Dazed In The Life

View Of Alfajiri School, Bukavu, Democratic Republic Of Congo, which was our home for five days.

The mosquitoes attacked at about 2:30am and, after an unsuccessful chase around the bedroom trying to squash the ringleader, I gave up and returned to bed, pulling the blanket over my head. This, I discovered, was both impractibly hot and totally ineffective at drowning out that irritating air-raid-siren-up-two-octaves whine of the annoying little prickers. Eventually I stuck my iPod in, turned the volume up full blast and basically laid back, closed my eyes and prepared to be sucked dry. In a bad way.

We were up at about 7am to discover the water system was non-operational, making me extra-glad of showering last night, even if it had been a case of hopping in and out very fast of a spray of water colder than a penguin giving you the cold shoulder. We made our way into the refectory where breakfast consisted on an omlette – one between four -, bread and some more of that awful tea. It’s a cliché but it’s true: We Irish really do miss good old Barry’s Tea when we go abroad.

Marcellin Seruhungo came to meet us and escort us to our destination today. Marcellin was a staff member of Alfajiri – although his exact role was never made clear to me – in his late 30s who had suffered serious injury to one of his legs as a youth. As a result, that leg was now considerably shorter than the other and he walked with the aid of crutches. Despite this, he was a very cheerful, welcoming guy who was determined that we would be as comfortable as possible during our stay.

A roundabout in Bukavu. The taxi dropped us off on the other side of this before we walked to Ek'Abana that first morning. Notice the ramshackle buildings and the mass of dust.

We made our way down the avenue of the school, past the bumpy patch of ground where a crowd of massive teenagers were playing a vigorous and dusty game of football. The spectators’ heads all turned in a bizarre Mexican wave effect as we passed, resplendant in our very conspicuous white polo shirts to match our very conspicuous white skin. Three or four younger children ran to shake our hands and we gladly bid them “Bonjour”, happy to be made so welcome, before the follow-up of “Donne-moi de l’argent” followed. Genuinely, we hadn’t brought money with us as we would be in the orphanage all day, but turning them away made me feel very uncomfortable, knowing that in reality I was in a position to give money to those who would need it more than me while also knowing that blatant charity is not the way forward and one simply couldn’t accede to every request for money over the time we would be spending in the region. Again, it brought home the scale of the divide between “us and them”.

At the gates of the school, Conny met us and we hailed two taxis which would take us through the streets of Bukavu. The city was more run-down than Bujumbura, the roads were worse and the noise was twice as loud. Bukavu is the only city I’ve been to where buildings are made entirely of scaffolding and orange plastic, and where the main roundabout is literally just a massive circular patch of clay populated by pedestrians and taxis. Tim, Richard, Conny and I got out of our cab, while Mocki and Marcellin continued past us in theirs, leaving us to walk. To our right was Lake Kivu, to our left the foothills of the mountains which enclose the city and both sides of the road were lined with vendors on benches and pushing carts, displaying their wares. Bright slips of freshly-caught fish glinted in the sun like silver bullets beside trays of brown eggs, wooden hutches packed with squawking chickens, sheafs of grass and clusters of bamboo, all accompanied by the shouts of the huge crowds of buyers and sellers and the blaring of some massive speakers perched outside a hut on the ridge above us.

We walked about 300 yards, meeting Jonny and Janvier along the way, two more of the students of Alfajiri who would be joining us on our experiment, and we took a turn to the left off the tarmac road and began to climb along a dirt track up the side of the mountain. The houses here were slightly better than the huts we had driven past entering Bukavu the night before, many of them made of brick and with small gardens full of inquisitive children crying “muzungu” and stern-faced mothers hanging multi-coloured washing to dry in the already-hot sun.

The Entrance To Ek'Abana, "The Children's Place", the orphanage in Bukavu.

The steep track eventually led us to a large, metal gate with a brightly coloured mural on the wall beside it. This was Ek’Abana. Mocki and Marcellin’s taxi had, miraculously, made it up the slopes and they met us there. It was a bit like being let into a secret society’s compound as we knocked, a little flap opened and an eye peered out before the gates opened. Inside we found a beautifully manicured patch of grass surrounded by beds of roses and cleanly swept paths winding down amongst the buildings – the offices, classrooms, bedrooms, wood-shed, kitchen, laundrey room and so on. We would later discover that beyond the big classroom we were first led into were a “grande salle”, or hall, and library, as well as worksheds, rabbits’ hutches and the Lourdes grotto where the thrice-daily prayers were held.

