AP Blog: Goodbyes in Congo
AP chief of bureau for Canada, Beth Duff-Brown, is in the Democratic Republic of Congo, which she visited many times as a West Africa correspondent in the mid-1990s. She has returned to visit to a remote village in central Congo, where she was a Peace Corps volunteer from 1979 to 1981.
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MONDAY, Sept. 11, 6:30 p.m. local
KANANAGA, Democratic Republic of Congo -- As the villagers did the last time I visited, they sang songs throughout the night at the party I had arranged. Hundreds came, one by one, to the clearing between the old brick church and the rectory. I thanked them again for taking care of me as a young woman, for praying that I would one day be blessed with Caitlin, my daughter, and for welcoming me back with such open arms.
There wasn't enough goat, but everyone seemed to get enough of the yeasty wine that they make from palm trees sap. And, as they did 10 years ago, they made up songs on the spot that told stories about me, accompanied by the goatskin drums and bamboo xylophones that they also use in church.
With several insistent translators jacked up on the wine, which comes from the same trees where they get nuts to make their cooking oil, I got the gist of these ditties: "Miss Elizabeth was a girl of Kamponde and she put down roots here 25 years ago. She is a tree of Kamponde and now she has a little girl, Ca-ta-leen (lots of ululating by the women here), who is the fruit of the tree that grew in Kamponde. Now we have a little girl, her name is Ca-ta-leen of Kamponde."
I tell them that this time I can't promise to come back in 10 years -- I will be approaching 60 and they all agree that is quite old -- but that I would try, and this time bring Caitlin.
They continued dancing and singing long after I had curled up on my cot in my sleeping bag.
Yesterday, on my last full day in Kamponde, from a bucket bath behind the church, shyly came one of my former students, Kany Mushimbi. I invite her into my room and jump when I hear loud screeching from under her cotton sarong. She's brought me a live chicken and a bowl of rice, tells me that it's all she can offer in thanks for my visit, but hopes I'll enjoy.
"I'm sorry I can't invite you into our home for a meal, but Kamulombo is sick with fever and he wanted you to have this," she says of her husband with the infectious laugh who used to jump off his bench every time I called on him in English class. "I know it's not much, but I hope you'll enjoy it and think of us." Fever is the euphemism here for malaria.
It's one of many sweet gestures I've been given during my stay, far outweighing the constant demands for money, food, my shoes or the shirt off my back.
I then go sit in the back of the modest brick church built by the Belgians in 1937. The same sleepy earth tones of rust-color dirt and brick, the same tiny stained-glass cross above the altar with the amber glass and the handpainted words "Yezu du Kristo" in the local language.
My cook Tshinyama, who orchestrated the feast the night before, as he had so many meals during his 22 years working for Peace Corps volunteers, has moved to another village about 4 miles from Kamponde. He tells me that after he worked 13 years for the Peace Corps in Kananga -- a job I got him after I was told I would be the last volunteer in Kamponde -- he returned home to find that all his fields had been taken. So he moved his family to Mfuamba Kabang, a grim and nearly deserted little parcel on the edge of nowhere.
Though the villagers all offer to take me on bicycle, I want to walk, so a group of us set off down a small path through the green savanna. It takes about 90 minutes and though I try to enjoy the wind through the low brush and green grass, his brother, Kabunda, never once stops talking about politics, the problems at school, how in America everything works.
My silence does not deter him and Tshinyama gives me that knowing grin as we arrive, as if to say, "Ah, you've had an earful from my younger brother again."
He has prepared a chicken, some fufu and manioc leaves and we eat with our hands in his dark mud hut. It's decorated with antlers from the antelope that he hunts, as well as crumpled old magazine pictures of western food on gleaming plates tacked up on the mud walls. He laments that he didn't have the ingredients to make the mango pudding I once loved and shows off the hunting rifle he uses in the fields.
