounding our way. The rain’s remnants glistened off the hills and fields with the gentle touch of sunshine. Dark skies in the horizon provided a canvas of contrast. Moments later, streams of a color palette arced above our heads. At the end of the day, God’s presence always is felt last, covering anything that resembles iniquity or shadows of this world, or my own.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Blue Helmets
Dressed in my lonely blue jeans and a dusty, worn shirt, I found myself two rows behind a commanding officer of the Indian military. We were invited by the local MONUC Indian battalion to their extravagant medal ceremony in the center of town. Surrounded by MONUC officials, local governing authorities, and camouflaged officers, I felt a bit out of place. I joked with my friend sitting near by, an interpreter for the UN, “I think I’m in the wrong seat.” The commander greeted each one of the distinguished guests, I put on my best, presentable self. The event itself was an impressive display of India’s military ritual. Not a military minded person, I appreciated the subsequent cultural performance of dance and acrobats that followed. The marching band, though lacking the African rhythmic beats, was also entertaining.
The UN is a highly debated topic of discussion throughout the international community. And for years, I’ve held my own reservations on its capability and intentions. Still do. The following are thoughts gathered on the presence of MONUC in DRC and impressions received from the Congolese themselves; a rendition of the blue helmets.
It’s generally accepted that the initial arrival of the peacekeeping force was necessary and welcomed. MONUC played a major role in bringing a sense of stability and peace; not to convey absolute peace has been reached. It remains scattered throughout eastern Congo, but continues to battle. However, the implementation of a UN force was necessary and should be commended. One prays a similar force will finally enter the crisis in Darfur. It’s been way too long.
I’ve described aspects of this context as harsh in previously entries, and the reality is the negative effects of MONUC feed into it as well. Many Congolese wonder what the force actually does. As do I. We watch the white Land Rovers, pick-ups, and other SUVS, speed past us on the road. The other day, I had to resist the temptation of “flipping the old bird” as I was nearly run off the road while driving. Trucks carrying armed and seemingly bored troops plow through the town, followed by a caravan of jeeps and tank-like vehicles.
One would recognize a more developmental approach if there was evidence of interaction with the community. But, hardly have I witnessed peace keeping troops engaging with the people and nourishing the local economy. Unfortunately, this deficiency is minor compared to some stories I’ve heard or seen of darker practices.
Though it’s said to have improved, prostitution among peacekeeping troops with Congolese women is not necessarily a rarity. When your desperate for money and food, sexual promiscuity becomes a supporting option. Perhaps the greatest evidence lies in the faces of the fatherless children. Last week, a light-skinned child approached me declaring, “MONUC!”, pointing to himself, as if the acronym replaced the name of his father…or was all he knew of him.
Congo, rich in resources, brings temptation to retrieve diamonds, gold, and other minerals. Instances of illegal arms trade between peacekeepers and local militia groups have been disclosed. Put them into an equation, it’s not hard to see the error in achieving peace. And as I sat during the medal ceremony, the eerie thought of Congo being more or less a military training ground for other nations crossed my mind.
As with any institution comprised of government authority, the bureaucracy remains the major inhibitor. Even those working within the organization have expressed frustration. The local battalions have been willing to assist us in clearing land at UCBC, however, never seem to get the approval from the directors higher up.
It would be inappropriate not to mention the positive efforts made by MONUC in the area, and specifically the support and interaction of the local Indian Battalion (INDBAT). They’ve reached out to UCBC and the community. First, holding a debate/discussion at UCBC, allowing students to present and express their ideas and thoughts regarding the “Role of Youth in Nation-Building”. Occasionally, they will stop by for a visit or invite staff and some students to their celebrations or activities. They invited our progressing basketball team for a match at their base. And perhaps, most impressive, the donation of two basketball hoops for our very own, hand-made dirt court on campus. For these efforts and their sincerity in the restoration of DRC, I must commend the battalion for befriending the University.
A graduation ceremony of FARDC battalions trained by MONUC provided a little more insight. Better trained than not trained I suppose. My concern…even with training…you have a significant number of soldiers, unpaid, heavily armed, and in circumstances where life’s needs are difficult to come by and humanity easy to wrongfully and grossly exploit. As reports have noted, FARDC are equally or perhaps more responsible for perpetrating sexual violence and other human rights abuse.
From a personal perspective, I find myself uncomfortable associating whole-heartedly with MONUC. On occasion, I’ll hitch a ride back into town with UN friends and employees. I can’t help to notice and feel the difference in the eyes of the people as we drive buy in the very comfortable SUV. And, I’m quick to correct those who address me as a MONUC employee.
