The Magic of the African Drum

The African drum is nearly as iconic as every other symbol relating to this continent such as lions, bright colors, Victoria Falls, and rolling savannah's. Unlike the others, the drum is a symbol of community, expression, and worship.

Last night after an evening rain, the clouds settled low in the atmosphere but the moon still shinned through. It was one of those eery but mythical and beautiful nights with crisp, damp air indicating one should expect something to happen. Through the haze of it all came the very distinct, riveting sound - bum da dum bum, bum, which could only be one thing: the African drum. Seconds later melodic voices joined in. It is very captivating and one that gives a person pause, even goose-bumps.

I was immediately drawn to my window in hopes I could just catch a glimpse of Congolese culture at its finest. The Congolese are known all over Africa for creating the best music and being exceptional dancers. Unfortunately through the haze of the night, I was not able to see the gathering. I stood behind my window for many minutes coveting those who were fortunate to be in the midst of such beauty. There was a war going on inside of me: I didn't want to step outside of my comfort zone and join them but at the same time I felt like a prisoner trapping myself. I so badly wanted to be a participant and not just an auditory observer behind a window. I tried going to bed but the music was too compelling.

After restlessly bouncing between my bed and my window for over 20mins, I finally saw one of my colleagues and a guard making their way towards the music. I rushed to join them. Through the fog and the shadows of the moon we made our way towards a group of 30 teenagers dancing and singing. We timidly joined them in an effort to not disrupt or take their attention away from the very thing that was captivating us. We received a few questioning glaces of why these two white girls in their pajamas were inquisitively standing by but thankfully it didn't create too much of a disruption.

Their energy is so contagious you can't help but have the biggest smile on your face and get wrapped up in this special moment. Standing there in the middle of a random field with 30 people I don't even know clapping and dancing under the always beautiful African heavens, all I could think was how blessed I was. How was I lucky enough to be in this particular moment at this place in time? It was a euphoric moment when senses collided and joy was created and experienced in entirety.

All too soon we reluctantly turned to go knowing that we could never return back to that moment but at the same time hopeful it can be recreated again. By the time we reached the gate, silence settled and the chanting ceased. I can't help but wonder if the musicians and dancers were gracious enough to extend their performance allowing two worlds to collide into one for a few precious seconds, which only the African drum could facilitate.

Isiro

I made it through my first week in Isiro! I arrived here last Friday with three other colleagues. It was a nice first weekend including meeting the staff, finally unpacking my suitcases after 6 weeks in Bunia, making pizza in an old oil drum, star gazing and campfire, and not working on Monday because it was a national holiday.

We were a bit delayed leaving Bunia on Friday due to weather. The plane we took had no weather navigation system, which is a bit nerve racking for someone like me who seems to be developing a greater fear of flying every flight I take. This is highly un-conducive to my lifestyle and vocation, by the way. The weather, though, allowed for a spectacular flight. Due to the cloud cover, we had to fly quite low thus providing great views of the landscape below. Congo is a very large country and a majority of it is uninhabited. We flew between mountain peaks and hovered over the dense forest.

Isiro used to be an old colonized Belgian town with stark remnants still standing: train station and rusty rail lines, dilapidated mansions, broken street lights, and vacant buildings once booming businesses. The Medair base is on the outskirts of town surrounded by mud huts, smiling children, and noisy chickens provoking their way to the pot. We live in an area that was relatively untouched by the Belgians. Houses are assembled in their own sort of neighborhoods with dirt paths shaded by mango trees serenaded by birds and giggling children. It is quite idyllic aside from the immense poverty. One thing I really love are these wall-less structures that serve as kitchens and sanctuaries from the afternoon sun. Often you see groups of people huddled together underneath this grass roofed, wall-less huts laughing, eating, and sharing life together. Aside from the corruption and disparity, I often think Africans live a life and culture we were designed for: strong community ties, using and eating only what is needed, not distracted by busy-ness and technology, and a life filled with laughter and dancing.

Stayed tuned for the next post - Isiro's social event of the year and Congolese culture at its finest!

Growing Pains: Part 1

I have never had growing pains. I hear they are painful, hence the name I guess. I have, however, had learning pains: pains in the form of frustration, learning induced brain fatigue, and other such unpleasant things. Most recently my learning pains have come disguised as French language learning and driving big, expensive, manual, right-handed land cruisers.