I give him some gifts, including a red rubber ball for the kids. I had some colorful Indian fabric for his wife, Marie, and she pretends to love the colors, though glaucoma has long clouded her eyes and I'm not sure she can see. Soap, powdered milk, some tea, and a rain slicker for his rainy season hunts, and again more photos of family and other volunteers.
We say our final good-byes and I say I'll try to come back one more time. He says he'll be too old and gone by then. He makes me promise to give Chris and Caitlin his best, makes me promise to write, though I know the chances of his receiving the letters are slim.
"Washala bimpe, tatu," I say we hug one last time. In Tshiluba, it's a simple goodbye that means, "Stay well, father."
He replies, "Wayi bimpe, mamu," or, "Go well, mother."
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Saturday, Sept. 9, 2 p.m. local time.
KAMPONDE -- The goat has been slaughtered, the calabashes of palm wine ordered and the xylophone players are practicing behind the church in preparation for tonight's party. I've asked some villagers to come by for a meal and music. I've learned Kamponde has grown from 2,500 people to 5,000 people since I lived here 25 years ago, so I'm worried about offending those I can't possibly feed.
My cook Tshinyama, who greeted me with his familiar teasing when he first saw me after I arrived here Wednesday night, has been organizing the party for two days. He and his very bossy younger brother, Kabunda, have been arguing what to make, how much to order, and whether to give everyone tea or just the elders. I shrug and laugh and tell them it's in their hands.
I've spent the last three days walking through every corner of the village, always trailed by dozens of children. Most of the families still live in the same mud huts, though some have upgraded from palm frond to tin roofs. It seems each family has a memory to share.
One woman selling beans at the Thursday morning market thanks me again for helping her get a dress for her first communion when she was twelve years old. Another villager sings that silly "zip-a-dee-doo-dah" song I taught my freshmen. One young women lies dying in her hut, emaciated and barely able to speak, but she recognizes me and smiles. Her mother tells me she has a parasite that cannot be cured. She reminds me that when I was here ten years ago, I gave her daughter the lipstick that she saw me wearing and had pleaded for. A nun later confirms what I had already guessed. The girl is sickened by the advanced stages of what villagers call "the four-letter word": AIDS.
Like it was during my two years here in the Peace Corps, my mood seems to change with every step I take. One minute an act of kindness or humor brings me to tears; the next I'm disgusted by a terse demand for money or feel a pang of guilt that I'm helpless to do much good.
I had hoped to teach a few classes at the school where I taught English and philosophy, but the strike continues by teachers who have not been paid and there are no students. Insitut Untu barely stands, the bricks and stucco crumbling. The theater where my English club put on "The Crocodile Man" is an empty shell. There are only 150 students enrolled this year, compared with 600 or so 25 years ago. Parents can't afford to send their children anymore, especially the girls who must stay back and help their mothers at home or in the fields.
I've interviewed dozens of my former students (most of whom seem to have seven or eight children), teachers, the nuns who run the medical clinic, the people who live in my old house, the village prostitutes, and the boy who hopes to go to medical school and has already saved 100 dollars by selling phone calls on his mobile phone at 50 cents a minute. Yes, there is one spot in this remote village where they can pick up a signal. They tie the phone to a poll for higher elevation and yell into the thing, typically asking their families to send money or food.
Chief Kamponde, head of the royal family here, is so different from his father. Young and seemingly energetic, he has big ideas and hopes for the village, but concedes without roads and transportation they are nearly impossible to meet. After a long chat over roasted peanuts and bananas, he presents me a gift that catches my breath. It's an old copper cross from the days before they used money, given with daughters as part of their dowries. He asks me to accept it as a token of their appreciation, a symbol of my worth and connection to this village.
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Thursday, Sept. 7, 3 p.m. local
KAMPONDE -- I kept my promise. The last time I was here, I told the village I would come back again in 10 years. My cook, Tshinyama, is still alive, despite rumors to the contrary. The tin roofs are rustier, and some of the mango trees are gone. But the same bells rang at 5:30 this morning at the old brick church, where I've been given a tiny room and cot, and the choir sang hymns that I knew by heart when I first was here.
