Two Days in the Congo

In October of 2009 I stepped across the border of Rwanda to the city of Goma in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). The border separating the two countries was almost comical. A railing hangs across the road that is pushed down by a guard and the red and white end lifts up for cars to pass. A shack stands to the side where you walk up and pay $50 for a visa entrance. The visa doesn't give you access to much, only the city of Goma, which is more or less a holding place for Nongovernmental Organizations (NGOs) set up to alleviate the hemorrhaging of pain and suffering that ravages the country. This tiny little security state is but a dot on the map. The country of the DRC is almost one million square miles which is roughly the size of Western Europe. All of those iconic and historic metros and countrysides like Paris and Barcelona and Milan all put together equal the untamed jungles of the Congo. 

Goma looks more like a refugee camp than a city. Most of the vehicles that go by are some sort of United something or other - UNDP, UNICEF, USAID… With my passport stamped and nothing but a small backpack, we walked down a dirt road into the main artery of the town. I was traveling with three other fellow teachers from the United States and Canada. Dan, Daniel and Andy. We had traveled together before and had given ourselves the code name “PANDANDY”. A panic button of sorts combining our names that one could yell out should things ever go south. 

The rainy season was coming to its end and I had spent the last ten months living outside of Kigali, the capital city of Rwanda. A two hour bus ride from my present location. I had become accustomed to the look, feel, smell and sounds of what I’ve experienced in all of the African nations I’ve been to. Stepping over into the world of Goma however, was different. I felt it immediately. Like it was truly a different world even compared to ones where differences don't seem apparent. While Africa is often seen as monolithic, its diversity is as deep as the continent is wide. At the same time, it's also very much the same. 

This was an example of the paradox of a place where arbitrary lines were drawn and long histories of culture and natives are indistinguishable. Yet I had the feeling that I was in a very different place. The first feel was under my feet. The dirt road slowly became uneven in a way that was not from neglect or overuse. It was from the molten lava that now remained as a permanent fixture of the city's infrastructure. Seven years prior Mt Nyiragongo erupted multiple times and covered 13% of the city in lava. Over 100,000 people were left homeless. The ramshackle everything that made up the restaurants, business and buildings, looked like you’d expect from a city covered in lava. Destroyed. But it looked destroyed in ways that the lava didn't necessarily account for. It looked bombed out. It looked war torn. It looked apocalyptic. It looked like one of the poorest places on earth and it was. I remembered thinking how this could even be a city. I was beginning to question if I still wanted to be there. 

What I noticed as we ventured into the country famously described by Joseph Conrad as the “Heart of Darkness”, was an energy and power like I’ve never felt anywhere in my life. The weight of pain and anguish seemed to lie heavy in the air. It permeated the wavelengths of existence in a way that is hard to describe. Like a place time forgot. What is important to note is that when you read Conrad's book written 124 years ago, the same feel and descriptions remain. Not much has changed. 

Our journey had started early that morning from the Kigali bus station and by the time we made it to the town we wanted to find a spot for lunch. We settled on the nicest place we could find and sat on a small outdoor patio. We ordered beers and french fries. That region was originally colonized by the Belgians. Then after the Germans lost control of the area post World War One, the French took over. So the two largest remnants of the Francophone empires are the language and food. You can order ‘frites’ in almost any restaurant. It is usually your safest bet considering the level of sanitation and quality of the food. The question of whether your meat was ethically and sustainably raised in most of sub-saharan Africa does not compute. In cities like Goma, the ability to even have access to meat is often a luxury itself. 

I ordered a Turbo King. A dark ale-like beer which was sweeter than I expected and the four of us sat quietly taking in the experience. 

Andy was the first to speak and broke the silence that hung over us from the apparent shock we were all experiencing from the first few hours in the Congo. “Some people call this disaster tourism,” he said. 

Disaster tourism is the act of traveling to conflict zones in order to experience real life atrocities in an attempt to feel a sense of adventure. Or maybe a thrill of sorts. Adrenaline? I don't know exactly but I also felt kind of guilty for even being there. Why were we there? I had heard it wasn’t nice but I didn't really know what to expect. By this time I’d traveled to Burundi to the south, Uganda to the north and Tanzania to the East. Rwanda is in the middle of four countries and this would complete the tour. 

