Two Page Broken Heart

Beni Airport Eastern Democratic Republic of Congo

Last week I was leafing through an East African tour book checking out different places in Tanzania, Rwanda, and Kenya. I randomly stumbled upon the Democratic Republic of Congo section. Due to the size of DRC, it can be considered West, Central, or East Africa. I wasn’t sure if it would be included in this book but it was, all two pages worth. Two pages ? Seriously ? Congo is the largest country in Africa now after South Sudan’s split from Sudan, it is the size of western Europe and there is only enough tourist info to fill up two pages.

I am presently reading a book called Blood River. The author risked his life in 2004 traveling the same route the great explorer Stanley traveled in the 1800s down the Congo River. It was estimated that the exploration in 2004 was more dangerous than Stanley’s voyage in the 1800s despite Stanly facing cannibals, tropical diseases without modern medicines, no technological resources, or language capabilities. The Congo River forms the shape of half a heart thus labeling DRC the broken heart of Africa joining the other equally depressing name for the DRC – the Heart of Darkness.

Throughout this book the author recounts how beautiful and marvelous this mighty country once was. Like the majority of other African countries, Congo had very harsh colonizers. The height of DRC’s economic stability and flourishment was towards the end of the colonial period in the 1950’s. There was an amazing road, train, and river transportation system ; medical care ; and booming industries.

Unfortunately the rest of the world doesn’t realize that Congo is not the broken heart of Africa but rather the lungs of the world, well, perhaps they do as exploitation and corruption continue to ravage this mutilated society. DRC has the second largest rain forest providing oxygen to this half of the world and is the richest country in the world with natural resources such as gold, diamonds, and coltan – a mineral used for cell phones where 90% of the world’s supply is found in Congo. Unfortunately at the end of 2011, the Human Development Index rated Congo dead last on the list of developed countries, number 187.

Amongst all of my interest for this continent, no country has intrigued me more than the Democratic Republic of Congo. I can visibly see how beautiful Congo was sixty years ago as the remains are still standing rusted. At the same time, I can imagine what Congo, and even Africa in general, looked like one hundred and fifty years ago as this country has sadly backslidden to that point today. Democratic Republic of Congo 2012 is a glimpse of Africa 1900. Everyday I wish that these walls could talk and tell me their story, because I know there is one and it is unlike any I have ever heard.

Regardless of the story of 50 years ago or even 150, I know the story of today. I am living it. I don’t need to hear the walls talk, I can just look out my window. The citizens of Congo still face insecurity. People are dying of curable disease like malaria because medicine prices have gone up and treatment is not affordable. There is political gridlock in the capital, Kinshasa. The east is still fighting over land rights. People are worked like slaves in the mine fields to supply the rest of the world with diamonds and cells phones.

The tourist guide for Democratic Republic of Congo should be its own separate book, not a mere two pages combined with Tanzania, Uganda, Rwanda, Kenya, and Burundi, probably all combined together equaling a quarter of Congo’s land mass. Despite the evident darkness and brokenness that still claims much of Congo, this Heart of Darkness has brought much light to my life and this Broken Heart of Africa has mended many pieces of my soul.

Dreams Come True

I remember as a child being fascinated with missionary stories, especially when they were stories from Africa. I would always skip through Christian magazines to the missionary section first scanning the page for exotic pictures and afterwards hanging on every word. In between the lines, I would be pretending that it was my life and name that was being written about. That life sounded so exciting, adventurous, and in some ways romantic.

I remember reading about people flying over jungles, crossing rivers, facing diseases, speaking funky languages, encountering random villages, eating weird food, living in extreme climates, and defeating daily odds which seemed so unimaginable from my upstate NY couch.

The other day I was flying over Congo. I saw the vast openness of this country, the rivers, and small isolated villages where you can't help but wonder how they survive without obvious access to medical treatment, a commercial center, or social community. It finally struck me that I am living that same life I was always fascinated by in the magazines. However my life didn't feel exciting, adventurous, and romantic like it did reading it on the page. My life like this is normal but the fact that it is normal was in itself exciting, adventurous, and romantic. It demonstrated a sense of comfort, completeness.

It is so easy for me to forget the journey that I have been on marked by quite amazing and significant steps and life decisions. Sometimes it takes flying in an airplane over the Congolese jungle to remind me that I am actually living my childhood dream. Childhood dreams I think are one of those things that we never really expect to actually happen and when they do we are a bit surprised. It was a good reminder that dreams really do and can come true.

Tulear: Ville du Soleil

I should stop being surprised by the unexpected. For some reason life’s hiccups still amaze me and catch me off guard at the most obvious moments, traveling for example. My friend Dee and I decided that we would make this Christmas in Madagascar memorable since we were both away from our families and Madagascar naturally provides a significant amount of adventure. After many discussions, our indecisive brains compromised on going to the beach outside Tulear on the west coast adequately called by the locals « Ville du Soleil. » (City of the sun)

This unforgettable journey commenced Thursday afternoon with a plan, something I should learn not to bother with. The plan included leaving that afternoon by taxi brusse (local bus transport), spend the night with my friend 4 hours south of us, and catch the next bus early the next morning for Tulear. As history repeats itself, I should have known better than to rely on this plan. Five p.m. we departed, only an hour and a half later than scheduled – not bad. While on the way, I received word from my friend we were staying with that there were no buses to Tulear the next morning but would have to wait until tomorrow evening. Having a slight understanding of Malagasy transportation system, I didn’t hold onto that disappointing news too strongly but calmly told myself to go with the flow.