We started off yesterday morning, shopping in Kananga, the diamond-rich province in south-central Congo. We went by the Beltexco, a massive provisions chain, so I could shop for the children and buy myself some beans and rice. With Jim's old pickup truck, we bought 200 notebooks -- something many children can't afford -- and hundreds of pens, rubber balls, powdered milk, soap, onions and oil. The head of Beltexco, when he heard what we were doing, donated 10 cartons of high-glucose biscuits for the kids.
We then transferred everything to a
We arrive at dusk, and the priest at the mission does what most Congolese do when they meet a stranger from a foreign land: He welcomes me in and makes me at home. When word gets out that I've come back, people from around this village of about 3,000 people gather at the church rectory, quietly whispering my name and asking if it's really me.
They continue to come by in the light of the full moon. I keep it together until old Joseph -- the housekeeper for the Belgian priest who was here in my day -- and Kamina -- the father of the kid who often sat by the fire with me and made up silly songs to my bad guitar -- comes by. He gives me the handshake of respect, the left hand holding onto the right arm while shaking.
Joseph thanks me for keeping the promise, saying that some villagers had been asking earlier this year if they would see me again. Tshinyama is now a farmer in the next village, and I send one of the kids to tell him I'm here. I also learn that they never received my letters, or the photographs of the little girl they once prayed for.
I'm keeping this short, as I'm dictating it by satellite phone. There's no electricity and certainly no phone lines here. I'm told there's one spot in the village where you can get cell phone reception, which I'll try tomorrow.
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TUESDAY, Sept. 5, 5:30 p.m. local
KANANGA -- We got on the small U.N. prop plane this morning, carrying U.N. staff and peacekeepers from the national capital, Kinshasa, to Kananga, the provincial capital of Kasai Occidental. I'm now only about 100 miles north of my village. With no paved roads and an ongoing train strike, the second order of business is trying to find transportation south.
The first was a lunch of fried plantains in palm oil.
There's little fuel in town because of the monthlong strike, which has pushed the cost of gas to about $13 or $14 a gallon, so I'm told finding a willing car and driver will be tough, even if I'm willing to pay. The strike has inflated all the prices of commodities in town. A bag of cement, for example, that was $20 a month ago now costs $35. Oil for the generators that provide most of the electricity for the city of about 1 million people has become so costly that most Kanangans know they need to get home by nightfall and light their candles and kerosene lamps.
I'm typing this blog entry in the dark, by battery-powered laptop, sitting in a crumbling, one-room concrete computer lab with a half-dozen Dells and a satellite dish for a wireless signal, bought with a U.S. government grant. James Diderich, who was an industrial teacher in the Peace Corps during the same years when I was here, is trying to get his generator running for me, so that he can get me on line and I can file this.
Diderich -- who used to make visiting volunteers Tuesday night pizza and Sunday morning donuts at the regional Peace Corps flop house. He sold his pizza shop in Champagne, Illinois, and came back here in 2004. He now works for the Congolese government, at a technical school, teaching computer science 101. His first class was to start yesterday, but the teachers are also on strike and his students didn't show up. He has a room with a family, no indoor plumbing and gets around town on a bicycle.
I asked him how he survives on his salary of $35, and what possessed him to return to a lifestyle we loved as kids just out of college, but now must be rough at age 49.
"I'm just happy here; I really am," he says, adding that he never got what was then called Zaire out of his system.
"They think I'm insane," he says of his family back in Illinois. "If my mother were still alive, she'd be looking to have me committed, that's for sure."
One of his first projects for the students will be to create a Web site, which will be called http://www.congosource.org when it gets up and running. He says that will allow the students to start blogs and chats with other students from around the world.
James has hooked me up with Jim Mukenge, a local guy who studied at Appalachian State University in Boone, N.C. Once he graduated, he worked as a manager at Taco Bell; his wife was down the road at Wendy's. They also missed the Congo and came back in 1997 and he now runs several businesses in town. His English is excellent, so he's agreed to work for me in Kamponde, translating from the local dialect of Tshiluba.
