tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79880407114062192522024-03-13T15:57:54.505+01:00Tales from the DRCongo
Chronicled perils from the bushUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger449125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-19782397377329578362016-05-15T15:26:00.001+01:002016-05-15T15:28:32.757+01:00Thanks to NBC! Our story was profiled on the Today Show this morning and we are honored.<br />
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<br />
http://www.today.com/money/mission-love-meet-couple-who-found-love-while-rescuing-chimps-t92611<br />
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Particular thanks to Lwiro Sanctuary and Itsaso, Aggelos, Ben, and the whole NBC crew, and Richard Engel who made it all look easy.<br />
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And to Jef Dupain who put it all together over a laugh at Doug's Christmas party.<br />
<a name='more'></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-14282479143872932482016-02-24T15:15:00.000+01:002016-02-24T15:15:02.920+01:00All Grown UpThrough circumstances that I am not fully allowed to discuss (yet), I was given the opportunity this week to visit with the chimpanzees, living in <a href="http://lwiro.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Lwiro Sanctuary</a>, that Adam and I quite literally risked our lives to save in 2009.<br />
<br />
It had been a long day of filming, throughout which we had not had much control of our schedules or time, but we knew that it would culminate in a reunion with the Aketi 5 - Aketi Kigoma himself, Bolunga, Django Mayanga, Kathé, and Mangay.<br />
<br />
We weren't sure entirely what to expect -- when I had brought the Aketi 5 to Lwiro in 2009, <a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2009/04/final-distance.html" target="_blank">I had had the joy of seeing some of the chimpanzees that I had rescued during my time in Goma in 2005</a> and 2006-- they had definitely recognized me, coming to the bars of their enclosure without promise of food -- and outstretched their hands, reaching for me. I had been unable to interact with them at all, however, because I could have transmitted diseases from the Aketi 5, who were in quarantine, essentially quarantining me as well.<br />
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Seven years had gone by, and honestly, half of my friends seem to barely recognize me when I'm back in the States, so my expectations were low with regard to a lot of fuss about our return.<br />
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While I feel like it's easy to rationalize for me, personally, there is obviously a part that is personally hard because, certainly with the chimpanzees that I have rescued and fostered, their faces are emblazoned in my brain and I feel like I could never forget them.<br />
<br />
But reality sinks in, and even chimpanzee faces change immensely through the passage of time.<br />
<br />
As we approached the enclosures, I worried whether I would be able to pick out the faces of my "kids" among the crowd. <br />
<br />
Aketi came right up to the edge of his enclosure -- a cage that separated him, as a juvenile male, from the larger group for his own safety, along with other juveniles who would not be accepted by the alphas of the bigger community. <br />
<br />
His face had only darkened slightly, and his eyes seemed smaller as his face had expanded, but there was for certain a familiarity around his eyes and mouth that helped me notice him immediately. Throughout the feeding time, despite the promise of rewards in other locations, he stayed in proximity of wherever we stood, gazing intently at us through the close bars. <br />
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Adult chimpanzees are incredibly dangerous, and I did not for a moment forget as the alpha of the juvenile groups continued to display, making himself piloerect and continuing to pound his feet on the ground and throw his weight against the bars. <br />
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Maybe the baby chimpanzee that I had rescued and cared for had grown up, and was potentially dangerous, but his eyes felt so familiar, and I let his outstretched hand connect with mine, and we sat, together, sharing the moment. <br />
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<a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/search?q=mang%C3%A9" target="_blank">Mangay</a>, on the other hand, who had been Polycarpe's ward, seemed much less intent on holding our attention, though I will report with delight that, within the juvenile group, he is as normal-acting a chimpanzee as one can be. I cannot begin to describe how that makes me feel, worrying for him for so many nights and weeks, particularly when we were trying to integrate him unsuccessfully in with our DRC group, I feared that he was so traumatized that he would never be normal again.<br />
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Mangay, for those who don't remember, was not a well-adjusted chimpanzee, and was so young and sickly when he was confiscated that there was a serious doubt as to whether he would live. <br />
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<a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/search?q=django" target="_blank">Django Mayanga</a> had already been integrated into the larger group, as had <a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/search?q=kath%C3%A9" target="_blank">Kathé</a>, and <a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/search?q=bolungwa" target="_blank">Bolungwa</a> had even decided to take on the role of nanny, so when we saw her, she was caring for Clara's baby, Clarice. They all seemed so happy, and certainly Django and Bolungwa came right over and solicited for our attention next to the fence despite the potential menace from more higher-ranking individuals within the group.<br />
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Django looked just the same, funny and suckling his lower lip, though his bald spot from the top of his head had spread out. He was instantly recognizable. Bolungwa was more difficult from afar, as her face having had darkened. But once she got close to the fence, the shape of her eyes, those big, liquid eyes, was so familiar. <br />
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<br />
When I watch the videos of these chimps as "children," when I had only a distant hope of getting them a better life, and an even more remote hope of getting them away from the cooking pot of <a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/search?q=moibi" target="_blank">Mister Moibi</a> -- it makes me cry, if only because the things I had hoped for the most fervently that seemed the most out of reach have come true. <br />
<br />
Of course I would wish that they could be back in the wild, but, without that as a option, the idea that they're actually safe and well cared for is so far beyond my most secret wishes, particularly during the most trying points of our trip to northern DRC.<br />
<br />
I realize sometimes the role I have had to play at Lwiro, as 9 of the chimpanzees in their care (almost a quarter) came from "me," my self-involved way of referring to the various field seasons and impressive colleagues within them who helped to confiscate and care for them.<br />
<br />
We spent the morning back at the chimpanzee enclosure, and, though I had promised Adam that we would not have any more 4am mornings, he completely went along with the plan to pack first at 4 and then spend all day with the chimps until it was time for the van to take us back to Bukavu.<br />
<br />
During that time, I also got to spend time with <a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/TE3u8iDLp89_dHGIuqd48XVAIO7M6ca2On2PpS7xDKKJipypHZo7gYC8ruXi_cCg9Ofx0vsX-wx6i7TsEiDM-fKV482Sn41M-Azro8mHXibvH-ZbMdffH1CJ_rLOEc9XN7k-cN5SUBIHTFDHj1kRSNj5e-AGescbFiej0_keLBzwFR9-BDTI8x8pR9o1LTasdAjVNOU_G6tZ4mcKdHKKe6cTsqlvsxVf5XnnojSCyFcVWWJE4LhoABkxzyz3ZshFrp_p8EJKO88VTINpq7sjd-Q6oJKGoYpkdq8lbLVqeOkBnRlonEXHKG30EzN9qcrVoKAY9u3ltv3hz1ObqsP5qOV3Umh-KxuEAyaKZZc_fKg7grdEpGkfGq0wRgIny3olnd0yNeObaXZP-7cOQOpq_EYmWuEDDClGw38RRR2HNpJnRqwFkNgonrY-b_gZk8_3mRQZaCO7L8lElnMBw8nnCHAERbBBarS-IcQW-oyYxTnl_A18FhF2yLZ6U_D9bhC-pvfZX1fREADzlM2VDQLQrRQ5XKzBzC2LzMc9uGs1IIhXH7HEe4UP-OU7-4Co5hVQnVXI5w=w500-h375-no" target="_blank">Yongesa</a>, <a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/lgA4bWCb59c12j7Ubke_TmNcgJmI9zo-YyCkTV4u4kvib1-VBUuZ-GgGW2B-wySXOiShR4gZXmCMyzBWw4OlrVL2i4E9A5YXa8bclDFD8xm6ZisRn5qHWMW6cMwev9DZtc-6oHGbC9Azb60bsEFfOzEgbtgVBeuBviiVz7ZVLgYpDmS7uf721RUK3jiRfjfA9nnG_xZxn-sIe0-8WnlyJguY3WE4lan4xAUxWsBuES34cBytzTweB0z5WqCsrZt6_uD66fK864UHArPhXMUyZgzxINHz8S8ZP65SK5Svlaw63SW7Q_85t-zMnPn4fte9rjA-dSjeY7D6RLrBqyvC-aOqL9qLitRNzVEUJtinSdkNdPacRVWniulQrPd0ge0fCnRAkaFVSbpxRUM7otQjwU0frtTZMnATaSw2Ris8kEWSEMCnaV0c01cbf1ni5DrSEK5Ja_iPNm1ukiyLREJhJ6U4djMhCN4_PdhTxmI5u5Pk6nvNFdbdzfNNW0KU9MtKm3qf-ShlYUiYHl6Fkir_yKURpT9AizyP3I3801Xmu0Om9B5MB84wOgquvYVIgHcKp5sLGA=w500-h375-no" target="_blank">Shege</a>, and <a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/MXAOdKggqMZ0bu69HXBXzxtV8Q4x7WbzwnUKs1cv5v9cwlzXPDofhRXoDwVa0rpHn-nPKV_CKannyH0JO-T8a3nN8aikffCcYqxn9xYJh3ZVcqI5ysML77a5THQTqL00GAuEIZUoh0GRe1jUK-96VcShaFZKZcRLk_iyOcHR54NdBqJBUTm0hzqPfawMvPJWlZlDCjs2m_WitWeXq7G8j5r3uFRiTqor38WtdbV7dzRh0oy6NYGuB0KLnBk_LbyCshDQrbutN16ZgYnmsnY-b8jcItpcvMOTmQ0m7DRhPn4bzYOZTwZrykvD40QvFnTF2H4vvBEWIYC_TfoRIrtsUu1_VvRDFgSMd7-vLP9R1sm7Fw0jzs1G8qjgROImWid9psqJFBPo5XS1dlmrwlfU-MfXsszx4RCavlMaGQRGcNwTzdsP3-vraubwuWwbAFW1d3DAF_Lw9xDJNeQCt2jcGIDi7smsR42I2zG3i-BdHMmcK1kFm22uX7-45Z0S5ayXFG8MHsZgpGTAgqo8JFT2zq1Eujddt9xRyfii9ckaJczK4EbqTq_08g9_mdy8D9u-f_1_iQ=w807-h605-no" target="_blank">Kanabiro</a>, several of the female chimpanzees from my time in Goma. They all had gotten so enormous, so dark-faced, and yet, while I stood at the windows of their enclosures, they clustered together, all reaching to be close to me.<br />