First, I will discuss the later: driving. I have been legally driving for eight and a half years now. Somehow in my relatively short driving history, that is compared to someone who is the ripe old age of 40, I have not had significant practice driving a manual vehicle, definitely not a macho land cruiser – the vehicle of choice in the humanitarian sector.

After working a few short weeks with many Europeans, I have come to find out that if only I were a European, I wouldn’t be so inexperienced in this very important area of my life. Supposedly Europeans prefer manual vehicles and to quote my tea drinking, proper English accented colleague: “I guess you guys drive mostly automatics ‘over there,’ right?”

When I was just home in the U.S. a few months ago, I got an international driving license which is accepted by any country who is a member-state of the United Nations. Despite the convenience, I must confess AAA’s requirements of merely filling out a two page form and taking two passport photos didn’t quite prepare me for the feat of driving internationally, or at least driving in Africa which is a skill set all of its own.

So here is the point of this sometimes stressful, painful learning process part of the story. You see, learning to drive in Africa is a bit different than in a nice, organized, developed country where driving laws not only exist but are also enforced and followed, most of the time. I am currently residing in a locale with a population of 300,000 people and no paved roads. And like most other African countries, roads in Congo are multi-purpose: playgrounds for children; market places; toilets; and herding corrals and feeding troughs for cows, goats, and chickens. So aside from the actual performance of maneuvering a foreign contraption such as a manual land cruiser, driving is an obstacle course.

I would also like to emphasize that our vehicles are right-handed and we also drive on the right side of the road. Our cruisers came from a previous project in Uganda, where they do drive on the left side of the road thus making right-handed vehicles sensible. It is a bit of an eyeball guessing game since the middle of the road is on the complete other side of the vehicle you are driving. But this point is almost obsolete due to the fact that there are no road rules and you can pretty much drive on any side of the road you prefer, you know – the one where the potholes are smaller or the cows aren’t defecating.

Lastly but not least I will mention that if you get in accident, you are screwed; which is mostly due to the fact that there really isn’t a fair justice system let alone a road-rules-enforcement agency. Those with the money pay. And since white people, affectionately called mzungu’s, are walking dollar signs, they are always at fault and responsible to foot the bill. Naturally. There are also similar reactions and serious consequences if you accidentally execute a by-stander’s-brother-in-law’s-cousin’s-best friend’s-nephew’s duck.

When I go out driving it is probably my most fervent prayer time. Every moment I am praying I don’t decapitate a chicken or embarrassingly stall out when pulling into the compound, which I did last week – the stalling out in front of the gate, not the decapitating part. Needless to say, I am embracing the challenge. Driving a right-handed, manual Land Cruiser through craters called roads in Congo is just another thing to cross off my bucket list. Perhaps I need to amend that list and make a few adjustments to save myself from getting into other precarious, potentially hazardous learning experiences. But what fun would that be?

Senses on Steroids

Monday: Crashed a 4th of July BBQ. Shout out to the US.of.A!
Tuesday: Normal Day
Wednesday: Normal Day
Thursday: Students protesting, gunshots, false arrest → house bound
Friday: Plane crash in Kisangani, 50+ presumed dead

Well, here are the highlights of the week in short. Every day is different with its own challenges, highs and lows, and unexpected events – some good, some tragic.

It is hard to believe it is the end of another week, already #4 in DRC.

My definition of what life is like overseas would be ‘senses on steroids,’ perhaps as demonstrated above they have to be. Just like any new environment, there is always a period of adapting. However, I have found that no matter how long I am in a foreign country, adaptation and learning is constantly taking place. I constantly find myself taking two steps forward and one step back. There is always something new: a language, culture, (acquiring) an appreciation of dietary intake, communication, etc.

This week I learned that in a group of Americans I have never met before, I feel at home.

I learned that situations can change at any moment and how to respond to them makes all the difference. In addition, such instances help you appreciate the boring, normal days.

Most importantly I learned that life is fragile. Fifty+ people dead isn’t just a figure but someone’s mother, son, sister, father, friend.

As I sit back and reflect over this past week, I am exhausted. But I am grateful I can feel that exhaustion and have the chance of rejuvenation tomorrow. Life is fragile, including mine, which could become a statistic someday. I am not invincible or exempt from experiencing the horrors of this world, rather they happen outside the front door or a few miles away. Reality check!

So thankful for the weekend -- appreciating life!