MONUC has played a significant role in the peace process, and most likely, still has a role. I could not suggest a pull out of the operation, as there is a lot of work ahead in the restoration and reconstruction of DRC. However, I believe problematic issues within their approach and organization needs to be aggressively addressed. Nor do I intend to paint a insensitive portrait of their work, but must express an transparent interpretation. As the people of Congo continue to work towards reconciliation, I fear another type of reconciliation amid the blue helmets and Congolese may become equally important.
(Note: On Sunday night, an officer from INDBATT called to invite us for a match on Monday. They would formally present the basketball hoops for the school after the game. We played on their painted asphalt court with glass backboards on base. The tension or lack of trust between our players and the MONUC team was evident. Tried to calm their emotions and focus their minds on the game. Difficult, as I questioned some of the calls made. By the end I believe the Indian referees sensed my own displeasure. Feelings developed reminiscent of the discrimination and segregation between cultures in America. But after, it appeared more as difference or lack of knowledge in rules of the game. Not sure.
Though, a part of me found it hard to swallow the following ceremonial donation of the wood planked basketball hoops, I submitted to a sense of sincerity from the opposing team players and the commanding officers. Moreover, I was wrapped up in the atmosphere that the game created. A team of 7 young men, limited or no opportunity to practice, busting their balls on the court, while mentally battling the lack of trust for the opposing team and presence of the force. They weren’t alone, however, as the rest of the student body courageously cheered and encouraged us despite our defeat. We're thankful for the relationship established with the INDBATT and hope for the same interaction from other battalions.)
The UN is a highly debated topic of discussion throughout the international community. And for years, I’ve held my own reservations on its capability and intentions. Still do. The following are thoughts gathered on the presence of MONUC in DRC and impressions received from the Congolese themselves; a rendition of the blue helmets.
It’s generally accepted that the initial arrival of the peacekeeping force was necessary and welcomed. MONUC played a major role in bringing a sense of stability and peace; not to convey absolute peace has been reached. It remains scattered throughout eastern Congo, but continues to battle. However, the implementation of a UN force was necessary and should be commended. One prays a similar force will finally enter the crisis in Darfur. It’s been way too long.
I’ve described aspects of this context as harsh in previously entries, and the reality is the negative effects of MONUC feed into it as well. Many Congolese wonder what the force actually does. As do I. We watch the white Land Rovers, pick-ups, and other SUVS, speed past us on the road. The other day, I had to resist the temptation of “flipping the old bird” as I was nearly run off the road while driving. Trucks carrying armed and seemingly bored troops plow through the town, followed by a caravan of jeeps and tank-like vehicles.
One would recognize a more developmental approach if there was evidence of interaction with the community. But, hardly have I witnessed peace keeping troops engaging with the people and nourishing the local economy. Unfortunately, this deficiency is minor compared to some stories I’ve heard or seen of darker practices.
Though it’s said to have improved, prostitution among peacekeeping troops with Congolese women is not necessarily a rarity. When your desperate for money and food, sexual promiscuity becomes a supporting option. Perhaps the greatest evidence lies in the faces of the fatherless children. Last week, a light-skinned child approached me declaring, “MONUC!”, pointing to himself, as if the acronym replaced the name of his father…or was all he knew of him.
Congo, rich in resources, brings temptation to retrieve diamonds, gold, and other minerals. Instances of illegal arms trade between peacekeepers and local militia groups have been disclosed. Put them into an equation, it’s not hard to see the error in achieving peace. And as I sat during the medal ceremony, the eerie thought of Congo being more or less a military training ground for other nations crossed my mind.
As with any institution comprised of government authority, the bureaucracy remains the major inhibitor. Even those working within the organization have expressed frustration. The local battalions have been willing to assist us in clearing land at UCBC, however, never seem to get the approval from the directors higher up.
It would be inappropriate not to mention the positive efforts made by MONUC in the area, and specifically the support and interaction of the local Indian Battalion (INDBAT). They’ve reached out to UCBC and the community. First, holding a debate/discussion at UCBC, allowing students to present and express their ideas and thoughts regarding the “Role of Youth in Nation-Building”. Occasionally, they will stop by for a visit or invite staff and some students to their celebrations or activities. They invited our progressing basketball team for a match at their base. And perhaps, most impressive, the donation of two basketball hoops for our very own, hand-made dirt court on campus. For these efforts and their sincerity in the restoration of DRC, I must commend the battalion for befriending the University.