<br />
<br />
My time as their chimpanzee mother is over, though I cherish those memories tremendously. I did not go back to Lwiro to embrace the chimpanzees I once loved, holding them when they got scared, spending the largest part of most days covered in their feces and hands and feet. <br />
<br />
But seeing them there, older, happier, safer -- knowing that I had the amazing opportunity to play a role in their survival -- brought tears in the mists of the early Bukavu morning. It makes any suffering I have endured so worth it, and, despite the risk, I would do it all again. As they look so much older, though, I realize that so much time has passed since those years in my 20s where their safety was my everything, even in the most unsafe of places. <br />
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<br />
I guess we have all come so far.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Western Province, Rwanda-1.6963161907333189 29.252207108398352-1.7598036907333188 29.171526108398353 -1.6328286907333189 29.33288810839835tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-91339513340812933312016-02-24T14:06:00.001+01:002016-02-24T15:00:26.066+01:00Returning to the Scene of the CrimeThere are times when I would pay a million dollars to blend in. All expats in most African countries are ogled, but many have the benefit of similarity, and, frankly, lots of local people cannot tell their white faces apart.<br />
<br />
I have never had this problem, and coming to cities and countries where expats are not ubiquitous, the attention placed on me becomes hyperfocussed, a mix of intrigue and novelty as I stream by, ginger hair ablazing.<br />
<br />
Without even overtly planning to, Adam and I were re-tracing our footsteps, revisiting <a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2009/04/final-distance.html" target="_blank">the route taken during our great escape</a>.<br />
<br />
As we made our way through Goma to the port, heavy from our trouble at the border, the city in which I had spent so much time in 2005 and 2006 had grown past recognition. The port, however, had not. Weaving down toward the shore, I hoped our low-riding taxi would make it through the lava impediments, as goats climbed the rocky outjuttings to our right. Closer to the waters of Lake Kivu, motorcycles, cars, and laundry ladies lined up, washing their things in the water.<br />
<br />
I had ridden this route many times by motorcycle when I had lived in the city, and I was flooded with happy memories. Upon seeing the offices of the boat, I was flooded instead with residual fear.<br />
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We had not done anything wrong, and this time in Goma was so different than the last in 2009. But as everyone stared at me as we waited for the boat to arrive, I became suddenly paranoid, holding my breath as I saw someone locking eyes with me as he picked up his mobile phone to make a call.<br />
<br />
Someone knew, someone recognized us. Everyone was on the lookout for the me, an imagined fugitive, and they would catch me, red haired.<br />
<br />
It was ridiculous, but the choppy waters of the afternoon boat to Bukavu did nothing to settle my queasiness and unease.<br />
<br />
Arriving in Bukavu, my first step onto those familiar long greying planks of the dock rocked me, literally and metaphorically, and I found myself suddenly out of breath, remembering having stood on this very dock, hoping against hope that we could get to Goma and get out of Congo.<br />
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All I wanted to do was get away from this port, and drive up and away on the too-familiar steep driveway into town and just escape from the panicking memories, but our driver had not yet arrived, and my roaming internet, courtesy of my Rwandan SIM card, had finally run out.<br />
<br />
I sat close to the DGM's desk, trying to calm myself and stop from being silly. I did get a chuckle from his official "sign," an 8.5" x 11" piece of white paper with the letters DGM written in pen, and taped to the bars of the windows next to his desk.<br />
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Our driver finally arrived, and I prepared myself for the long ride to <a href="http://lwiro.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Lwiro Sanctuary</a> -- again, retracing our steps from 2009. <a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2009/04/final-distance.html" target="_blank">In 2009</a>, it had been an arduous stressful road with the DGM from the airport "monitoring" us as we headed to his larger offices in Bukavu Town, while we attempted to find things to talk with him about without revealing incriminating details. During the 2.5 hours of the trip, it was quite a feat to have accomplished.<br />
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Since 2009, most of the road between Bukavu and Lwiro has been beautifully repaved, I'm told, by Chinese contractors, so imagine my surprise when we arrived at the main house in slightly less than 50 minutes.<br />
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Our colleagues were outside -- including dear Cleve -- and we opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate his birthday, back again together in the wilds of Congo. It is sometimes hard to realize that we have been friends now for 10 years.<br />
<br />
Much like our first trip in Congo, Adam and I went to sleep our first night back in the country in a twin bed, ensconced in darkness, at a very early hour, with no electricity and no internet. As the rain fell hard in the night, I dreamed of chimpanzees.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Western Province, Rwanda-1.6963161907333189 29.249460526367102-1.7598036907333188 29.168779526367103 -1.6328286907333189 29.3301415263671tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-74478829521723585002016-02-21T10:55:00.000+01:002016-02-21T10:55:17.278+01:00Congo, you missed the boatI have not been to Congo since 2011, and, despite my experience and knowledge, heading back to the Goma border today, my heart raced as I tried to mentally brace myself for whatever might come.<br />
<br />
Sure, I had all my paperwork in order, my visa already freshly stamped in my passport, but Adam was coming in on this new "tourist visa" offered by <a href="http://visitvirunga.org/" target="_blank">Visit Virunga</a>, and the only promise he had was some printed paper and an email that literally said,<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"This is the document you need for you to cross smoothly. Print them out and your reservation to show at the border."</blockquote>
We had been staying in the border town of Gisenyi, in Rwanda, at the home of my friend Christina, whom I have known since 2003 when we both worked at the Jane Goodall Institute in DC. She dropped us at the border, and it was still dark, barely 5am. <br />
<br />
The lights flickered on and off in the pedestrian crossing. As we eyed the Congolese side, I saw hundreds of boys and men, running, screaming, just across the barrier. <br />
<br />
"What's happening over there?" I asked the Rwandan gate guard, "Sports?" I added, hoping to be right.<br />
<br />
"I don't know," he grunted in response. <br />
<br />
Maybe my problem is that, when I see people screaming in a country I know to be unpredictable, I keep walking <i>toward</i> the commotion. Because I did.<br />
<br />
Apparently on Sundays, there is some kind of sports club that does their exercises in the middle of the road, right next to the border. <br />
<br />
Everything was in order with my visa, but for Adam to be issued a tourist visa, the boss needed to arrive, and here it was 5:30am and he was nowhere to be found. Though the border has only recently been opened 24 hours, there is no communication about which services are offered during what hours, so there was not even clarity about what time this boss was meant to arrive to begin with.<br />
<br />
The principle guard was going to call him, but said he had no credits on his phone, so he used my phone instead. I don't ever mind having the private mobile number of DGMs (directors of general migration).<br />
<br />
It was still not even 6am, so, despite having reservations for the 7:30am boat to Bukavu, I figured that we still had plenty of time.<br />
<br />
As time passed, the darkness slipped away, leaving the morning in a sepia tone as we watched Congolese youths exercising in the road. Somewhere in the distance, a radio played Abba's "Dancing Queen" and a guy rollerdanced, swirling his arms and legs elegantly to the tinny beat.<br />
<br />
Around 6:45am, I started to worry, because the boss had not yet appeared, and the guards inside seemed disinclined to help.<br />
<br />
When I mentioned that I was worried we would miss the boat, one guard told me that it was my fault, for not having arrived the night before to arrange Adam's visa for a 7:30am departure. Apparently, leaving 2 hours is considered irresponsible.<br />
<br />
I asked if the boss could be called again, and the guard told me that if we called him, he would be bothered and upset. The guard promised that the boss would arrive by 7am.<br />
<br />
The minutes ticked by, and 7am came and went. I coordinated with our local organizer that the likelihood that we would make the boat was narrowing, but that once this boss came, we should be through right away.<br />
<br />