In Uganda I’d gone white water rafting in Jinja which is the source of the Nile River and walked through spectacular botanic gardens outside Kampala. In Tanzania, I’d witnessed Mt Kilimanjaro and taken a ferry to the island of Zanzibar. In Burundi the four of us visited the famous spot where the explorers Stanley and Livingston met and the famous words “Dr. Livingston I presume” were spoken. We took a comical boat ride out into Lake Tanganyika and explored the city of Bujumbura. 

Here though it was like there were no points of interest. Options of things to do or see didn’t exist. Here was a place of war. Remnants of war. A place where its only future seemed to be more war. As if on cue, we heard a blast from the side of the mountain. 

“What was tha-”. Before anyone could finish the sentence another blast rang out from the dense jungly-mountainside in the distance. It was mortar fire. War was actively happening. I didn't know if I was supposed to stand up and start running for the border, take cover or keep sitting and eating. PANDANDY! PANDANDY! 

“Is this safe?” I thought to myself. The answer was certainly no but I wasn’t sure why I was there in the first place so the mixture of curiosity and eye opening reality prevailed. I half expected to see a rush of people running through the streets. When bombs start dropping, villagers run for the hills right? Here the fighting was in the hills and the village was sort of a metro with about a million people. All in a densely contained area between an active volcano and the world's second largest freshwater lake. Where would the villagers have run to? It didn’t seem to matter because everyone carried on as if nothing was happening. 

We decided to look for a place to stay and found a guest house/hostel/hotel that wasn’t too far away. As we walked a white military vehicle carrying a squad of UN PeaceKeepers rolled by. I couldn’t help but think how useless their presence seemed to be but admired the fact that they were there. It was certainly more noble than mine. Part of me felt like we should just go back home. I wasn’t sure if I was a disaster tourist or not but the Congo was disastrous to say the least and I was touring along its edge. 

I observed the people as we walked the mile or so to the location of the guest house. They all looked at us because we stuck out like a sore thumb. I’d gotten used to being stared at day in and day out as I walked up the hill to the school where I taught back on the other side of the border. I was the only westerner within miles and so I was a spectacle each morning and afternoon. It never bothered me or made me uncomfortable but for some reason the stares here seemed different. Like they were looking at me with a curiosity of “why the hell would you come here?”. For my neighbors and students back in Rwanda it was more of a form of entertainment. “Look at the mzungu! He looks so funny!” It was light hearted and came from a place of joy and wonder. 

I felt as though each person whose gaze I met in Goma was empty. There was suffering that sunk deep within the blackness of their eyes. Why wouldn't that be the case? There was a war taking place on their doorstep. The poverty level was the worst in the world. The infrastructure was beyond terrible. At one point in time it was considered the rape capital or the world. The militias and fighting forces used rape as a weapon of war among the citizens of the country to wield power and instill fear. And to boot a mass exodus of trauma had emigrated across the border after the 1994 genocide. If the man made atrocities weren’t enough, it was as if mother nature also was saying fuck off to their very existence. Malaria and a host of illnesses were widespread. The volcano towering over the city was a reminder that their survival was only allowed for the time being. 

With each step I took the more my mind raced with the reality of what the darkest parts of life, the world and human existence could look like. Existential dread took over and the ageless question of why would a god or omnipotent being allow this much agony to be inflicted on so many people? And fuck sentiments like “its all part of his plan”. That plan is sadistic and evil if that’s the case. How is it possible that I was born into the location and situation of the complete opposite of this? What does it mean when countless children are subjected to this kind of world? What’s worse is that I am here witnessing it first hand and feel powerless to do anything. I feel ashamed that our nature as human beings could allow such a reality. 

We arrived at the Hotel Bassin Du Congo. It was a large white building with a green roof and a small grass area set with a linoleum table and chairs. It looked like a large mansion turned hotel and was the nicest thing I’d seen so far. 

That night we ate on the grounds of the hotel and sat drinking in the linoleum chairs until late in the evening. The sorrow of the place had affected me more than I realized. I drank Turbo King after Turbo King until I could barely see straight. I finally stumbled up the stairs to my room and at some point I woke up with my head next to the toilet and a pile of puke. 