As we walked across the yard towards the classroom, we could hear singing, clapping and drumming. In we walked, led up to the front of the room by Natalina, the former nun who had established Ek’Abana in 2001, and all eyes turned to us. There are enchanting qualities to children, somehow moreso with these children: their enthusiasm as they danced and sang before class, their spirit of community as they clapped along and taught each other steps, their eager and loving welcome for us, the glinting of their wide, shining eyes in shining, dark skin, all capped by their startling, face-encompassing smiles. All of this is made the more poignant by their horrible histories, pasts which they are trying to rectify, in the truest sense of that word: to make right.

Natalina, the founder of Ek'Abana, addresses the children before introducing us to them. Not a sign of nerves on us, eh?!

We had been joined by Patricia, Sylvie and Bruno, the last of the Congolese students, so Natalina said a couple of words and had us introduce ourselves, in French with our Irish accents which induced a couple of giggles. Then we were allocated different areas we would be working in for the day: Mocki and Tim with Sylvie and Patricia in the classroom, Richard, Janvier and Jonny cleaning and decorating the hall for the festival the kids would be having this Sunday, Bruno sorting and folding the endless bags of laundry and I was nabbed by two of the older girls and brought into the kitchen the meet Anwarita, the cook.

Now, my Swahili isn’t that hot and my French was about as rusty as a fish’s bicycle but Anwarita broke through the language barrier (and my convolutions) and we got on fantastically well. First things first, into a very unfetching and uncomfortably insulated work-jacket and straight down to work once I had figured out what the word “torsionner” meant (to wipe, if you’re interested). Every inch of the store-room and kitchen, every table, bench, shelf and corner was swept, washed down and left gleaming, like my forehead by the end of it. Anwarita was amused when I told her than we had machines to do a lot of our daily chores for us in Ireland but was also impressed by my refusal to let her help and the fact I finished the work without dying. Well, being here for only a couple of days, we had no choice but to give our utmost.

The massive pot on the stove bubbling with a stew of maize, onion and tomato, Anwarita and I sat crosslegged in the shade outside and began sifting through the rice for bugs. While doing this simple, pleasing task, we were able to talk at length about her job and her life. She couldn’t believe I was 24, one year YOUNGER than her – she had assumed I was closer to 30, a qualified teacher perhaps, with the means to be travelling at this stage of my life. It was the first time I’d been assumed to be older than I am in a long time!

Richard models the rather fetching work-jacket on the stage of the hall at Ek'Abana. Jonny is in the background, pretending not to know him.

It turned out that Anwarita was recently married only six months previously. Her husband had known her for six months before proposing by presenting a dowry to her parents, and she had to endure a further six months before the wedding could take place. Naturally, she was amazed to hear that Tim and Marianne had been going out for three years with no sign of a wedding – then again, as she said, he’s only 22, but I, at an ancient 24, had better hurry up! She was further interested to hear that sometimes ladies propose to men in Ireland, and that people could say “I love you” in public whereas she was restricted to saying it to her husband within the four walls of her house. The cultural divide even stretches to affairs of love, and our relative freedom in our relationships, who we choose and what we choose to do with them is in stark contrast to the strictures imposed on Anwarita and her compatriots.

Anwarita explained that she would bring four of the girls to work with her in the kitchen for a month, thus giving them a chance to learn how to make each of the dishes she cooked on a weekly rota. Similarly the children would be taught how to knit and sew, wash and mend clothes, care for the rabbits or carry out daily chores: Nothing is done for them, but they do everything for each other. They grow to enjoy and respect work, learning important skills mixed with fun. From the moment they get up at 5:30am to their 9pm bedtime at night, the kids help with the upkeep of the compound, run their prayer sessions and attend classes in Bible studies, speech and drama,  computers song and dance.  