Of course, the boss arrived, and everything was <i>not</i> okay. Though Adam had been sent documents, the ICCN (the conservation sector of the government) had not sent over their correlating copies and nothing could be done without their authorization. My phone had no more credit, and, though the DGM had talked to someone on the phone in the ICCN, it seemed that everyone was confused, and slow, and the possibility of getting into the country at all for Adam was waning alarmingly fast.<br />
<br />
The DGM, to his credit, was actually quite nice, which in my experience is unusual. These kinds of diplomatic acrobatics are always treacherous, because you must be firm in your resolve to get whatever it is accomplished, but sweet enough to get the other person to tell you <b>what it is </b>you <i>need</i> to accomplish.<br />
<br />
I managed to wrangle the information about the documents that were missing and, in lieu of waiting all day for someone from the ICCN to bring those documents over, I volunteered to just go by moto myself and get the job done. We had almost no Congolese francs - just enough to get to the boat terminal, but the situation was getting dire. My colleagues had asked whether I would just take the 7:30am boat and leave Adam to sort himself, but quite frankly, that's not how we roll.<br />
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So, though I do not make it a habit, I left Adam at the border, and jumped on a motorcyle to go to the ICCN office in town. I ran the risk that, because it was a Sunday, that it would be closed, but someone had at least been present to answer the telephone, so I had a hope.<br />
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The DGM was even more uncharacteristically kind -- he walked me over to the motorcycle taxi waiting station, looking for a driver he knew, and then explained to him where I needed to go and how much it was going to cost.<br />
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I was back on a bodaboda, cruising the lava-strewn streets of Goma again for the first time in a decade. I clutched my folder of crucial documents, my money, my phone, and my hat -- hoping that I could pull off this last ditch effort to get Adam through, weaving in and out of pedestrian and vehicular traffic alike.<br />
<br />
Though the main doors of the office were closed, one of the side doors was open, so I dismounted quickly and ran inside the office. There was a leisurely man behind a desk, sporting a track suit, and, if it had been him that had received the call, he didn't seem to be in the midst of doing much of anything.<br />
<br />
I explained the situation to him, and emphasized that we had been at the border since 5:30am, that we had already missed the boat, and that we needed help. I had all my many printouts, thankfully, yet he was unable to find Adam in the system at all.<br />
<br />
More roadblocks. I took a deep breath, and worked through what it was that he needed in order to get this job accomplished. He wanted to wait for his colleague -- who had not yet arrived in the office, but I was not about to play more of the waiting game. I continued pressing, emphasizing that I knew his big boss, casually mentioning the names of many big players in the ICCN that I have happened to meet and know personally.<br />
<br />
I managed to convince him to just put Adam in the system, and then print his documents fresh for the DGM. Prodding, pushing, slowly, slowly. In French, <i>petit à petit</i>.<br />
<br />
I knew Adam was waiting alone at the border too, and my Rwandan data bundle had just given me the last of its internet, roaming in Congo.<br />
<br />
At last, the documents were printed, in color of course, and put into a clean manilla envelope. I jumped back on the motorbike that had waited for me, exuberant, successful, hopeful that everything would now be alright.<br />
<br />
The motorcycle was not allowed to take me all the way to the office, and the driver scowled at me, having had to wait for so long, he expected me to pay him more money.<br />
<br />
I passed the manilla envelope through the prison-like bars to the interior office, asking it to be brought directly to the boss. <br />
<br />
And then we waited. Twenty mere minutes later, Adam had a visa, colorful and bright in his little passport. I could not contain my joy and thanked the boss profusely, mostly because it was such a pleasure, working with someone at the border who was nice.<br />
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All in all, it took only 3.5 hours and probably a considerable amount of my life energy, but in Francophone countries, I am always going to work to make sure Adam is okay. I don't know what would have happened if he had been alone, unable to enter the town to go to the ICCN offices, unable to speak French, but that is a matter I will be taking up with the Visit Virunga people.<br />
<br />
One day maybe he'll realize that he should resent me for taking him to the toughest places on Earth, but thankfully today is not that day.<br />
<br />
In several hours, we'll be on the boat to Bukavu and to <a href="http://lwiro.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Lwiro Sanctuary</a>, and getting to see the chimpanzees -- the Aketi Five -- that we literally risked our lives to save in 2009. We have not seen them since then, and I can feel the happiness welling up inside me at the mere thought. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Goma, Democratic Republic of the Congo-1.658501 29.22045479999997-1.785477 29.059093299999969 -1.531525 29.381816299999972tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-72537658044557512532013-06-20T13:13:00.000+01:002013-11-20T13:14:32.407+01:00Living in KenyaBlog followers! Thanks for keeping track of us. We're currently living in Nairobi, Kenya.<br />
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You can continue following our expat exploits at <a href="http://kenya.darbysingh.com/">kenya.darbysingh.com</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-32897621974250160762012-09-15T22:52:00.001+01:002012-09-17T15:59:01.872+01:00How Can Technology Save the Great Apes?<div class="bloggerplus_image_link_section">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Local photographer's photo of chimp hunters, unafraid of repercussions</td></tr>
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Internet is ubiquitous in most of the first world. We can tweet about lost dogs, text friends who are in the same room, and Skype our moms from a bonfire in the middle of the woods to wish them a Happy New Year. <br />
<br />
As a result, we can stay abreast of current news. Internet technology was instrumental in the coordination of crowd activities in the riots in Egypt. Japanese tweets during the earthquake helped to mobilize response teams and let family members abroad know that their loved ones were safe. <br />
<br />
Yet there are areas of the world where no such technology exists. I work in the northern part of the Democratic Republic of Congo, where even most Congolese mobile providers do not have towers. <br />
<br />
The only option for me to get online and transmit the things I saw was through an Inmarsat BGAN that connected directly to a satellite and gave me relatively speedy Internet at an extremely high premium. I had to use it sparingly, since my employers were paying $500 a month for only 100MB of upload and download traffic, 3% of the data I use on my PHONE in a month. <br />
<br />
The resulting Internet isolation makes sharing knowledge in these areas difficult, and applying conservation laws and initiatives nearly impossible.<br />
<br />
Case in point: during my second field excursion, I passed a convoy of five bicycles carrying elephant meat, distinct because of its particular odor.<br />
<br />
Three days later, a team of policemen came by, acting on a report that there had been elephant poachers in the area. The elephant poachers were obviously long-gone, and the policemen, aware that they had no chance of success, instead killed a giant pangolin (another protected species), ate it, and went home.<br />
<br />
Now, how could technology remedy these scenarios? It's not with the invention of new technology, but the application of technology that has proven itself SO instrumental in the Western world.<br />
<br />
Imagine if we focused on blanketing remote countries like DRCongo with cell towers? <br />
<br />
Suddenly, the ability to communicate information quickly and efficiently changes how we work within the field. Researchers could broadcast their findings to their supervisors and other researchers. Sharing of information real-time would enable the sharing of ideas and help identify patterns that could be addressed immediately within the field to aid in conservation projects. <br />
<br />
Alerts about illegal activities, orphan trading, or bushmeat could be disseminated easily. Many of the laws designed to protect great apes are NOT being enforced because no one knows they are being broken. <br />
<br />
Increasing scientists' ability to transmit their stories publicly can also help to raise awareness for great ape conservation. <br />
<br />