The next day we ventured out into the city to see a bit more of what so far was nothing worth seeing. I wanted to explore their marketplace. Open air markets and bazaar-like centers of cities have always been some of my favorite sights. The markets of Kumasi in Ghana are an endless maze of color and textile. The Grand Bazaar of Istanbul is full of spice and history. Even the local market in Kicikiru, the neighborhood I lived in back in Rwanda was a positive cultural experience. So I was hoping for a breath of fresh air figuratively speaking. 

We walked to a marketplace we thought might be large and unique where we could contribute as much to the local economy as possible. Diligently doing our part as tourists. When we arrived it was an endless sea of shoes. Tables and tables full of shoes. Shoes from all over the world that had been donated for secondary market resale. It's not uncommon to see the world's leftovers pop up in places like the Congo. Whatever team doesn’t win the Super Bowl, World Series, Stanley Cup etc will have tens of thousands of t-shirts and hats shipped off to places like Haiti, Somalia or Myanmar. Five years from now you may be walking the streets of Nairobi and see a kid with a “Cincinnati Bengals Super Bowl LVI Champions!” t-shirt hanging down to his knees. 

Why so many shoes though? No hats, no other clothes. No socks even. I was told that because of the hardened lava that was all over the city, shoes were chewed up especially quick. Giving the need for a larger shoe market than most other places in the region. 

Back at the Hotel Du Bassin Congo, we sat out on the second story balcony looking out at the dense jungle tree tops and into the backyards of the surrounding compounds. Directly behind us in the neighboring yard, surrounded by tall brick walls and laced with sharp barbed wire at the top, a man stood leaning up against the side of the building. A black boulder near his feet suddenly began to move and I realized quickly it was no rock. It was a baby gorilla. The baby played with some grass the way gorillas do and then around the corner came a second primate. This caught the attention of Andy and the two Dans. A minute later we all stood along the railing mesmerized at the pair of ape children. It was a moment of beauty and brought something positive to a weekend full of sadness. 

The moment didn’t last and much like everything in the Congo, it was turned to darkness. We were a spectacle and anything but subtle. Four white guys staring out at the sight from atop a second story balcony only 30 meters away caught the attention of the man against the wall. He yelled something and another man came out of a door with a Kalishnakov rifle hanging around his neck. They yelled at each other intensely and one of them started kicking the baby gorilla. The other smacked the sibling over the head as the two looked up at us and quickly ushered the gorillas into a cage inside of the door to the house. Within less than a minute the scene was over and we all sat there stunned. We were horrified and slightly paranoid. PANDANDY?...

“Did we really just see that?” someone said to break the silence. “Do we need to be concerned?” I thought out loud. “These guys aren’t going to come over here are they?”. I had this vision of what I assumed at this point were gorilla smugglers, walking around the block to the guest house, asking for the room of the four Mzungus and taking us at gunpoint, putting bullets in the back of our heads. It might sound a bit extreme but everything about this place was extreme. We went back inside to our rooms and I drank more Turbo King. 

That was about it. We left the country and the moment I stepped foot back in Rwanda, I felt at ease. Like a weight was lifted. Like the air was lighter and that the sun was brighter. I could look back to the other side of that guard rail serving as a border crossing and almost see the veil of black that hung like a curtain. While Joseph Conrad famously wrote “we penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness”, our crew merely made our way to the edge of it and it was more than enough. 

It is now more than a decade later and that experience is but a distant memory. That piece of Africa in the meantime has remained as troubled as ever. Economic depression, government corruption and war have continued to be waged for decades over the resources of the country. First it was rubber that King Leopold diabolically took control over, then it was gems that became known as blood diamonds. Now it is a mineral more valuable than both of those combined. It is a resource that has been built into the fabric of how our technological society functions. 

Coltan is metallic ore which is used in every cell phone and tablet on the planet. It is essential in recharging batteries and approximately 80% of the world's supply is found in the Congo. 

While thousands of Congolese including children work the mines for this precious mineral, the rest of the world complains about its internet going out. When a 7 year old works 12 hour days inhaling toxic chemicals, we concern ourselves with how long the checkout line is. As entire families labor in conditions no free human would ever accept, we chase after more and more. But these Congolese aren’t really slaves are they? No, of course not. They’re paid $1 a day. That way we can buy the new $1,000 iPhone - sorry reply “yes” to a text message and Verizon has a deal for $700. 