Mama Josephine came to introduce herself. She’s an imposing lady who points her finger, pokes you in the chest and doesn’t allow you to interrupt. Though in her mid-fifties, she remains full of the energy of the kids she cares for (on top of her own brood of six and her brother’s eight), recognising each of their pieces of clothing as we sorted them into drawers. She forcefully told me how the philosophy behind Ek’Abana is to restore the children to their famille propre, to mediate between the children and the families who abandoned them. Many of the children had been accused of sorcery by their parents, or viewed as bad omens following the death of a sibling, or simply dumped as economic burdens – tragic and incredible situations unthinkable in our own country. Ek’Abana seeks to educate the parents, to dispel superstition and to arm the children with life skills and a sense of responsibility. If, by the age of eighteen, the child has not been restored to its family, he or she will hopefully be able to strike out for him/herself. In eight years, over 500 children have passed through Ek’Abana’s gates – that is probably less than the total number of homeless people in all of Ireland.

Mama Josephine (on the left) and Anwarita (second from right) show me how to mend clothes. On my knee is Linda and the girl to Anwarita's right is Fatu.

Anwarita kept a close guard of baby Fatu, 18 months old and the youngest of the Ek’Abana children. She explained that her father was a soldier who had mistreated her and was now in jail. Her mother had abandoned both Fatu and her sister, leaving them in the care of Ek’Abana, unable to care for them sufficiently. I would later be shown a gazebo just inside the gates of Ek’Abana by two of the children who explained that it was called “La place de Rebeque”, Rebecca’s place, and was dedicated to Fatu’s sister. There was hanging in the gazebo a large photo of the child, weepy eyed, already in the throes of the sickness which would overwhelm her several months after she had been left in Ek’Abana. Fatu was adored by the other children and adults alike, but was terrified of the strangers with white skin and would run to Anwarita any time I passed near her.

Tim can barely contain his smiles as he joins in the dance circle at Ek'Abana. Beside Tim is Janvier.

Mama Jo led me by the hand on a tour before bringing me to join Mocki and Tim with the rest of the children for dancing in the yard. On practically every documentary and film about Africa, you see these circles of dancing, smiling, laughing children, all extraordinarily gifted in movement, immersing themselves in the distinctive and enlivening rhythms and melodies of their culture. To actually experience it is totally different, totally unique. It makes one so ashamed of our self-consciousness, embarassed by our own relative lack of talent and freedom, and amazed by the surrounding energy. It went on for over an hour non-stop and was one of the most joyful things I’ve ever witnessed as we were hugged, little hands clasped ours or dragged us forward to dance - Tim and I could not stop smiling, and Mocki was danced out by the end of it. The dancing and singing was nominally led by a couple of the adults, but in reality flowed as different children initiated new movements or verses. A couple of games were played which involed sending someone away and then hiding a pen on someone in the circle for them to find based on warmer/colder hints from the rest of the circle, or leaving a collection of items in the middle (bottles, coats etc.) which were then removed one by one by someone attempting not to touch the designated “bomb” – if they did, the cirlced “boomed!”.

Ndome and Aganze giving me a ground tour of the Ek'Abana complex. Their only requirement was that I provide many piggy-backs.

Two boys, Aganze and Ndome (excuse me if the spellings are wrong, guys!) were two who took a particular shine to me and sat either side of me, cuddling up close and taking a strong interest in my ample, pale arm-hairs. No, not armchairs. I had left my ample, pale armchairs at home. With only three boys in Ek’Abana, it seemed as though the influx of three young males and another male (sorry Mocki…) struck a chord with them. That or our weird hair and skin colour was enough encouragement to stick to me like a limpet.

The boys whisked me off on my second tour of the complex, showing special affection for the grotto and for the appropriately cute rabbits in cages on the level below it. The two boys, with equally heartbreaking lives of their own, explained to me the story of Rebecca in the gazebo. It would break your heart yet gladden it too to see the kindness being shown to these poor children and one cannot help but want to contribute to that kindness. They were, like most of the children over here, fascinated by photos and made me take a shot of them on my phone, gave their approval of the picture and were overjoyed when I made it my phone’s background. They dug into my pocket a couple of times during the day to check they were still in pride of place.

A view from above the grotto during prayers before lunch. The devotion to Our Lady was so strong and seems remarkable for such unfortunate children.

After a touching and devoted prayer service of about 5 minutes at the grotto, where the children offered intentions and reflections of their own, we served the grub up to the kids in their classroom cum refectory: Tim, Richard and the others brought out the maize stew and rice, a bland offering which was nevertheless eaten with relish (although, without any ACTUAL relish) and I ladled out water into plastic beakers (and far more of it onto the floor beneath the beakers). We were uncomplaining about the food that we don’t have to eat every day and I was touched to see Aganze had saved me a seat when I went to sit down, but everyone else sat at a table that had been kept empty for us – a poor idea really and Tim remarked later that we should have been spread among the kids.