A graduation ceremony of FARDC battalions trained by MONUC provided a little more insight. Better trained than not trained I suppose. My concern…even with training…you have a significant number of soldiers, unpaid, heavily armed, and in circumstances where life’s needs are difficult to come by and humanity easy to wrongfully and grossly exploit. As reports have noted, FARDC are equally or perhaps more responsible for perpetrating sexual violence and other human rights abuse.
From a personal perspective, I find myself uncomfortable associating whole-heartedly with MONUC. On occasion, I’ll hitch a ride back into town with UN friends and employees. I can’t help to notice and feel the difference in the eyes of the people as we drive buy in the very comfortable SUV. And, I’m quick to correct those who address me as a MONUC employee.
MONUC has played a significant role in the peace process, and most likely, still has a role. I could not suggest a pull out of the operation, as there is a lot of work ahead in the restoration and reconstruction of DRC. However, I believe problematic issues within their approach and organization needs to be aggressively addressed. Nor do I intend to paint a insensitive portrait of their work, but must express an transparent interpretation. As the people of Congo continue to work towards reconciliation, I fear another type of reconciliation amid the blue helmets and Congolese may become equally important.
(Note: On Sunday night, an officer from INDBATT called to invite us for a match on Monday. They would formally present the basketball hoops for the school after the game. We played on their painted asphalt court with glass backboards on base. The tension or lack of trust between our players and the MONUC team was evident. Tried to calm their emotions and focus their minds on the game. Difficult, as I questioned some of the calls made. By the end I believe the Indian referees sensed my own displeasure. Feelings developed reminiscent of the discrimination and segregation between cultures in America. But after, it appeared more as difference or lack of knowledge in rules of the game. Not sure.
Though, a part of me found it hard to swallow the following ceremonial donation of the wood planked basketball hoops, I submitted to a sense of sincerity from the opposing team players and the commanding officers. Moreover, I was wrapped up in the atmosphere that the game created. A team of 7 young men, limited or no opportunity to practice, busting their balls on the court, while mentally battling the lack of trust for the opposing team and presence of the force. They weren’t alone, however, as the rest of the student body courageously cheered and encouraged us despite our defeat. We're thankful for the relationship established with the INDBATT and hope for the same interaction from other battalions.)
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Beginning and End: An Image
The moon displayed its magnificence gained from the fallen sun by covering the land with a silver lining; a welcomed splendor for a sullen atmosphere surrounded us this night. We were headed to the house of friend and brother Honoré. A man of many talents; languages, teaching, ministering and administration, and holds a gentle yet, passionate spirit. As the academic dean, he is a major contributor to the functioning of UCBC. He was north of Beni in Nyakunde/Bunia area and just witnessed the passing of his father to diabetes (I’ve recently learned that diabetes is a very prevalent condition ). His family, including a brother that attends UCBC, had just been informed.
We arrived to find a number of students had already gathered at the home. We walked in to console Honoré’s wife and family. His brother greeted me with his usual joyful, gapped tooth smile. Later, he would occasionally break; even strength and desensitization accumulated as an ex-combatant cannot lessen the pain.
In the dim lantern light, we gathered in prayer and song led by students. The archipelago voices, absorbed in African rhythm, filled the room and then drifted through the surrounding mud-thatch houses before being carried to the heavens. After comforting her mother, Honoré’s 3-year old daughter Martha came crawling onto my lap. The innocence of a child, not comprehending what has taken place, yet knowing exactly what her mother needs. With curiosity, she examined my large, white hands in comparison to her own; always looking up to check on her mother’s condition.
Shortly after my return in January, I went to the house of AJ (the same student that held Bush in his grief). When I was away, AJ’s wife gave birth to a baby girl, Danielle on January 7, 2008, my birthday as well; instant connection here. I held her wrapped in blankets, as disturbed bats flew in and out of the room. What a gift…life, and the happiness it brings to a father, as indicated by the wide grin across AJ’s face.
Close encounters…with birth of life and the taking of it. As my head was bowed last week during the mourning of Bush’s mother, my mind drifted into thoughts on humanity…what separates us from all else. In the beginning and end, we distinctly see the image of God. The joy and beauty life brings and the suffering and pain in its passing. In between, we depart on journeys and adventures through metaphorical jungles, deserts, unexplored seas, and mountain peaks, that illuminate our creator and humanity. But, the purest portrayal of our image is found in the beginning and end.