The generator is now working, but there's massive, frightening lighting storm outside and James can't get a wireless signal form the satellite. So, we'll wait it out in the dark, with a few of his students, all of us jumping at each clash of thunder. In the end, I discover that my cell phone is actually working here, so I dictate this to AP bureau Dakar.
Then I'll head over to the Catholic convent for the night, for a small room with a bed and mosquito net and communal bathroom down the hall. There's no running water and I'm not sure yet about electricity, but for 10 bucks a night, I'm happy to have a quiet place for the night.
A U.N. official said he'd arrange for us to travel south in one of their supply jeeps.
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Sunday, Sept. 3, 10:30 p.m. local
KINSHASA -- Spoke by cell phone with another former Peace Corps volunteer, James, who is now running a cyber cafe in Kananga and teaching information technology at a school there. He was in Kananga the same years I was in Kamponde -- 1979 through 1981 -- and is helping arrange transportation down to my village for me.
James says the train has been on strike, so there's not been fuel deliveries in weeks, pushing the price of gasoline to about $12 a gallon. He also says the Catholic teachers union has voted to go on strike and that school may not start tomorrow as planned.
I'm now on the list for another U.N. cargo plane on Tuesday, as is my translator Kamanga, who also has a U.N. press pass and who, by the way, seems to know virtually everyone in Kinshasa.
I told him I'd love to meet singer Papa Wemba -- a guy whose music I loved during my Peace Corps days -- so he flips through his old notebook, flips open his cell, punches in the numbers and starts chatting with the James Brown of Congo.
The creator of the band, Zaico Langa Langa -- known as the rumba rude boys in the 70s and 80s -- invites us over, so we drive up the road into the hills overlooking the river.
Papa Wemba, whose real name is Shungu Jules Wembadio and once called himself Jules Presley, greets us with the easy nonchalance of the Congolese, in jeans and undershirt, offering us a Coke in the pale yellow salon of his surprisingly formal home. African paintings and framed photos of his children dot the walls. They mostly live in Paris, where Papa Wemba says he spends much of his time because the recording studios are better and he collaborates with European artists.
His wife, Marie Rose, was among the 9,000 candidates vying for one of the 500 seats in Parliament and who are still awaiting the election results. He says she wants to improve society, that they're nationalists who love their country despite the time they spend in Europe.
One of the biggest Afropop artists ever, I tell him how I danced for hours to the loopy lokole drums and manic electric guitar solos that dominated his music. I ask him whether he believes those dance tunes carried people through hard times and wonder at the seemingly endless good humor of people on the streets.
"If you walk down any street in Kinshasa, you will always hear music. But Congolese are just happy people; that's our nature."
We talk about our kids, swap photos. I tell him about how the last time I was in Kamponde, how the villagers had prayed I would have a child, and how Caitlin came along not long after.
He likes the story and asks, "Why didn't you name her Kamponde Brown?"
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Saturday, Sept. 2, 9:10 p.m. local
KINSHASA -- Got bumped from the U.N. flight yesterday; still stuck in Kinshasa. There are no seats on commercial flights until Wednesday, so trying to get on another cargo plane Monday or Tuesday.
Went to the U.S. Ambassador's Roger Meece's residence on the banks of the Congo River for a meeting he called for Americans living and working in Kinshasa. About 300 showed up and he spoke of the ordeal of Aug. 21, when he and a dozen other ambassadors, including the head of the U.N. mission here, were trapped inside the home of Vice President Jean-Pierre Bemba, President Kabila's archrival in the race to become the country's next leader.
The initial results had come out earlier that day, showing that neither candidate had won a majority, so they will have to face off again in October. Armed men loyal to both men took to the streets, trapping the envoys inside for several hours before they were rescued by peacekeepers. At least 31 people were killed during three days of skirmishes between the two camps, until a U.N.-brokered truce was reached.