Our daily lives are filled with the marketing of more. That we need to have the newest, best version of technology and that best gear and supplies for hobbies and the most efficient or luxurious car and… the list goes on. So many people spend their time and money chasing the next upgrade to whatever thing it is they are feeling compelled to gain that they never recognize that their current life is just fine without it. Happiness is too often hinged upon what’s next. 

This past summer I thru-hiked the Colorado Trail. I spent 30 days in the wilderness of the Rocky Mountains and hiked roughly 500 miles from Denver to Durango. It was as challenging as one would expect and as spectacular as one can imagine. The wilderness taught me alot. One of the lessons that became fixed upon myself was that I don't need as much as I think that I do. And that I have gotten to a place where I have a hard time being satisfied. 

What I have also realized is that even the lesson itself is a luxury. Back in places like the Congo, one never learns the lesson that they have more than they need because there, life is survival. The amount of wealth and resources has been literally stripped from an entire country and fed into the pockets of the 1%. The scale to which the wealthiest people in the world have become is obscene. But we are all complicit in building wealth, success and what we deem “greatness” as a country or society on the backs of others. 

Even with the lesson on how little I need, I can honestly tell you I don't know how I would be able to navigate daily life as a dad, neighbor, worker, or friend without a cell phone. And it breaks my heart to know that the tool in my pocket, that consumes so much of me, is made possible by a child born into a world of darkness. 

It’s easy to blame the billionaires - and I certainly do blame them because they profit the most off of this despicable system. But I have no influence over them. I have no agency to curb their greed, and no ability to force their hands towards meaningful change. 

The small amount of influence I do have makes up for itself in its value of hope. I have the ability to guide my daughters and teach them about the world. Exposing them to beauty and wonder is as much a part of being a good father as shining a light on the harder truths. 

To give an example I recently took my daughters on a cruise for Christmas. The first stop on the trip was a day in The Bahamas. Prior to the trip we had been bombarded with options for on shore excursions. From swimming with dolphins to the aquarium at Atlantis to a jeep tour of the island. However, I was intent on doing none of those. I was going to get us away from the world of more, more, more and see what it was like outside of our entertainment bubble. 

We wandered through the main artery of town and then visited the 66 steps towards a historic tower and stopped at a shack for some coconuts. Then we ventured into the neighborhoods where the scenery changed dramatically. It was no longer the cute Caribbean vendors with trinkets and artwork being sold or the bustle of the port with cruise ships. These streets were impoverished and broken. Trash piled up everywhere. Some of the homes looked as if the jungle was swallowing them up. A woman asked if I knew where I was going with a tone of surprise. A group of little girls came running out of a house with smashed windows and waved. Excited to say hi to the little white girls their age. I looked down to see my daughters captivated by it all. The wheels spinning furiously in their head trying to make sense of a world completely unlike anything they’d experienced before. 

As a father it was essential that my kids took a breather from the unlimited free ice-cream and nine different swimming pools atop the lavish ship to experience how a large part of the world actually lives. I want them to know how much they have so they can realize how little they actually need. I want them to understand what it means to be grateful. To see that happiness isn’t found in luxury. The three little girls that came running out with the brightest smiles were perfect examples of it. They were filled with joy despite having so little. 

My experience in Goma over a decade ago may have been bleak and its importance has lay dormant. It was sobering and I still haven’t fully wrapped my head around it all. It was a lesson in perspective, reality and privilege that I somehow forgot. Over time, I have lost focus on what's important in life. I have become wrapped up in “first world problems''. While we are over here arguing over pronouns and political biographies - there is a sea of people experiencing hell on earth. While I teetered on the edge of darkness, many are swallowed up in the heart of it. I won't claim that joy was absent. I just didn’t spend enough time in the Congo to find it. However, my hope is that their joy exists in forms that are exclusive to those with the least. It was a life lesson I learned a long time ago and am realizing that I not only needed to relearn but to facilitate it. To teach my daughters that privilege begins and ends with who someone is regardless of what they deserve. 

I’ll end with a quote that I have found to be helpful in keeping perspective. 

“We all know quite a number of people who have everything that it would take to be happy and they are not happy. Because they want something else or they want more of the same. And we all know people who have lots of misfortune and they are deeply happy. They radiate happiness. Why? Because they are grateful” - Brother David Steindl-Rast