With the application of first world mobile technology: the construction and expansion of cellular service and coverage in remote zones that also serve as habitat to some of the most endangered great apes, we can bring communications up to speed and enable ourselves to better protect and predict threats to these important species. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-46023429835401560252011-09-01T21:04:00.002+01:002012-01-30T18:32:47.413+01:00Out of the Field Summary!<div style="text-align: left;">I'm currently out of the field, and this blog stays mostly dormant while I'm in the States.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I like to have new visitors, though, and so, if you are new, here are some videos and entries that have been popular in the past!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2010/12/accolades-and-internet-fame.html">Our feature in the New York Times, Perez Hilton and boingboing</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2009/04/whole-story.html">A Dramatic Escape</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2008/10/juif-noir.html">Drunken 3-Walled Bureaucracy</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2008/10/on-road-again.html">A Long Journey by Motorbike through the Jungle</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2008/10/big-cheese.html">The Haves and the Have Nots</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1539623017"><br />
</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2008/11/notes-from-my-forest-journal-entry-4.html">Notes from my Forest Journal</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2008/11/worst-day-yet.html">The Tin Debacle</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2009/01/just-when-you-think-it-couldn-readers.html">The Real Dreggs of Malaria</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2008/12/little-diplomacy.html">Cloaked Diplomacy </a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2008/12/merry-christmas-from-drc.html">Our Christmas Video</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2009/01/foray-into-french-fries-photo-journal.html">Jungle French Fries (a Photo Essay)</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2009/01/serious-dearth-of-supplies.html">Scholarly Toilet Paper</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2009/01/suffer-me-not.html">Sad Chimpanzee Confiscations</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2009/01/roman-hands.html">Cross-Cultural Man-ssages </a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2009/02/completely-different-ending.html">"They ate him"</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2009/02/field-journal-day-three.html">Abandon the old!</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2009/03/one-hell-of-day.html">Supporting Women's Rights Through Female Subjugation</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2009/03/under-siforco-moon.html">Under the SIFORCO Moon</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-44837634490349942172011-04-20T11:07:00.001+01:002011-04-20T11:07:21.721+01:00Airport Pickup!<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5636896293/" title="Airport Pickup!"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5267/5636896293_d96bf63b65.jpg" alt="Airport Pickup! by amalthya" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5636896293/">Airport Pickup!</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/">amalthya</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p>Sigh! (and to think that Lizzie spelled it for them too!!)</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-78738221489001669682011-04-20T11:05:00.001+01:002011-04-20T11:05:01.497+01:00Kisangani Airport "Lounge"<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5637471330/" title="Kisangani Airport "Lounge""><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5187/5637471330_ac3a5802d2.jpg" alt="Kisangani Airport "Lounge" by amalthya" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5637471330/">Kisangani Airport "Lounge"</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/">amalthya</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p>My home for nearly 4 hours of delays and waiting yesterday.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-84559322025316286692011-04-20T11:04:00.003+01:002011-04-20T11:04:19.751+01:00Freddy<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5636891913/" title="Freddy"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5143/5636891913_e029df1ed5.jpg" alt="Freddy by amalthya" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5636891913/">Freddy</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/">amalthya</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p>This chimpanzee has lived most of his life in the Kisangani Zoo, alone. I'll write up a more comprehensive update to Cleve's Kisangani Zoo report from 2009, but Freddy is certainly suffering.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-87891070855608393552011-04-20T11:04:00.001+01:002011-04-20T11:04:15.923+01:00Sunset in Kisangani<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5637470212/" title="Sunset in Kisangani"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5103/5637470212_aaa5490488.jpg" alt="Sunset in Kisangani by amalthya" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5637470212/">Sunset in Kisangani</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/">amalthya</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-65278130268483633902011-04-20T11:02:00.001+01:002011-04-20T11:02:00.621+01:00PPRD Visit<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5637467118/" title="PPRD Visit"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5225/5637467118_6634e2f8b7.jpg" alt="PPRD Visit by amalthya" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5637467118/">PPRD Visit</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/">amalthya</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p>Political party candidates visiting Kisangani is a big deal - parade at the airport!!</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-83859514952018120612011-04-20T11:00:00.001+01:002011-04-20T11:00:28.978+01:00Kisangani Falls<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5637465074/" title="Kisangani Falls"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5101/5637465074_36b538ed1f.jpg" alt="Kisangani Falls by amalthya" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5637465074/">Kisangani Falls</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/">amalthya</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-22383462653259211832011-04-20T10:46:00.001+01:002011-04-20T10:46:03.667+01:00J'avais oublié<i>Monday, 6:43 am</i><br /><br />I had forgotten the chill of the air in the morning, as it rolls off the river, fat and moist and cold. <br /><br />I had forgotten the hazy glow of a cavernous room, lit from above by a single bulb <br /><br />I had forgotten the thick woody smell of Kisangani, where most still cook by fire, and bricks are made in towering mounds that pulsate with heat. <br /><br />I'd forgotten the angry hum of the generator, constantly buzzing in the background, eager not to be forgotten because it is your only source of electricity or light as the night enters Kisangani and permeates every room of the house. <br /><br />I had forgotten too the hot stickiness on the back of my neck, sleeping against a foam mattress in the stagnant heat of the night and sweating through my hair. <br /><br />Yet I imagine most people in Kinshasa never experience these things, for while this is the Congo that I love most, the morning clattering with birds and rustling and cocks crowing, it is nothing like the capital city, hot and dry and brown. <br /><br />Our trip to Kisangani yesterday felt long. We woke up at 5 to get things done before we left, and the airplane at noon was delayed because pilots were missing, and they kept piling us onto and off of the bus that only went 200 meters to the plane and back to the hollow lounge. The airport itself is chaotic, as men scream at each other and it reverberates in the huge cement room, and everyone is keen to "help" as they surround you. Official workers are not always in official uniforms, and I find that, to preserve my sanity, I tend to outright ignore about 90% of what is said to me. <br /><br />Travelers in the US complain of body scans, but flying in Congo is far more invasive. There is a security check at every door, and at least 4 doors before you even reach the lounge. Each check wants not only your passport and ticket, but your <i>Ordre de Mission</i>, your visa, your profession, your origin, how long you are staying, and each man eyeballs you as though you couldn't possibly be flying for any reason but SIN! Or anti-government treachery. <br /><br />Even just to leave the airport on your flight, you need a "Go Pass". For domestic flights, it costs $15 for the privilege of leaving Kinshasa, but for international flights, it costs $50. <br /><br />Can you imagine traveling anywhere in the US where they needed your stated purpose for traveling, written by your employer, stamped and signed and sealed? And had to pay just to leave??<br /><br />My bags were searched twice by white-gloved "agents" who, unlike their counterparts in the Western world, scoured even the bottom of my bag with a hungry, eager look in their eyes. It's hard to believe that something is forbidden on the plane when the first question they ask is "what is this?" <br /><br />After much scowling and arguing, they walked away with only my Tom's toothpaste and 2 batteries, so, if you're in Kinshasa and want some Tom's, check the markets near N'jili today. <br /><br />It's about a 2 hour flight between Kinshasa and Kisangani, but it feels a world away. Kinshasa has few trees left, but Kisangani has them in abundance, surrounding the airport, flanking the roads. Kisangani is a relatively big town, but it still feels quiet and wild. Though it is considered one of the "big" cities of Congo, we have no electricity right now because there hasn't been any for 2 weeks. <br /><br />Along the river from the front stoop where I sit, surrounded by verdant green, I can see an old street lamp and birds flying into it, as it may no longer work to provide light but can still provide shelter. Just over the wall of the compound is a tall pole with tattered remnants of a Congolese flag, fluttering in the cool morning breeze.<br /><br />I wish I got to spend more time here, but I know I will be able to next time. <br /><br />Until we meet again, Kisangani<br /><br /><br />- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad<br /><p class='blogpress_location'>Location:<a href='http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Kisangani,%20%C3%A0%20cot%C3%A9%20de%20fleuve&z=10'>Kisangani, à coté de fleuve</a></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-21315716485710747062011-04-10T10:30:00.002+01:002011-04-10T10:38:59.195+01:00Waiting for Transport<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5188/5605582312_41152ce27b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5188/5605582312_41152ce27b.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Midday on the Boulevard, No Means to Get Home</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Kinshasa is an enormous city, sprawling across western DRCongo and along the banks of the Congo River. In addition to many many many Congolese nationals, it is packed with expatriates, from government workers, embassy staff, people from the <a href="http://www.icc-cpi.int/Menus/ICC/">ICC</a>, the UN, to NGOs, big and small.<br />