He notes that a nearby beer brewery never shut down during those days and never lost money.
"I'll let you all draw your own conclusions on that, but I found it an interesting example," he says to laughter. While the clashes were nasty, they were largely contained to one neighborhood of the capital, while the remainder of Congo remained calm, he adds.
I then moved on to the headquarters of the 17,500-strong U.N. military force for an interview with William Swing, an American and former ambassador to Congo, and now head of the world body's largest ever peacekeeping mission. I was stunned to learn that the United Nations is spending $3 million a day to pull off the elections. It's determined to see them through, though worried member nations might begin to pull back when the new missions in Sudan and Lebanon roll out.
Playing devil's advocate, I ask Swing why the world should care about Congo, particularly when some members in the camps of the country's two top political leaders have sworn to go back to war if their man doesn't win. How does the United Nations prevent Congo fatigue, persuade the world that it's worth fighting for?
"As I look back over my career as a diplomat over about 40 years, I realize that one of the greatest weaknesses we diplomats have, one of the greatest challenges is exactly to answer that question," he replies, then gives an impassioned argument for why the world must stand by Congo.
"First of all, it is one of the largest humanitarian tragedies since the Second World War," he says, then ticks off a litany of sorrows: Between 3 and 4 million people dead; 3 million displaced; a growing HIV/AIDS rate due; a per capita GDP that has fallen below $100, less than what Congo had at independence from Belgium in 1960.
Second, he says, a stable Congo means a stable Africa.
"My argument generally is that of all the crises in Africa today, if you had to choose one, this is the one you would choose to put right, because this is the one crisis in all of Africa that has the potential for good for the rest of Africa. It has the potential to change the face of Africa, and the image of Africa."
Then, he notes, unlike other nations where he has served as ambassador -- Haiti and Liberia among them -- the Congo has enormous economic potential. The industrial diamonds, copper and cobalt are endless; the Congo River has 10 percent of the world's hydroelectric capacity.
"It's not a country that's going to be dependent on foreign assistance for a long period of time, if it gets a good government in place and follows good government practices," he says, adding that he knows that "it's a big 'if.'"
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Thursday, Aug. 31, 4:30 p.m. local
KINSHASA -- I just got approval to hop on a U.N. cargo plane bound for Kananga tomorrow morning at 5:30. I could take a commercial flight, but virtually every airline in the Congo has been deemed unsafe by international aviation organizations, and what with my fear of flying, I'll take a pass. We're trying to get a pass for my translator Kamanga as well, so he can travel with me. The only words I remember in Tshiluba are "Moyo mamu," "Malu kai?" and "Malu bimpe." Hey ma'am. How are you? I'm good.
Kananga is the provincial capital of Kasai Occidental, in southwestern Congo, and the closest city to the village where I served in the Peace Corps. The volunteers from around Kasai used to go into Kanaga every few months for shots, anti-malarials, mail and usually a round of Simba beer. I'd also stop by the Catholic mission to pick up mail and supplies for my school.
From there I'll see if I can hitch a ride with missionaries or aid workers, or see if the freight trains are running again. The village is only about 100 miles south of Kananga, but with no paved road, it can take us a full day by jeep. The rainy season has just started, so I'm eager to get there before the roads become unpassable.
I'm also eager to get there by Monday, when schools open nationwide. It would be a hoot to walk into one of my old classrooms on the first day of school. The Institute Untu, where I taught English, was once a nationally recognized high school run by the Belgians. I remember running down the path in the morning, usually late, to stand with the kids in their white shirts and blue skirts or slacks, proudly singing "La Zairoise" -- the country was known as Zaire then -- with their hands over their hearts as the flag was raised.
This afternoon, Kamanga and I walk through the hugh open-air market in Gombe, the commercial and administrative capital of Kinshasa. I want to check out the goods and chat with folks about politics and the economy. Everything from dried fish to used sandals from India is available. People are funny and friendly as always, yelling out greetings and making fun of my green sneakers. But they say times are hard.