Janvier keeps a close watch on Tim as he displays his scrubbing abilities after lunch in Ek'Abana.

After lunch, a big clean-up ensued at the taps and sinks outside the kitchen. Tim and Richard left serious DNA evidence in losing skin from their fingers helping to scrub clean the dishcloths while Sylvie, Jonny and I washed up all the dishes, glasses and cutlery, passing them to Mocki and a troupe of the kids to dry. The Congolese didn’t seem quite as happy as we did to be mucking in with these tasks, perhaps due to the fact that these daily, menial chores, without the aid of dishwashers and washing machines, are not such unique experiences for them.

After the big clean-up, the kids returned to class, which were loose discussion groups and it was not unusual to come across one or two playing together outside. We were brought into the office and given a talk about the centre by a man whose name escapes me entirely and during which I was dropping off to sleep thanks to my sleepless night and the long day of work and heat. He began all his answers to the endless, slightly irritating questions from the Congolese with “Okay,…” and Janvier instantly gained the nickname “Translator” (with emphasis on the OR) as he mumbled, hemmed and hawed for our benefit. We were treated to another tour of the place (my third of the day) and the children emerged from their classes as we were about to leave. Tim, Richard and I were cajoled into more piggy-backs, escorted by our hands to the gate and made promise we would be back the following day as the kids waved goodbye.

Looking over the huts of Bukavu below the Ek'Abana complex.

We made our way down the steep and dirty hill to the road and found a couple of taxis to take us back to Alfajiri. I shared a car with Patricia, Sylvie, Jonny and Janvier and they kindly stopped and bought me a bottle of water, having noticed how tired I had seemed. My Irishness was clearly showing. Marcellin met us on our arrival and offered to take us to the cinema. Our excitement dampened somewhat when we discovered the cinema was simply a  lecture hall in Alfajiri and the film seemed to be some sort of documentary about agriculture in rapid French – a step too far for us at this stage of the day. Instead, we all sat and had a brief reflection on the day’s experience, which seemed rather more gloomy than enthusiastic. Our need for rest and the Congolese students slight reticence to discuss things very frankly with us at this stage made for a less than beneficial chat.

The dancing of the children before class is joyful, free and a sharing of their talents and happiness.

Mocki, Tim, Rich and I had a far better talk later over dinner of fish, fried banana, potatoes and haricot beans, after a rest and a shower – yes, the water had returned. The community, the enthusiasm and the joy of the Ek’Abana orphans were the three things which struck us all. Their sad histories linger but Ek’Abana helps restore hope for their futures.

A power-cut pre-dinner thankfully disappeared making for a pleasant meal and Mocki amused and entertained us all with some great tales out of school. For some, spending two weeks with a former teacher 50 years your senior would be something to be endured but Mocki gladly regressed to a schoolboy mode (or dragged himself down to his level, as he put it), providing a real sense of togetherness and equality for us all as we chatted and bantered. At the best of times, he is wonderful company; on this great adventure, he was the glue that kept us together. We were visited as we ate by Pére Louis Gallet, a spry 84-year-old priest from Belgian who had been in Alfajiri for 47 years and would be attending the congress in Bujumbura before returning to his country of birth and entering retirement. Not one to be interrupted once he launched into his spiels, he assured me another pleasant nap not just by the content but the length of his stories.

After dinner, I sat waiting for my phone to charge in the one socket we had found – I don’t know why, the mobile was as useless in DRC as it was in Burundi – and continued the chat with Richard and Tim. Perhaps it is a requirement for anyone wishing to be a school captain, but both of them possess some fantastic qualities, assured and reassuring, confident, easy-going and great to spend time with, funny and serious in appropriate measure. The immensity of what we were taking in, the sheer scale of the poverty and inhumanity in which we were immersing ourselves, made me recognise how lucky I am to have been born into the relative comfort of my life, and the whole experience was made a little easier by having three outstanding gentlemen and friends for company.

Mocki, Tim, Richard and I in the quad of Alfajiri. We had a great time and shared many memorable experiences which I'll treasure for many a year - or use for blackmail purposes in the future.