<br />
To accommodate all this traffic, Chinese engineers have flooded Kinshasa, engaged in road building and construction enterprises, attempting to modernize the dusty unpaved roads and put in proper drainage systems to save the new roads from rainy season.<br />
<br />
The city is full of its own systems too -- secret hand signals and noises that alert individuals to the presence or need for goods and services. People at the side of the road lazily hold their hands out, index finger extended, and twirl it around, as though pointing to a dog chasing its own tail. It means that they need a taxi. People selling water make a kissing noise, perhaps to remind you that your lips are parched and in need of some of their delicious refreshing <i>maji. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
The men selling sodas clink their metal bottle openers against the glass, and it's a sound that travels quite a distance easily. Other services, like a traveling shoe shine man, makes his own noise. While I've seen the traveling pedicure man at work, I've yet to hear his call, but I am curious to know what it could be!<br />
<br />
The Boulevard, the main road down the center of Kinshasa, <a href="http://kosubaawate.blogspot.com/2011/01/kinshasa-2010-boulevard-30-juin-comes.html">had once been a lazy avenue of trees </a> -- flanked with landscaping to escape the dusty urban grit. But this past year, the trees were cut down, the grass removed, the landscaping abolished, and the Boulevard was transformed into an 8-lane superhighway! <br />
<br />
It's amazing to drive down this highway, partially because there is no posted speed limit, but also because it is an extremely high quality road that seems to not take into account the needs of the hundreds of thousands of pedestrians that Kinshasa is replete with. Zebra stripes (crosswalks) were painted to help people cross the Boulevard, but in reality, people must dart frantically across this enormous mid-city highway, day or night, and cars rarely stop or slow down. It's hot, and dusty, and barren, and the sun bouncing off of the stark concrete compound walls and shop fronts gives little reprieve to passers-by. The trees are gone, and the grass and flowers, and Kinshasa has achieved its goal of feeling less like a <i>town</i> and more like a <i>city</i>.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5594911566/" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Mama ya Lipa by amalthya, on Flickr"><img alt="Mama ya Lipa" height="239" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5308/5594911566_b167ceaf68.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bread Mamas -- all heading away from the bakery</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The infrastructure that runs to support a city, however, is missing here. There are lots of workarounds -- individual men have push-pushes (big two-wheeled pushcarts) and local shopowners pay these men to collect the garbage that they accrue and that accumulates on the roads and walkways in front of their shops. There's little truck-distribution of most goods, but very early in the morning a huge horde of ladies waits, their empty buckets waiting, in front of the bakery to collect the freshly-baked bread that they will sell that day. Driving along the side roads, it is a veritable parade as these ladies walk, heads laden with bread, the air thick with that fresh bakery smell.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/29/108904030_668add3608.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/29/108904030_668add3608.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bicycle Taxis in Goma, DRCongo<br />
(Photo I took in 2006)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But certain workarounds are more difficult than a parade of bread-bearing ladies at the side of the road. Kinshasa, as it grows, has no means of public transport. At the periphery of the city, there are motorcycle taxis -- <i>wewas</i> -- but these motorbikes don't seem to travel inward to the city center, nor are they as ubiquitous as the <i>bodaboda</i> motorcycle taxis of Kampala, Uganda or even Goma in eastern DRC. In Kinshasa, there are regular taxis: cars that people signal with the rotating index finger, and they are typically piled with six passengers, hunched and cramped in the back seat. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.allcountries.org/flags/congo_democratic_republic_flag_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://www.allcountries.org/flags/congo_democratic_republic_flag_large.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The amended flag of 2006<br />
(the red stripe was added)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The minibus taxis are the most visible, painted in the country colors of bright blue and yellow. Perhaps in 2006 when they changed the flag to include red, it was meant not to represent blood, but instead the copper rust on these minibus taxis.<br />
<br />
Because, despite the rust, and the doors falling off their hinges, and the windows made of tape or plastic bags or cardboard or some combination of all three, these vans continue to run, because they MUST continue to run. As Kinshasa continues to grow and expand, giving more economic opportunities to the Congolese, the necessity of travel, especially over longer distances, taxes the current privately-owned transportation system. And, as a result, during peak travel hours, I have seen upwards of 100 people waiting at the side of the road, baking in the sun, waiting for a van with available seats to come along.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5268/5594917992_618f26d91f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5268/5594917992_618f26d91f.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All these people are waiting for transport</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I asked a couple taxi men why there weren't more minibus taxis being bought to accommodate the extra need. Money. Credit. And Stability. Getting credit to buy a minibus here is nigh impossible, because a country that has only just enjoyed "stability" (or a local approximation of it) for the last couple years isn't really the ideal locale for a loan. Gas is expensive. Repairs are expensive. The roads that <i>aren't</i> the boulevard take a toll on the wheels, the alignment, the undercarriage because they're so bad and riddled with potholes. Few people have the means to set up a minibus enterprise, and, for the time being, the government isn't doing anything to help them out. So people wait. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5308/5592669552_c4ae4ba4db.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5308/5592669552_c4ae4ba4db.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Push-pushes, cars, and me, waiting at a non-functioning<br />
traffic light in Kinshasa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It's an interesting example of urban planning. For the foreseeable future, Kinshasa will remain a city of pedestrians, but roads continue to be expanded, eliminating walkways, crosswalks and sidewalks. One must take into account too that the people doing most of the road construction (which in Congo is Chinese expat engineers) don't necessarily have the same goals in mind as country nationals. Perhaps too they are less conscious of the needs of the city itself, and more focused on making Kinshasa Urbanized™. <br />
<br />
I look forward to continuing to work in DRC and seeing how Kinshasa ends up addressing some of these issues. If the elections this November go smoothly, perhaps creditors will be more willing to lend here, and the cogs of independent infrastructure that have sprung up to deal with other needs of a big city will address the transportation issue. In the interim, people make due! Like this guy, who needed a ride while traveling with lots of parcels, but couldn't find space!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5097/5594347197_eabf350c4c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5097/5594347197_eabf350c4c.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stuntmen get paid extra for this</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Here is a minibus, the conductor hanging out the side (as is usual), stopping to pick up passengers at the side of the road:</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5025/5594930794_a316d58d53.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5025/5594930794_a316d58d53.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Most minibus taxis are painted blue and yellow like this one</td></tr>