I commented in an earlier entry, the youthful life that feeds Congo. I recently read commentary on G.K. Chesterton’s assertion that he learned more about life from the interaction of children, than the studies of philosophy. And whether its watching a short clip of my nephew laughing, countless joyful and curious children chasing me, the tranquility of a new born, or child’s ability to bring joy and comfort in a situation filled with sullen tension, I’m inclined to be equally fascinated. Innocence is yet to be tainted, and the absence of prejudice, discrimination, or judgment exhibits unconditional serenity.
And in death, our hearts are exposed to vulnerability. Pain that hurts so deep, we forget or maybe remember, what it means to live. And the true value of life is weighed. The event ignites our friends and families, the surrounding community, to revert back to our child-like behavior and hidden sense; relieving the hurt. Unconditional acts and emotion return. And as one views the empty shell, we acknowledge the peace that has transcended. A reminder of the humanity and holiness found in One who walked the earth in order to display His image from beginning to end.
We often forget the reaction of Jesus when Lazarus died. Despite the forthcoming resurrection, he was “deeply moved in spirit and troubled”. He wept.
As we walked away from our mother’s grave last week, I couldn’t stop thinking about the recent estimate of over 5 million lives taken from Congo, as a result of war, poverty and disease since 1996. And for each one…Jesus wept.
As I finish, my little 3-year old friend here is jamming to an array of foreign artists while his little paws pounce on my keys. As irritating it is, difficult to scold the little monster.
We arrived to find a number of students had already gathered at the home. We walked in to console Honoré’s wife and family. His brother greeted me with his usual joyful, gapped tooth smile. Later, he would occasionally break; even strength and desensitization accumulated as an ex-combatant cannot lessen the pain.
In the dim lantern light, we gathered in prayer and song led by students. The archipelago voices, absorbed in African rhythm, filled the room and then drifted through the surrounding mud-thatch houses before being carried to the heavens. After comforting her mother, Honoré’s 3-year old daughter Martha came crawling onto my lap. The innocence of a child, not comprehending what has taken place, yet knowing exactly what her mother needs. With curiosity, she examined my large, white hands in comparison to her own; always looking up to check on her mother’s condition.
Shortly after my return in January, I went to the house of AJ (the same student that held Bush in his grief). When I was away, AJ’s wife gave birth to a baby girl, Danielle on January 7, 2008, my birthday as well; instant connection here. I held her wrapped in blankets, as disturbed bats flew in and out of the room. What a gift…life, and the happiness it brings to a father, as indicated by the wide grin across AJ’s face.
Close encounters…with birth of life and the taking of it. As my head was bowed last week during the mourning of Bush’s mother, my mind drifted into thoughts on humanity…what separates us from all else. In the beginning and end, we distinctly see the image of God. The joy and beauty life brings and the suffering and pain in its passing. In between, we depart on journeys and adventures through metaphorical jungles, deserts, unexplored seas, and mountain peaks, that illuminate our creator and humanity. But, the purest portrayal of our image is found in the beginning and end.
I commented in an earlier entry, the youthful life that feeds Congo. I recently read commentary on G.K. Chesterton’s assertion that he learned more about life from the interaction of children, than the studies of philosophy. And whether its watching a short clip of my nephew laughing, countless joyful and curious children chasing me, the tranquility of a new born, or child’s ability to bring joy and comfort in a situation filled with sullen tension, I’m inclined to be equally fascinated. Innocence is yet to be tainted, and the absence of prejudice, discrimination, or judgment exhibits unconditional serenity.
And in death, our hearts are exposed to vulnerability. Pain that hurts so deep, we forget or maybe remember, what it means to live. And the true value of life is weighed. The event ignites our friends and families, the surrounding community, to revert back to our child-like behavior and hidden sense; relieving the hurt. Unconditional acts and emotion return. And as one views the empty shell, we acknowledge the peace that has transcended. A reminder of the humanity and holiness found in One who walked the earth in order to display His image from beginning to end.
We often forget the reaction of Jesus when Lazarus died. Despite the forthcoming resurrection, he was “deeply moved in spirit and troubled”. He wept.
As we walked away from our mother’s grave last week, I couldn’t stop thinking about the recent estimate of over 5 million lives taken from Congo, as a result of war, poverty and disease since 1996. And for each one…Jesus wept.
As I finish, my little 3-year old friend here is jamming to an array of foreign artists while his little paws pounce on my keys. As irritating it is, difficult to scold the little monster.
Friday, February 15, 2008
A Response
A significant number of students spent the night with their friend. The following day, the rest of us arrived for the funeral. A long day of songs and messages was given to an audience of 400 plus. At one point, one of the minister’s informed the congregation and community they needed help digging the grave as the ground was tough. Immediately 6 or 7 UCBC students rose and departed towards the cemetery to assist for the next 2 to 3 hours. It was also students who carried their friend’s mother to her final resting place, and it was the students that laid her in the ground and covered the coffin with soil.
