Dazed In The Life

Breakfast today was less substantial than yesterday: the omlette was gone, leaving us with just rolls, some rotten butter and the traditional piss-poor tea. We again met Conny for the taxi to Ek’Abana and walked up the muddy track – Mocki by our sides this time, having been shoved into off-road mode. The cries of mzungu continued to follow us, especially from children and some women, but with what seems to be a sense of affectionate curiosity rather than malice.

Today we swapped jobs, with Tim delegated to the hard labour, mopping the library, washing its windows and, bizarrely, brushing the ceiling, and Mocki taking on my task of making today’s gourmet meal – a gruel called mkesha or fou-fou which we would eat with our bare hands, using it to wipe up haricot beans. Richard and I had the more relaxing task or joining the children in class. The class again began with dancing and drumming with some of the girls in a line doing coordinated moves. So, after some photo-taking – which the kids remained fascinated by, running riot with my camera – I hopped up and danced with them at some pushing from Aganze. I drafted in Richard for moral support and we were, as seems the case with any mzungu participation, smiled at and appreciated despite our inherent inability to look even half as fluid or rhythmic as the hordes of tiny dancers around us.

Richard and two of the Ek'Abana children talking down the back of the classroom. Old habits die hard...

We sat down and class began which entailed reading and discussing a chapter from the Bible. Despite the conversation being in Swahili, I managed to pick up from the one French Bible which we were given that the section in question was that of Moses’ abandonment and adoption. We weren’t able to find out exactly how deeply this was discussed as the unfamiliar open sounds of Swahili passed across the long table, whether the comparison with the children’s situation was made. The poignancy was not lost on Richard and me though as we looked around at each little Moses. The grimness of their position is certainly not glossed over though, to judge by the poems they then recited – in French: “Merci”, which thanks God for their meagre gifts and preemptively thanks those who help the street child, and a second, whose name escapes me, which calls for the “droits des enfants” to be protected.

Sometimes there aren't the words to express the joy contained in a child's smile.

We drifted outside for dancing but today it was “modern” dance as opposed to traditional African and the children seemed a little less at home and enthusiastic about it all. However, Richard’s and my contribution to “La Macarena” was such that they replayed it so we could teach them and correct a couple of “mistakes” they were making! It’s nice to know that there is such a worldwide language as “Shit Novelty Dance”. Mostly though, we sat with the kids who weren’t dancing, chatting, taking photos, cuddling like there was no tomorrow.

I worried a lot less about total accurary with my French today too – tenses, genders etc. -, instead focusing on communicating sufficiently with the kids. The gateway to this is clearly kucheza, a lovely word which approximates to the Irish word craic: Fun and games, but also meaning dancing. I supplied no mean amount of piggy-backs, played football on a concrete alley at the top of the complex and then an amazingly simple game involving passing small pebbles around in a circle to a rhyme, basically ad infinitum or until someone messes up the rhythm: “On continue jusqu’a on a fatigué” – we keep going until we’re tired! The tactile familiarity and the sheer love of play and laughter among the children was completely infectious and we found ourselves become just as playful as they were! 

Action photography, courtesy of Mocki, of me being schooled by Aganze in the art of Alley Football.

Lunch was lovingly prepared by Mocki and Anwarita although I struggled to finish the massive brick of fou-fou which was dumped into my bowl after I had stupidly said “Oh, that’s nice” on tasting a little. I did force it all down as we sat for a largely silent meal – it seems that eating is more important than chatting for those few minutes. After the meal, half the children came out the back of the kitchen to help with the washing-up before they all donned colourful knitted woollen vests. In this heat?! The Irish male melts at any temperature above 30 degrees and reserves the wearing of wool for the deep midwinter or “wolf in sheep’s clothing” parties. Apparently, these were the jerseys for the afternoon football game and had, for the most part, been made by the older children.

We climbed up the hill in a long line to La Marché, a dirt pitch, uneven and dusty, among some rundown buildings which turned out to be the fully operational accommodation of the Catholic University – you would never have known it to look at the fallen masonry, the caved-in roofs and the doors hanging off. The sun was searing and the dust was eye-scratching but we played football. And what a wonderfully exhausting experience. Tim and I were on one team with Richard and the Congolese students on the other.

With no distinguishing jerseys but the multitude of vests, picking out team-mates was a bit difficult and led to some slack passing by the Irish imports in the initial stages. The initial stages also revealed two other things: first, that Irish twentysomethings of university education will still laugh childishly upon being told a faintly rude-sounding foreign word like the French for dust, “poussiere”; and second, the basic tactic of these dusty football games is all run after the ball until the end of the game. One of the older girls issued me with a stern tactical instruction: ”We have no defence, just attack”. Again, the profundity of that statement struck me when I thought of these children fighting back against the apparent hopelessness of their situations. Ek’Abana prepares these children to counter-attack against the society which has shunned them.