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-22263141841773454812011-04-10T09:07:00.000+01:002011-04-10T09:07:13.522+01:00Ibiza at Midnight<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" data="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=71377" height="309" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="550"> <param name="flashvars" value="intl_lang=en-us&photo_secret=f3168bf62f&photo_id=5602574145"></param><param name="movie" value="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=71377"></param><param name="bgcolor" value="#000000"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=71377" bgcolor="#000000" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="intl_lang=en-us&photo_secret=f3168bf62f&photo_id=5602574145" height="309" width="550"></embed></object><br />
Kinshasa is a huge, vibrant city, and one would think that, considering the number of expatriates here that the ensuing synthesis of cultures would make for incredible fun. And sometimes, as with <a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2011/03/la-salsa-congolaise.html">the integrated salsa culture here</a>, it does!<br />
<br />
We spent part of Friday night at Ibiza Jazz Club, a smokey and small club in downtown Kinshasa that is apparently ONLY open on Fridays nights. What they do with the venue during the rest of the week, I don't know, but it definitely explains why a Gin & Tonic is $15.<br />
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Ibiza was packed, though, and filled with excitement and energy as people grooved, transfixed to the beat. There was a curly-haired expat <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b1kLxLdtIiE">saxophonist</a> and an older expat guitarist <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5602550305/">(who was AMAZiNG)</a>, and they came and went, as other musicians pinch hit. The conga drummer, a burly guy, looked enraptured, leaning his head back as shook all over with the fervor of the music.<br />
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A mix of Latin music, scat, African -- every type of music flowed through Ibiza on Friday night. It felt a bit like a movie speakeasy, with the requisite hipsters, hair slicked back and sunglasses indoors, sprawled on the curved couch with a foxy lady on either side of them.<br />
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There was proper salsa-style dancing at the end of the night, as the huge crowds trickled away and left some space on the dance floor for movement. A good night, and a lovely presentation of Congolese nightlife.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-26733199837990175362011-04-08T07:13:00.002+01:002011-04-08T07:15:08.741+01:00Happy 70th Birthday to My Mom!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://a7.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/156638_1767159781405_1311505830_1953844_2585510_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://a7.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/156638_1767159781405_1311505830_1953844_2585510_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mom, in her natural habitat, knitting before my wedding. <br />
©CKGillette</td></tr>
</tbody></table>A lot of people laughed when I acknowledged <a href="http://a3.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash1/32270_391961061133_657116133_4199228_5880434_n.jpg">"The Carol Gould Foundation for Overambitious Daughters"</a> during my first scientific presentation at a conference last year. But I would not have been able to complete that research, <i>or any research</i>, without the support of my mother. When I was in Congo the last time, within the first two months, our generator died, our motorbike died, and between those expenses and some others equally unforeseen, the money that I had raised for the trip was nearly gone, leaving us destitute in Congo with four baby chimps to feed, staff to pay, and research to complete and many more months left to go!<br />
<br />
My mom bailed me out, saving not only me, but all of the people who were dependent on me! She's a generous spirit, a wonderful person, and deserves nothing but happiness and cake today! <br />
<br />
Please share with me today a celebratory huzzah for this woman who saves chimpanzees by proxy! Without her I don't know where I'd be!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-59455812946492018532011-04-06T10:09:00.002+01:002011-04-06T10:43:02.919+01:00MONUC Plane Crash in Kinshasa<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/55/151127641_7a51edfbdd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/55/151127641_7a51edfbdd.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flying on a UN plane from Entebbe to Goma in 2006</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I've gotten a couple of emails from worried people in the USA, who have seen<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-12962210"> news of a plane crash here in Kinshasa</a>. What's jarring, at least for the ex-pats, is that it was a UN plane, which we all consider to be "safe". <br />
<br />
Lots of the commercial airlines here use extremely old planes, and there is constant fear that they will just fall out of the sky or <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/oct/22/escaped-crocodile-congo-plane-crash">erupt full of crocodiles</a> or maybe just slowly fall into pieces and one will be left, cartoon-style, sitting in one's seat all by itself as it careens along through the sky with no more plane around it.<br />
<br />
But the MONUC flights are supposed to be better than that. <i>Crocodile-free</i>, even. I've flown with the UN over ten times already, and even though the planes were laughably dated -- the plane in the above photo had wood-paneling and ancient, faded orange shag carpeting -- I figured that the UN wouldn't be using it if it weren't in good shape.<br />
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</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/44/111458135_516a5bde1c_t.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/44/111458135_516a5bde1c_t.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">UN Copter over Goma</td></tr>
</tbody></table>One of the scariest flights I've ever taken was actually on a UN helicopter from Goma to Bukavu, across Lake Kivu. It was me, Willi, and a host of Indian Army guys, and when the copter shook so violently that it felt like each of the bolts would shimmy from its hole and we would explode in a shower of aluminum over the lake, even THEY looked nervous. But still the pretense of safety persisted.<br />
<br />
Lots of aid workers fly around DRC with UN flights sometimes several times in a single month. I think the recent crash will make everyone wary for a while, and will certainly make MONUC stricter about adhering to weather advisories. I actually filmed the storm that downed this plane, and that can be watched <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5588361863/">here</a>.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.bonoboincongo.com/2011/04/06/in-memoriam-victim-of-kinshasa-plane-crash/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5101/5594657136_a448a62582.jpg" width="271" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mendes Masudi, in front, at a TL2 Workshop in Kindu</td></tr>
</tbody></table>In the interim, it's important to mourn the people who died on the flight -- 32 of the 33 people onboard (29 passengers, 4 staff). Names haven't been released to most people, but Terese discovered that an advocate of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tshuapa-Lomami-Lualaba_Conservation_Landscape">TL2</a> was among the dead. <br />
<br />
From <a href="http://www.bonoboincongo.com/2011/04/06/in-memoriam-victim-of-kinshasa-plane-crash/">Terese's blog</a>:<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1b330f; font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"></span><br />
<blockquote><i>As vice-governor he was our strongest ally in the provincial government. He pushed hard to get the first no-hunting season established. He wanted six months with no hunting and no bushmeat in the market. Finally a three month season became law.<br />
It was his staunch support that gave credibility to the case for conservation of Maniema’s rich Lomami hinterland. Congo’s forests have lost an advocate. Alas.</i></blockquote><br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-27013432345406038742011-04-06T09:05:00.002+01:002011-04-06T09:17:06.195+01:00Remettez le Bonobo<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" data="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=71377" height="300" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="529"> <param name="flashvars" value="intl_lang=en-us&photo_secret=0e53a5cc49&photo_id=5592105729"></param><param name="movie" value="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=71377"></param><param name="bgcolor" value="#000000"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=71377" bgcolor="#000000" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="intl_lang=en-us&photo_secret=0e53a5cc49&photo_id=5592105729" height="300" width="529"></embed></object><br />
<br />
During my meeting yesterday with Minister L, a man was apparently brought in who had been trying to sell a bonobo. Minister L and I were discussing the dangers of pet ape trafficking, and he said, sort of offhandedly, "We have a bonobo here right now -- do you want to see it?"<br />