It’s hard to appreciate such an event as you witness such a loss. But the response of the students gave testimony to the community. What is transpiring at UCBC extends far beyond individual transformation, but is reaching out with fingers that bring hope to Congo.
People approached us afterwards in disbelief and awe, “What’s the secret? What do you do?” Frankly, there are days I wonder the same thing. Simple answer…God, prayer, and faith in a Gospel and the Cross that is not bounded by culture, tribe, war, poverty, wealth, ignorance, color, and countless others that inhibit our true image.
Within the vision of CI-UCBC is the phrase to develop leaders that implement “Kingdom” values. “Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven”: The response of the students is evidence that these values are possible in the harshest of contexts.
It’s hard to appreciate such an event as you witness such a loss. But the response of the students gave testimony to the community. What is transpiring at UCBC extends far beyond individual transformation, but is reaching out with fingers that bring hope to Congo.
People approached us afterwards in disbelief and awe, “What’s the secret? What do you do?” Frankly, there are days I wonder the same thing. Simple answer…God, prayer, and faith in a Gospel and the Cross that is not bounded by culture, tribe, war, poverty, wealth, ignorance, color, and countless others that inhibit our true image.
Within the vision of CI-UCBC is the phrase to develop leaders that implement “Kingdom” values. “Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven”: The response of the students is evidence that these values are possible in the harshest of contexts.
Loss
On February 11, 2008, I woke up groggy from the interruptions of mosquitoes. It has rained a lot the past few days; uncharacteristic of the dry season. I arrived at school and was quietly informed a student’s mother had passed this morning. He didn’t know. Moments later I found myself in a room with Dr. Kasali and Honoré preparing to disclose the news to the student, Bush. As we informed him, his eyes gradually swelled with tears, and eventually broke.
The students were in chapel. After they heard the news they consoled their fellow classmate, in prayer and song. After some discussion they decided to accompany us to Oicha, a village 40 minutes north of Beni, where Bush’s mother passed away. After a few phone calls and a couple hours later, transportation was arranged. Festo and I did our best to keep our friend’s mind from drifting far into grief by making jokes about the black beans we eat everyday for lunch and how they make us, lack of better term, shit.
We arrived via caravan at Oicha. Almost every student attended the mourning service. We entered the church, her body wrapped in blankets on a bed in front. Women dear to her laid on the floor weeping and wailing. Bush collapsed at his mother’s side. The students gathered around in support for a few moments and then respectively stepped back. I swallowed hard, my gut tight, as I watched a friend overcome by sorrow.
After having my head bowed for a few minutes, I looked up to witness one of the students coming behind Bush as he laid weeping on the tarps spread across the church floor. He sat behind him and embraced his body that had reverted to the child-like state after the loss of a mother; allowing a weary head and back to rest on his own lap. He consoled him by whispering calming words into his ear. He held him as young brothers do before they reach an age that tells you otherwise. A sight my mind will never let escape.
I recently explained to a friend how I questioned my heart, “Has it become hardened?” I’ve learned to say “no” to many…desperate. In some instances, you detach yourself from your surroundings. You’ll lose it if you don’t. This isn’t my first encounter with death here. I recognize I’ve adapted well, but lately, I wonder if I’m too comfortable. Almost desensitized. But, as I witnessed the grief of my friend and student, for the first time since I’ve arrived, I slowly allowed the release of a tear down my own face. By God’s grace, I handle anything Congo brings, and by this same grace, I still feel the brokenness of hearts as they experience lost.
(note: Bush’s parents have been strong partners and supporters in the development of UCBC)
The students were in chapel. After they heard the news they consoled their fellow classmate, in prayer and song. After some discussion they decided to accompany us to Oicha, a village 40 minutes north of Beni, where Bush’s mother passed away. After a few phone calls and a couple hours later, transportation was arranged. Festo and I did our best to keep our friend’s mind from drifting far into grief by making jokes about the black beans we eat everyday for lunch and how they make us, lack of better term, shit.
We arrived via caravan at Oicha. Almost every student attended the mourning service. We entered the church, her body wrapped in blankets on a bed in front. Women dear to her laid on the floor weeping and wailing. Bush collapsed at his mother’s side. The students gathered around in support for a few moments and then respectively stepped back. I swallowed hard, my gut tight, as I watched a friend overcome by sorrow.