My friend Anna met us at the taxi brusse station four hours later, by now almost 9pm. After a brief update on the transportation situation, Anna found out that the Director of Transportation of the region was leaving to Tulear the next morning on his family vacation and was looking for people to split the gas with. We jumped on the opportunity to not ride 14+ hrs in a bus; however this little luxury required us to depart at 3am per the director’s wishes. So off we went to Anna’s house to eat noodles, sleep on a twin bed, and enjoy the blessing of having a friend in a foreign city hooking us up with sweet deals.

Three a.m. arrived sooner than anyone wanted. We hustled to get our sleepy bodies out the door, brush our teeth and pee in the dark, and walk a couple of kilometers with luggage in blackness. We learned through this early morning jaunt that Mr Director was not a patient man calling us every 2mins to get our location update. We met our transportation hosts, settled in four to the back seat, two in the front, and about six in the truck bed lounging over luggage, chickens, and pots. Despite a five person vehicle carrying about 12 passengers, we had a better hook up than a taxi brusse.

And we were off, well until 6am that is when it is normal for Catholics to attend morning mass on Friday morning for thirty minutes in a random town while in route for family vacation. We took this opportunity to eat some bread and eggs and walk to the market, only to receive a phone call from Mr Director informing us the 30mins was over and he was ready to hit the road. The journey commenced again only then stopping another three hours later to drop off my friend Anna and eat an official breakfast.

Mr Director and his wife were very gracious giving us brief history lessons and pointing out things along the road that tourists should be interested in, which he kindly scolded me I slept through all the important parts. After a brief family roadside chat about 3 hours later in a random town, we were invited to eat lunch with them at Mr Director’s sister-in-law’s house. They treated us as one of the family. It is always a bit awkward accepting blessings from strangers and a great lesson in humility. We hit the road again only stopping once more along the way to buy some charcoal to add to the already overloaded truck bed. Despite all of the stops, we arrived in good time in the Ville du Soleil 12 hours later, however, the trip was not over.

Dee and I boarded a pusse pusse, man pulled cart, destination taxi brusse station for the final leg of the trip; unfortunately this bus was a real crap shoot. Poor Dee was stuck in the truck bed with about 25 other people, children, and chickens as I was up front sitting on a seat made for someone 5 feet tall, fumigated by the chain smoking chauffeur, and listening to a chatterbox passenger. About 6pm, 15hrs after the commencement of this epic trip, we arrived ! We collapsed. We ate. And we did nothing for 5 days. And then the trip home greeted us again.

Tragedy at Lake Victoria

I never knew someone could have a thousand thoughts in three minutes and those three minutes be the end of something precious. I received my first life guarding certification when I was 15, almost 10 years ago. For seven years, life guarding provided the majority of my high school and university income. I was only once forced to use the skills that I spent many hours drilling into my head and perfecting and thank God it was only a mere shallow water save.

I abandoned my life guarding profession three years ago. I thought I said good-bye to it forever and never thought I would find myself sitting on the shores of Lake Victoria, Uganda attempting to save a life.

It was only the third day of my vacation. I had gone to Lake Victoria with some friends searching for a nice, memorable afternoon; unfortunately the afternoon turned out to be more memorable than I would like as the flash backs and sleepless nights keep reminding me. After an hour of laughing and playing, I saw a sight out of my peripheral vision, one I was always trained to recognize but never wanted to witness : only thirty feet from me two people were dragging a girl out of the water -unconscious. I saw them attempt CPR but the wrong position on her stomach and not her chest. My immediate thought was – there is nothing I can do! I was afraid I had forgotten everything and I would kill her instead of help her. But finally my mind connected with my heart : what the hell was I doing sitting there when I had seven years of training and a child’s life slipping through the cracks ?

I rushed over. I pushed the rescuers aside and not very politely informed them they were doing CPR incorrectly. They readily allowed me to take over. It all came back in only a few seconds : compressions, breaths, and repeat. Initially, we all had hope that she might come back as she began to vomit. However, I noticed her stomach continuing to bloat and her body go hard. I knew that she was dead but those around me were so grateful for the effort I continued. A minute later I checked her pulse and and to my horror there was nothing. I wanted so badly to feel a faint flicker of hope. I quietly exited the scene as those remaining continued to try.

I returned to my place on the shore not quite sure what had just happened. The only thing that I could think was that someone’s little girl had just exited this world and they were about to receive the worst news of their life. I sat and silently prayed for the little girl I only knew in her death. A few minutes later the crowd dissipated and this precious, lifeless child was carried away over someone’s shoulder sort of like a sac of potatoes. This sight only deepening the sickening feeling already settling into my gut.

A few minutes later, I relocated up the beach. Walking in front of me was a beautiful girl about the same age and figure. She wore a beautiful red dress with a sweet, innocent smile. I couldn’t help but think that there should have been two girls like this on the beach at this moment, however, that wasn’t the case and one young life was gone.

Now, hours and days later, the flash backs continue. When I see the lake, a young girl, a bare stomach, or something the consistency of vomit, my heart renches and my mind cringes. The only thing left for me to do is to pray for the family who is digging a grave, saying « good-bye », and continuing to mourn for many days to come. Please do the same.