<br />
It's always alarming to be confronted with a situation such as this one. A bonobo or chimpanzee, removed from its family and its natural habitat, is an awful thing to see. If you can imagine a tiny human orphan, starved, too-skinny, wild eyed and being massed by people and picture its fear, it comes close to the terror experienced by great ape orphans. For we all look huge, and unfamiliar, and terrifying, as most human experience for great apes involves hunting by the humans and fleeing by the apes.<br />
<br />
It was therefore incredibly reassuring when the door opened and Fanny walked in, Fanny whom I met early in my Kinshasa visit <a href="http://lifeincongo.blogspot.com/2011/03/paradise.html">when I went to Lola Ya Bonobo</a>. To know that the appropriate people were already aware of the situation and that it was being handled immediately eased my sense of alarm. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5592069127/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Bonobo Confiscation by amalthya, on Flickr"><img alt="Bonobo Confiscation" height="400" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5189/5592069127_708e7512ae.jpg" width="299" /></a>The bonobo was brought into the office, terribly skinny, and already suffering from some of the side-effects of prolonged dehydration. I stayed 5 meters away, to prevent spreading any of my own disease, as many orphans succumb to disease soon after they are confiscated. Two of our orphans in Aketi did, and one of the effects of not having been able to eat or drink for 5 days. <br />
<br />
But most others crowded around the baby, and his look of terror was awful. Despite living in Congo, most Congolese have never been outside of the major centers like Kinshasa, and therefore have never seen firsthand some of the megafauna that Congo is full of. Curiosity and excitement brewed in the office as people clamored around the grated windows, standing on their tippy toes, straining for a peek.<br />
<br />
Fanny had brought a variety of fruits, and the bonobo, confronted with the bounty, immediately grabbed a banana and began eating ravenously. It's a good sign when the feelings of hunger overwhelm the feelings of terror, as many confiscated orphans are too scared even to eat. But it doesn't always ensure survival or success. The bonobo cried loudly, a sound that, in the wild, would bring his mother to his side immediately to comfort and protect him, but without a mother, he was left to cry alone, his mouth, overstuffed with banana, frozen in a grimace of fear and submission. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5592679186/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Poor scared orphan bonobo by amalthya, on Flickr"><img alt="Poor scared orphan bonobo" height="400" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5178/5592679186_51d90f40aa.jpg" width="299" /></a>Fanny made sure that all of the documentation was provided from Minister L, legally signing over guardianship of this orphan to Lola Ya Bonobo. It is SO important here, as I've mentioned many a time in this blog, to have<i> les documents</i>. It's what saved me on the airstrip when we were trying to escape Aketi. <br />
<br />
It seemed to take forever, though, the process of making copies, reading everything over, again and again, and finally signing the papers and utilizing the all-important embossed stamp that makes a hand-written piece of paper a legally-binding Congolese document. <br />
<br />
Thank goodness that Fanny left when she did, as the original proprietor of the bonobo returned, requesting money or that Minister L "Remettez le bonobo" (give him back). Another crowd ensued, which thankfully dispersed after only 30 minutes, but the tension was high as we finished our meeting.<br />
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At the end of the day's events yesterday, I left inspired to do more -- and hoping fervently that this tiny baby bonobo survives. I will of course update on both counts. <br />
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- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad<br />
<div class="blogpress_location">Location:<a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Avenue%20Colonel%20Mondjiba,Kinshasa,Democratic%20Republic%20of%20the%20Congo%40-4.322028%2C15.273716&z=10">Avenue Colonel Mondjiba,Kinshasa,Democratic Republic of the Congo</a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-90818034118032780602011-04-06T07:03:00.001+01:002011-04-06T07:03:46.554+01:00Sound the AlarumI am a whistle blower. <br /><br />It's a dangerous occupation here in Congo, where lots of the people who are corrupt are able to be so because of connections with higher-ups, but failing to circulate the reports of bad behavior is akin to condoning it in my mind. <br /><br />Dian Fossey was a whistle-blower too, and everyone knows what happened when her whistle blew too loudly too often and people got tired of hearing it.<br /><br />Yesterday I finally got to meet with a relatively well-connected member of the Ministry of the Environment here in Kinshasa. I was given his contact information from an influential conservationist that I met in Kyoto last year, to give you a sense of the power of collaboration and networking even here in Congo.<br /><br />Lots of the government positions here are often arbitrary titles; men assigned to duties who might not necessarily care about their wards, making collaboration difficult if not impossible.<br /><br />Most (not all) of the men I encountered, tasked with protecting the environment in Aketi fell into that basket, making my impassioned pleas on behalf of the chimpanzees I was trying so desperately to save that much less effective.<br /><br />Yesterday, however, I told Minister L exactly what I'd witnessed in Aketi. I told him about the 44 orphans that Cleve and I had witnessed over the course of a little more than a year. I told him about the elephant and chimp meat in the markets, about the men who traveled along the main roads, without fear, their bicycle baskets laden with the distinctively smelly elephant meat, and yes, I told him of stories I'd heard of ladies in the market, paying off the local environment minister in order to continue selling illicit meats.<br /><br />It could have gone terribly. Minister L could have taken it as a critique of his country, of his government, but the look on his face when I told him these tales suggested otherwise. He seemed genuinely horrified and appalled, and listened with rapt attention.<br /><br />I don't hate his country, and he understood that. I've worked here now for over two years, and he saw my passion to protect its patrimony. I told him about my research, and he understood that I hope to safeguard the miners from disease as much as the chimpanzees. My French isn't by any means perfect, but he understood that the real problem in north Congo is that no one knows what's happening there, and therefore no one has the information to stop it. <br /><br />One policeman on every major road (of which there are no more than 4) would inhibit the easy trafficking that happens now, and Minister L and I formulated a plan to meet with the local chiefs and ministers not only to educate but get such a regulation in place. It is now a distant goal, since it needs to be proposed, funded, structured, planned, but the fact that it was in great part his idea, and that HE seemed so passionate about it, motivates me to move forward with it as early as I can. <br /><br />So often, the sense of infantilism seems to inhibit intuitive problem-solving here in Congo. If some NGO or some expat or some country will come in and plan it all and do it, why bother to even theorize? Yet there are some here who are capable, and motivated, and need only the structure and the means. It's important to support that, and after the productivity of my meeting yesterday, something that I feel committed to doing. <br /><br /><br />- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad<br /><p class='blogpress_location'>Location:<a href='http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Avenue%20Colonel%20Mondjiba,Kinshasa,Democratic%20Republic%20of%20the%20Congo%40-4.322028%2C15.273716&z=10'>Avenue Colonel Mondjiba,Kinshasa,Democratic Republic of the Congo</a></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-33544668923312044132011-03-24T18:39:00.001+01:002011-03-24T18:39:33.228+01:00Cine Majestic<br /><br /><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/72758504@N00/5555867679/'><img src='http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5069/5555867679_742f4eff92_b.jpg' border='0' width='400' height='299' align='left' style='margin:5px'></a><br />I may gripe about being stuck in Kinshasa for extra weeks, but Foreign Service people here typically have 2 year tours, and they've got to keep busy!<br /><br />We took a big group trip on Tuesday to the local "movie theatre" to see a "special showing" of The King's Speech. I hadn't actually seen it while I was in the States, but love Colin Firth and was obviously interested in the post-Oscar buzz.