Pablo Kongolo, 33, sells the short wigs and long hair extensions that I've seen a lot this time around, instead of the intricate cornrows of days gone by. The wigs are made in China and imported via Nigeria. He charges five to 15 bucks; on a good day he makes just enough to eat.
"At the time of Mobutu, it was good," he says, as other vendors shout in agreement. "Now it's like someone has dug holes in the ground, stuffed us in, and strangled us."
Aimee Marte, 50, sells "pagnes," the batik fabric that many African women wrap around their bodies like sarongs or sculpt into elaborate headgear. Some of the fabrics sport the smiling faces of political candidates, the pope, and singers or actors.
Her "super wax" from Belgium costs $90; but she concedes she's not selling much of those. The standard Congolese pagne -- six yards that are used for the wrap and blouse -- costs 10 bucks. On a good day, she says, she makes $20; six years ago it was more like $100.
She said inflation and the fluctuating Congolese franc are killing her.
Aimee might buy each pagne at $10 each from her dealer, then sell them in the market for $12. But then, when she goes to buy her next stock, the wholesale price has gone up to $12, so she's lost her $2 profit. Yet like so many others here, she's happy to talk, jokes with me, asks about my family. I ask her how the Congolese manage to maintain their well-known charm and humor.
"We've had so much pain, so why be sad? With the grace of God, we just keep smiling," she said.
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Tuesday, Aug. 29, 6:47 p.m. local
KINSHASA -- Just spoke to our 8-year-old, Caitlin, via the Internet; a long, leisurely call over the Internet, a conversation that would have been near impossible when I first came here 27 years ago. It was so good to hear her tell stories about visiting Grandma Stephie in California, then sign off by shouting at the computer: "I love you bigger than the, um, what is it, the Kanga River?"
To find her a gift today I went to the Memling Hotel -- a five-star accommodation too pricey for my taste and budget -- where outside are craftsmen who cleverly market cool kitsch, items that their own families would roll their eyes over. Ten years ago, my husband got a great little faux camera made out of bent copper wire, complete with flash.
Today, a guy rushes me with a small painting of "Tintin au Congo," taken from a famous series of comic books on which all Belgians and Congolese were raised. I never cared for the comic about a reporter and his adventures around the world, as well as in this former Belgian colony. But this painting, done on the back of a flour sack, was so over-the-top tacky and the artist looked so hungry, I figure it makes a nice addition to Caitlin's African collection. Though she was born in Malaysia and lived in India for nearly five years, I remind her that the prayers that preceded my pregnancy with her came from my Peace Corps village in central Congo and are part of her unconventional heritage.
Another reminder of home today, seeing dozens of new Nissan X-Trails bumping along the potholes of Kinshasa. It's the same SUV that we have back in Toronto, but not sold in the United States. Here the Parliament arranged a bargain price for its 500 members. They stand out in a country where most cars are decades-old Renaults and gas costs about $4 a gallon.
Driving back from NBA basketball star Dikembe Mutombo's new hospital on the outskirts of the city, I see a cherry-red Mazda sports car by the side of the road in a neighborhood they call "La Chine," or China, because it's so congested. Kinshasa has about 8 million people, many of whom live in nothing more than plywood shacks with tin roofs, surrounded by concrete, dirt and rubbish. With only some 600 miles of paved roads nationwide, cars are a luxury, and a convertible sports car really shouts for attention.
I ask the driver to pull over so I can see who owns such a car. Turns out it belongs to the entourage of a large woman, dripping in gold chains, who is barking at a cameraman to get in closer, as she takes a shovel and appears to help clean out a stinking, backed up sewage drain.
When I ask what on earth she's doing, I discover she's a political worker for President Joseph Kabila, making a campaign ad about how her boss would make all this go away. All you have to do is vote for him in the upcoming runoff against rival Jean-Pierre Bemba.