After having my head bowed for a few minutes, I looked up to witness one of the students coming behind Bush as he laid weeping on the tarps spread across the church floor. He sat behind him and embraced his body that had reverted to the child-like state after the loss of a mother; allowing a weary head and back to rest on his own lap. He consoled him by whispering calming words into his ear. He held him as young brothers do before they reach an age that tells you otherwise. A sight my mind will never let escape.
I recently explained to a friend how I questioned my heart, “Has it become hardened?” I’ve learned to say “no” to many…desperate. In some instances, you detach yourself from your surroundings. You’ll lose it if you don’t. This isn’t my first encounter with death here. I recognize I’ve adapted well, but lately, I wonder if I’m too comfortable. Almost desensitized. But, as I witnessed the grief of my friend and student, for the first time since I’ve arrived, I slowly allowed the release of a tear down my own face. By God’s grace, I handle anything Congo brings, and by this same grace, I still feel the brokenness of hearts as they experience lost.
(note: Bush’s parents have been strong partners and supporters in the development of UCBC)
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Taste of Eden
In December, a student friend described an area he used to work as a logger northwest of Beni. I told him I was itching to get out of Beni and see the lush forest that my eyes were hooked on as I flew in. From the air, the canopy reminds me of “broccoli” bunches at a food store. The forest floor is hidden from sight, leaving one to wonder what lies beneath it’s protective ceiling. So, last Saturday we decided to take a motorbike to Mambasa.
The plan was to leave at 7:00AM. I left any necessary preparations and plans to my friend. He has traveled the route many times…however, this included a mzungu. We borrowed a Senke motorbike from his friend; the poorly built, Chinese brand that has invaded the towns. It was 10:00AM by the time we departed and I gently asked my companion, “Do we have time to make the trip?” He answered, “Yes.”
The road we would take to Mambasa was in poor shape. The type of trails a mountain biker enjoys; fast, filled with potholes, dips, rocks, and dried-up rainwater routes. We traveled through the outskirts of Beni and a local village called Magina. At a check point I registered with the “immigration office”, a thatch hut with its title written in chalk on a wood panel. My friend had forgotten to retrieve the documentation for the motorbike, so we persuaded the local authorities for understanding and a written, notarized note allowing us to continue. We would go through a similar exercise at other villages and specifically the border to the Orientale province, where I had to convince the immigration officer and officer of tourism that I lived and worked in Beni, and I wasn’t…well, exactly a tourist. My friend had also left his driver’s permit at the first stop, requiring me to drive into the other villages with my “International” license.
We continued on and villages became sparse as we entered the sea of forest. I was selfish, leaving thoughts of the darker realities of Congo and my responsibilities as a volunteer and teacher behind. I rarely even lifted my camera. This trip was for me…to experience a Congo…free of any predispositions and matter that may taint the experience, as if stripped to my organic being. While we sped under the canopy, I breathed in the sweet aroma of the jungle as my skin soaked in pockets of cool and warm air. Orchids lined the road as colorful birds and insects danced through the little space available between the arms and hands of vegetation. When we stopped to stretch and admire the rolling, green carpet, I listened to chatter of monkeys in the distance and calls of countless avian. The forest was saturated with uncontaminated life. It was a taste of Eden.
As we drove my call-name of “mzungu” changed with the change in language and local dialects. The people watched keenly and with astonishment, quitting whatever task they were doing as I entered their frame of vision. Their faces often carried smiles and their body language showed an appreciation for a wave or nod. With my naked mind, I envied the simple way of life here in the forest and found it hard to imagine the scene with violence.
We arrived in Mambasa around 3:30PM. At this time, I was somewhat annoyed with the poor estimation of kilometers and time I left to my friend to disclose. We had a decision to make…find a place to stay in Mambasa or push for the river on the road that cut west to east to before nightfall. The bridge here was destroyed months ago by heavy rain. Travelers now crossed by boat. Appreciating the unpredictable experience thus far, I decided we should continue. We had about two and half hours of sunlight. We could reach Komanda, the next town just across the river, and then head south to Beni.
The road to Komanda was built with the assistance of the Chinese and very good in comparison to the previous road. My buttocks welcomed the break from the violent bouncing suffered earlier. We raced on the wider road and made good time. Nonetheless, we arrived at the river crossing just in time. My friend greeted old friends from the days he worked in timber. We pushed the bike into a boat that had a good 4 inches of water at the bottom. His eager friends pulled quickly on the ropes that connected the two banks and we were across within 5 minutes. I thanked and paid the men for their assistance and we again took off…this time our bike needed a bit of a push, a little encouragement perhaps. Komanda was not far from the river crossing and we entered the town with a half hour of daylight left. Unfortunately, when we stopped to greet the “mother” of my friend during his days in the area, we noticed a bulge in the front tire and had it replaced to assure a safe journey back to Beni. We left Komanda just as night began to set. My friend was tired, so I took the driver position. We had about two and half hours until we reached Beni. Normally, I would not have made such a decision, and realized we probably should have stayed the night. Something told me to continue on…as careless as it might seem. I would never encourage it however.