<br /><br />I don't know that I would have ever found this place, and the other FS people here have commented that any social activities circulate only through word of mouth. <br /><br />It was about 15 of us, piled into a small room that was appointed with some extremely nice and plush chairs surrounding a table that held an LCD projector. They didn't have popcorn, but they did sell semi-cold beer and wine. <br /><br />We didn't get tickets, because "the man with the key [to the ticket book] had gone" which, for those who have worked in central or eastern Africa, is a common error that borders on farcical. I giggle every time I hear it, and think about <a target="_blank" href="http://www.amazon.com/Man-Key-Has-Gone/dp/187436723X">Ian Clarke's book of the same title</a>. <br /><br /><br /><br /><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/72758504@N00/5555868607/'><img src='http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5296/5555868607_e7e5047237_b.jpg' border='0' width='281' height='210' align='right' style='margin:5px'></a><br />I chuckled too as the movie started, and I saw on the projected screen that we were watching a bootleg DivX rip using VLC. Hehehe. David G would be proud! <br /><br />I actually really enjoyed the film, and it was nice to have another group outing after our exciting trip to Maluku. Tonight the theatre is showing Black Swan, and I may go with another expat who hasn't yet seen it!<br /><br />- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad<br /><p class='blogpress_location'>Location:<a href='http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Avenue%20Colonel%20Mondjiba,Kinshasa,Democratic%20Republic%20of%20the%20Congo%40-4.322028%2C15.273716&z=10'>Avenue Colonel Mondjiba,Kinshasa,Democratic Republic of the Congo</a></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-7774507540744405382011-03-23T13:39:00.001+01:002011-03-23T13:39:35.336+01:00The Maluku Resort<br /><br /><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/72758504@N00/5553002204/'><img src='http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5188/5553002204_108db903b4_b.jpg' border='0' width='400' height='300' align='left' style='margin:5px'></a><br />In the spirit of getting out and getting to know Kinshasa, I spent my Sunday with a number of State Department and UN friends on a little boating pilgrimage to a Portuguese "resort" called Maluku, on the banks of the Congo River. <br /><br />I don't know how I would have ever found it myself... we started the day early in order to get to the marina and take out the boat, a US Embassy vessel appropriately named "Getaway" since, when it's not being rented for day trips, it is the evacuation boat for certain Americans. <br /><br /><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/72758504@N00/5553003494/'><img src='http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5175/5553003494_f82afeebfc_b.jpg' border='0' width='281' height='210' align='right' style='margin:5px'></a><br />The marina itself was lined with fancy speedboats, yet surrounding this stashed wealth were people, literally living on the fringe of society. Camped in rusted old tugboats, many of them clearly askew as they slowly sunk with time, laundry line hung between cracking masts and naked flagpoles. A line of stilted houses, made not with tin or wood but hung on the sides with old billboards or ripped and dirty flaps of cloth, cluttered a sand dune that sat between the channel out to the river and the river itself. <br /><br /><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/72758504@N00/5553009916/'><img src='http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5026/5553009916_3f0368326f_b.jpg' border='0' width='281' height='210' align='left' style='margin:5px'></a><br />It took about an hour to get there, the sky was still overcast when we left, and its grey haze, reflected in the still water made it difficult to distinguish between water and sky. It was early still, and Sunday, and still we saw the occasional fishing boat, the men inside in the midst of a beautifully coordinated dance as they released their net into the water and pulled it out. <br /><br /><br /><br /><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/72758504@N00/5553010928/'><img src='http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5054/5553010928_2195f0e5dd_b.jpg' border='0' width='210' height='281' align='right' style='margin:5px'></a><br />When we arrived, we were among the first, and we sat in our fancy yellow beer-sponsored plastic chairs and put our things down on the beer-sponsored tablecloths. Eager and opportunistic young men came from the shore and from the trees to sell us things: catfish, still alive and wriggling, so heavy that the young men struggled to bring them up the hill from the beach. <br /><br />Men came from the forests along the edges of Maluku, arms laden with fresh avocados and green lumpy lemons. <br /><br />I thought we'd be relaxing and reading, but the good collection of folks chatted until, after about 2 hours, our food came. Delicious, FRESH fish right from the river, grilled and sweet, if not a bit bony. <br /><br /><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/72758504@N00/5553011894/'><img src='http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5067/5553011894_bf09d02f95_b.jpg' border='0' width='281' height='210' align='right' style='margin:5px'></a><br />I was the only one who felt like swimming after such a big meal, most likely on account of the unknown factors of the river mores than the full stomachs. <br /><br />There are all sorts of "exciting" waterborne parasites, which I felt were more of a danger than any real threat of crocodiles :)<br /><br />I planned originally to go into the water in flip flops, but two steps in told me that if I went in with them, they weren't coming back with me. The bottom of the river was slick, slimy, and impossibly suctioning. I took my feet out of the shoes even to get them out of the mud, and threw them back to the shore. <br /><br />The slick slime of the bottom gave me some pause as I waded out deeper, needing to go quite far to even have water above my knees. If I had gone much farther, I would have ended up in Republic of Congo, right across the river!<br /><br />The water itself, though brown and murky, wasn't cold and felt refreshing in the hot sun. The current was strong, but I wondered what it would take to actually swim across to RoC. <br /><br />After the swim, we relaxed more in our small little grass-thatched shamba, watching various cargo boats and makeshift sailing boats go by, their plastic tarp sails taut with wind. <br /><br /><br /><br /><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/72758504@N00/5553013338/'><img src='http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5023/5553013338_88119e8471_b.jpg' border='0' width='281' height='210' align='left' style='margin:5px'></a><br />Big logging boats went by too, a small tug followed by 50+ logs, bound together and floating on the river, their guardians standing, watchfully, on the surface of the logs that were also dotted with their rudimentary sleeping tents. <br /><br />By 3pm, we needed to get the boat back, so we packed up and lazily boarded The Getaway, the afternoon sun scorching us as it bounced from the still water. <br /><br />I've traveled a lot by boat in Congo, and what strikes me most often is the vestiges. We passed lots of old, half dilapidated factories and retaining walls, and in the distance I spotted a greyed and crumbling diving tower next to an old waterslide. <br /><br />Everyone was tired when we got back, and over sunned, though I'd made sure not to get more burned after my Saturday burn!<br /><br />Funnily, I discovered later that "Maluku" means "crazy" in Portuguese.<br /><br />Crazy indeed!<br /><br /><br />- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad<br /><p class='blogpress_location'>Location:<a href='http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Someone%20Else's%20Network%40-4.322028%2C15.273716&z=10'>Someone Else's Network</a></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-13342664284674072672011-03-23T12:27:00.001+01:002011-03-23T12:27:44.503+01:00Fresh Capitaine from the Congo River<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5552905050/" title="Fresh Capitaine from the Congo River"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5059/5552905050_549ae3e183.jpg" alt="Fresh Capitaine from the Congo River by amalthya" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5552905050/">Fresh Capitaine from the Congo River</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/amalthya/">amalthya</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p>Yum!</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-25067584359123367832011-03-22T12:39:00.002+01:002011-03-23T14:04:26.910+01:00Internet Peeping Tom<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5549957618/" title="Internet Peeping Tom by amalthya, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5015/5549957618_a0aa502083.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Internet Peeping Tom" /></a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/amalthya/">amalthya</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p>I don't have Internet access (yet) though I am due to go to the company today.<br /><br />So in the interim, I hide in the bushes by a neighbour's house who has free wifi, and I creep.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7988040711406219252.post-42875139485778619482011-03-22T12:32:00.001+01:002011-03-22T12:32:45.155+01:00Along the Water's Edge<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5549948478/" title="Along the Water's Edge"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5187/5549948478_87ff822592.jpg" alt="Along the Water's Edge by amalthya" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amalthya/5549948478/">Along the Water's Edge</a> a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/amalthya/">amalthya</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p>Kinshasa may be metropolitan, but traveling along the marina, it's hard to believe when you see all these shanty huts</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0