Richard taking it all a little too seriously.

I opened the scoring, nodding in at the far post off a cross from Tim to wild celebrations and unbridalled felicitations from my team-mates, the congratulations continuing long into the second half! We were all pretty wiped out by half-time, however, and took a more passive role in the second period, retiring to the shade on many occasions.

Mocki was already sweating with the heat despite the shady spot he was occupying, but the Congolese students then insisted on dragging us on a “2 or 3 minute walk” – that is to say, a 20 minute trek farther up the mountain over muddy and rocky paths to a hut where their organisation (Collectif Des Jeunes Unis Pour Le Developpement) was based. Now, by this stage we were all knackered and not really in the mood for unscheduled promotional trips. The walk itself involved being constantly asked whether we could see the lake / school / mountains – sightseeing, Congolese style! Or perhaps they were worried about our eyesight…?

The "Gorilla Gang" - we pushed through the tiredness barrier to see this masterpiece.

We reached a clear area above the treeline which was lined with more huts and we came to one which was the base of CJUD, bedecked with some small pieces of art and one big gorilla. This sculpture and the other works were apparently carved by an artist friend of the students and were for sale in order to raise funds. We looked politely but were by now quite tired and a little unsure of why we had been taken on this little impromptu trip – we weren’t about to buy a gorilla statue, tempting though the offer was. We were especially concerned for Mocki who, despite his puerile mind at times, was that bit more advanced in age than the rest and rocky mountain paths in African heat are not the natural habitat of the more mature. 

It was during this trip that the Congolese habit of hand-holding was sprung on us. It is not unusual for males to hold each other’s hands while strolling (or trekking up rocky paths, in our case) but we weren’t aware of that and were a bit surprised as hands snaked down our arms. Bruno was especially keen to hang onto Mocki, presumably for fear he might fall, which gave Richard, Tim and me much cause for laughter as we shoved our hands into our pockets and left Mocki to be aided on his way.

The lake-front garden at Hotel Saint Jean, Bukavu

While the other three piled into one taxi with Conny, I was nabbed and bundled into another with little explanation. Assuming we were returning to Alfajiri, I was confused when we turned down a different route and pulled up outside what seemed to be a half-built condominium. I feared there would be more gorilla-themed art for sale inside and asked “Where are the others? I thought we were going to Alfajiri?” I was told we were going for a drink. I had to bite my tongue to prevent myself from saying “Here?!” as I surveyed the scaffolding and plastic.

We walked down steps at the side of the building and I was amazed to discover that the bottom half of the hotel, for that is what it was, was complete and a wedding reception was in full swing, while outside it was an extraordinary lake-front terrace and garden. This was the Hotel Saint Jean, on the very shore of Lake Kivu. Gazing across the Lake we could see the far shore and Rwanda. At times of war, one can see puffs of smoke rising from those shores, so we were told. As we sat at the mercy of the midges – who were, as usual, especially keen on my particular brand of hair – a team of fishing boats pushed off from the pier beside the hotel in some sort of triple boat combination and set out in search of the evening meal for the wedding guests.

Fishing boats set out onto Lake Kivu as evening draws in.

Then again, the evening meal appeared to be walking its way into the reception. An inquisitive goat trailing its tether behind it wandered past our table and into the hotel – presumably to offer its services as a nanny to the future children of the marriage. I apologise for that bad joke but we later saw that goat, or its twin, lying in two pieces on a chopping block outside the kitchen as we left, so a bit of humour is the only way to take ones mind off that sight. The drinks we had were pleasant – more Coke for me, as the sugar levels were sapping – and we attracted the attention of a young boy from the wedding party in the grubbiest, most food covered suit imaginable. He offered us biscuits and chips and a stream of “Mzungu!” as we enjoyed the evening air.

We walked back to the street to look for taxis. Richard and Bruno strolled ahead in what seemed a very intense conversation while Tim and I were barracked by some very scowly soldiers with very hurty guns for deciding to walk around a barrier on the left side rather than the right. Men with guns trying to intimidate the mzungus was the general consensus but we did as we were told rather than risk ending up with the goat. Eventually back at Alfajiri, a shower was a great relief and we sat down to dinner of beef with more bananas, beans and, sweet Jesus, more fou-fou. This became a ball to be thrown about after Mocki went to bed and, despite being smashed off the wall, it retained its shape and took some paint flakes with it. We went to bed, now sharing our corridor with a group of Belgian former students, one of whom was the spit of Bob Hope who gurningly informed us “I was here fworty fwour years ago-ho-ho”. Another of their group was snoring like a bull elephant as we retired, only matched in volume by the terrifying cat lurking somewhere outside my window and screeching with rage.

Sunset over Lake Kivu as we left the Hotel Saint Jean.