We began the last trek as the temperature dropped and the night insects came to life. There was something peaceful about this part of the trip. Perhaps it was the solitude of freedom from curious eyes, though my white skin probably glows enough for those walking the road to notice. Insects pelted my forehead and chest, fortunately my eyes escaped unharmed. We stopped once…long enough to value the sounds of the night and the stars shining bright at the equator. There was one check-point along the way, where the guard noticed my features, and actively approached. But, when he saw my dust covered clothes and face he realized we were exhausted and trying to get back quickly. With a salute we carried on.
After 400 some kilometers and almost 12 hours on a motorbike we arrived in Beni…exhausted from the elements of travel and exhilaration. I laughed with my good friend and noted that was “simply crazy”. At the house awaited perhaps the best warm, Congolese meal I could eat after such a journey.
The plan was to leave at 7:00AM. I left any necessary preparations and plans to my friend. He has traveled the route many times…however, this included a mzungu. We borrowed a Senke motorbike from his friend; the poorly built, Chinese brand that has invaded the towns. It was 10:00AM by the time we departed and I gently asked my companion, “Do we have time to make the trip?” He answered, “Yes.”
The road we would take to Mambasa was in poor shape. The type of trails a mountain biker enjoys; fast, filled with potholes, dips, rocks, and dried-up rainwater routes. We traveled through the outskirts of Beni and a local village called Magina. At a check point I registered with the “immigration office”, a thatch hut with its title written in chalk on a wood panel. My friend had forgotten to retrieve the documentation for the motorbike, so we persuaded the local authorities for understanding and a written, notarized note allowing us to continue. We would go through a similar exercise at other villages and specifically the border to the Orientale province, where I had to convince the immigration officer and officer of tourism that I lived and worked in Beni, and I wasn’t…well, exactly a tourist. My friend had also left his driver’s permit at the first stop, requiring me to drive into the other villages with my “International” license.
We continued on and villages became sparse as we entered the sea of forest. I was selfish, leaving thoughts of the darker realities of Congo and my responsibilities as a volunteer and teacher behind. I rarely even lifted my camera. This trip was for me…to experience a Congo…free of any predispositions and matter that may taint the experience, as if stripped to my organic being. While we sped under the canopy, I breathed in the sweet aroma of the jungle as my skin soaked in pockets of cool and warm air. Orchids lined the road as colorful birds and insects danced through the little space available between the arms and hands of vegetation. When we stopped to stretch and admire the rolling, green carpet, I listened to chatter of monkeys in the distance and calls of countless avian. The forest was saturated with uncontaminated life. It was a taste of Eden.
As we drove my call-name of “mzungu” changed with the change in language and local dialects. The people watched keenly and with astonishment, quitting whatever task they were doing as I entered their frame of vision. Their faces often carried smiles and their body language showed an appreciation for a wave or nod. With my naked mind, I envied the simple way of life here in the forest and found it hard to imagine the scene with violence.
We arrived in Mambasa around 3:30PM. At this time, I was somewhat annoyed with the poor estimation of kilometers and time I left to my friend to disclose. We had a decision to make…find a place to stay in Mambasa or push for the river on the road that cut west to east to before nightfall. The bridge here was destroyed months ago by heavy rain. Travelers now crossed by boat. Appreciating the unpredictable experience thus far, I decided we should continue. We had about two and half hours of sunlight. We could reach Komanda, the next town just across the river, and then head south to Beni.
The road to Komanda was built with the assistance of the Chinese and very good in comparison to the previous road. My buttocks welcomed the break from the violent bouncing suffered earlier. We raced on the wider road and made good time. Nonetheless, we arrived at the river crossing just in time. My friend greeted old friends from the days he worked in timber. We pushed the bike into a boat that had a good 4 inches of water at the bottom. His eager friends pulled quickly on the ropes that connected the two banks and we were across within 5 minutes. I thanked and paid the men for their assistance and we again took off…this time our bike needed a bit of a push, a little encouragement perhaps. Komanda was not far from the river crossing and we entered the town with a half hour of daylight left. Unfortunately, when we stopped to greet the “mother” of my friend during his days in the area, we noticed a bulge in the front tire and had it replaced to assure a safe journey back to Beni. We left Komanda just as night began to set. My friend was tired, so I took the driver position. We had about two and half hours until we reached Beni. Normally, I would not have made such a decision, and realized we probably should have stayed the night. Something told me to continue on…as careless as it might seem. I would never encourage it however.
We began the last trek as the temperature dropped and the night insects came to life. There was something peaceful about this part of the trip. Perhaps it was the solitude of freedom from curious eyes, though my white skin probably glows enough for those walking the road to notice. Insects pelted my forehead and chest, fortunately my eyes escaped unharmed. We stopped once…long enough to value the sounds of the night and the stars shining bright at the equator. There was one check-point along the way, where the guard noticed my features, and actively approached. But, when he saw my dust covered clothes and face he realized we were exhausted and trying to get back quickly. With a salute we carried on.
After 400 some kilometers and almost 12 hours on a motorbike we arrived in Beni…exhausted from the elements of travel and exhilaration. I laughed with my good friend and noted that was “simply crazy”. At the house awaited perhaps the best warm, Congolese meal I could eat after such a journey.
Back
As my taxi sped on the Ugandan roads from Kampala to the airport in Entebbe, my heart pumped with anticipation, not for the adventure that Congo brings, but an anticipation of a homecoming. As I surveyed the Ugandan road and life, I could not evade the contrast. I began to mentally prepare for the realities discovered, even if expected, in the first two and a half months in Congo, My mind then drifted into recollection of the beauty found in the land and the people; the good cheer on the faces of UCBC students; the passion and devotion that fuels the initiative and University; and the absolute grace of living in the unknown.
From Entebbe to Bunia, DR Congo, I took an old Russian twin engine charter flight, packed with cargo and maybe 8 passengers. The air injected into the cabin was filled with the stench of fuel. I’ve always appreciated the smell of gasoline, so I didn’t mind. As the remaining passengers worked through immigration in Bunia, I had the chance to catch a glimpse of the peace talks in Goma on a local news channel. After more than 10 years of severe conflict and approximately 5.4 million related deaths and rising (data from IRC), a heavy step towards peace was taken. Yet, the hope felt from these talks is clouded by the news from Kenya; outburst of ethnic violence in a country that has been considered stable, successful, and an example to the rest of East Africa. A few friends and students here fled Congo in the 1990s to Kenya. They now exhibit ghost-like faces as the news of clashes invades the radio waves. And for many here, I wonder if it unsettles their spirits with memories of their own recent past.
Before visiting the school and students, we dropped my bags at the house and greeted my Congolese family. Awaiting there was fresh passion fruit and pineapple juice…the next best thing to my grandmother’s egg nog (if I can compare the two). Jet lagged, but adrenaline running, we headed over to UCBC with waves and nods to those I recognized on the way. After 90 some greetings, some dancing, and drilled with questions of my trip and why I didn’t inform them of my departure before break, I relaxed and thought…it’s good to be back.
(Note: The first question almost everyone asked me about my trip was: “How is your family?” )
From Entebbe to Bunia, DR Congo, I took an old Russian twin engine charter flight, packed with cargo and maybe 8 passengers. The air injected into the cabin was filled with the stench of fuel. I’ve always appreciated the smell of gasoline, so I didn’t mind. As the remaining passengers worked through immigration in Bunia, I had the chance to catch a glimpse of the peace talks in Goma on a local news channel. After more than 10 years of severe conflict and approximately 5.4 million related deaths and rising (data from IRC), a heavy step towards peace was taken. Yet, the hope felt from these talks is clouded by the news from Kenya; outburst of ethnic violence in a country that has been considered stable, successful, and an example to the rest of East Africa. A few friends and students here fled Congo in the 1990s to Kenya. They now exhibit ghost-like faces as the news of clashes invades the radio waves. And for many here, I wonder if it unsettles their spirits with memories of their own recent past.
Before visiting the school and students, we dropped my bags at the house and greeted my Congolese family. Awaiting there was fresh passion fruit and pineapple juice…the next best thing to my grandmother’s egg nog (if I can compare the two). Jet lagged, but adrenaline running, we headed over to UCBC with waves and nods to those I recognized on the way. After 90 some greetings, some dancing, and drilled with questions of my trip and why I didn’t inform them of my departure before break, I relaxed and thought…it’s good to be back.
(Note: The first question almost everyone asked me about my trip was: “How is your family?” )
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
