Views of the Interior

In Burundi, the rest of the country outside the capital is referred to as "the interior."  Despite having bought every single thing needed for the coordination team, and for the opening order to get the field project started, I haven't set foot outside of the capital.  I've been in plenty of neighborhoods, plenty of districts of Bujumbura.  I've been in markets that were bombed hours after my passage, I've been in intersections that were fought over the night before.  I've been in workshops for welders and carpenters, I've been in offices for phone and internet companies.  I've searched for lock boxes, copies of keys, beds, coffee machines, bananas, light switches, hammer drills, buckets, voltage stabilizers, and a whole laundry list of other things.  But I haven't been outside of the city, into the interior of the country.

Until now.

I hired a truck and loaded the first two project orders for the field.  It was me and the new water and sanitation engineer, who just flew in 4 hours earlier.  "Welcome!  Can you help me lift this freezer?"  I sign the contract and the truck driver hands over the keys right around 5pm.  We have a little over an hour of daylight left, and about 1 metric ton of material to load.  I check off items on the list and the watsan packs, but we are both carrying things to the truck from the various corners where they had been shoved.  In 40 minutes, we're done.  Everything's checked off.  We lock down the truck with some pieces cut from an inner tube, and head inside.

The next morning, we're on track for a 7:30am departure.  The truck driver comes (almost) on time, miraculously, and I give the last instructions to the driver who will stay behind with our city car ("hey, can you buy three sacks of cement for me?").  The watsan and I climb into our pickup truck, and the truck driver revs the engine.  We're on the way.

After 50m, we determine that the pickup should be in front, due to the unacceptable amount of exhaust coming out of the truck.  Turns out we can't get in front of the truck until a kilometer later, but the cancer won't set in for another few decades.  I'll have long forgotten about this day by the time I get my diagnosis, I'm sure.

We're headed to the city in between the two locations; the capital and the field are separated by about 4 hours of tarmac road and several mountain passes.  We'll meet in Kayanza, 2 hours from each base.  We'll transfer the watsan into their car, then turn around and come back, while they return to the field with the truck in convoy.  It's called a kiss movement, because the land cruisers come face-to-face, like they're kissing.  Actually, it's much easier if they go side-to-side, for the transfer of material, but I guess hand-holding movement was too long to say.  It's still called a kiss in any language you work in, so many francophones think it's an acronym.  Just anthropomorphizing our conveyances.

We roll up and down huge hills, winding our way up a few switchbacks.  The road is in good condition, and the traffic is light.  Bikers benefit from slow-moving trucks climbing the hills to catch a free ride.

We get to the kiss location about half an hour early, and stretch our legs.  Kids run up and stare at us, then the police comes to warn us to look out for thieves.  They indicate that the kids will probably try to climb in the truck and steal everything.  People slow down and gawk at us, or come up and ask for money in several languages.  The other car gets there, there's a smoke break, then everyone piles back in and we head our separate directions.  I had no need to be here, but I wanted to get out of the capital.  I have 6 days left in this mission, and I couldn't have told you what a Burundian meal is like.

On the way back, we hit a cloud that has covered the final mountain before the descent into Bujumbura.  It's eerie and calm in the fog, which is so thick that driving slows to a crawl.

Then we're through it and we see the city spread out below us.  Home sweet home, at least for the next week.

Security

Sometimes I catch myself doing domestic, responsible tasks, and I feel grown up.  When did that happen?  I draw the curtains closed and check all the doors are locked before going to bed.  I'm the last one up at night, usually, and I collect random glasses, turn off the printer, and straighten up.  I feel like a parent after the kids have gone to bed.  A touch of normalcy in a nomadic life.

Some of what I'm doing is due to my role, since the logistician is responsible for hygiene and security.  But the log is not a maid, and it's not necessarily me who is up latest at night.  I'm locking doors because I'm a responsible adult.  The logistician part comes in as I call a network of contacts to localize that last grenade blast, as I ask the watchman for a translation of the local radio announcement that tells the route of the anti-Rwandan protests being organized every weekend, as I label the security lights deterring theives from jumping the barbed-wire-topped walls.

You know, everyday adult things.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Riding

Scenes from our travel of almost 500km of roads in Sandoa, Congo.

Greetings

There are faucets everywhere that I've been in the Congo, but this is the first faucet that has worked. I looked all over the kitchen for water. Each bucket or trash can held rice or trash. No water. Weird. It took me a second to try the faucet over the sink, and when water came flowing out, I had a moment of culture shock.

Oh yeah, running water.

I've only been in the field for a month, but I've submerged into Congolese culture. Coming out again gives me small stutter steps at odd moments.

Congolese culture, like many other African cultures I have experienced, has a big accent on greetings. Hand shaking and asking how some is doing that day are un-skippable parts of interacting with someone for the first time that day. It is inexcusable to not offer your hand as you greet someone. Or at least very rude. For Muzungus, most Congolese seem to look the other way at our social faux-pas.

Handshaking is not nearly so prevalent in the western world, which I temporarily forgot about one trip back. I was fresh off the plane from Africa, and hurried to a bus station to catch the budget bus to visit friends. The bus was a bit late, but it pulled up to the curb in good order. The harried commuters and other passengers bustled on as I held back. I had a ticket for a later bus, not knowing if travel would go smoothly or not, and I wanted to see if I could change my ticket to this current bus.

When the crowd cleared, I walked up to the driver, stuck my hand out, and looked him in the eye as I shook his hand and asked him how he was doing that day. He was so shocked and surprised that he took a second to answer. That stumbling second brought me back to American culture, where what I did was very old fashioned and formal, probably to the point of embarrassment. All of my American social conventions came flooding back to me, accompanied by the rush of blood to my face. The bus driver was so flattered that, after I explained my request, he didn't even check my ticket, just let me on the bus right then and there.

I forgot about that incident for a while, but the memory resurfaces every now and then. The power of a simple greeting, of grasping a hand and giving someone the time to ask how they are. How that has been forgotten, or left by the wayside. A sacrifice to American efficiency, a relic in the age of online communication, where the only greeting we think about is an email header.

I still don't know if I made a faux-pas or not. I guess it doesn't matter at this point.

Arrived

It's the end of the explo. There's not a firm end to point to; instead there's a trickling to a stop.

Is the end when we leave the debriefing meeting with the health authorities of Sandoa? Is it when we pile in the car and drive away? Is it when we meet the Zone Director on the road, coming back from a meeting in the capital, and we say a final goodbye? Is it when we join the other team in the next district over? Or when both teams hit the road in a convoy? Or the end of the debrief meeting in the zone capital? Or the return to our back-base in Lubumbashi? Or the handshake at the end of our group debrief? The moment I press send on the final report? The goodbyes as I head to the airport? The call to turn off electronic devices as the airplane door is sealed and my lungs no longer take in the Congolese air?

Somewhere in there, it was the end of an explo, and the end of a mission. As I shuffle through customs, it hits me. I'm leaving the Congo.

I'll fly to Paris and try to pick up another mission. I'm not ready for vacation at the moment. We shall see where in the world I will be next week.

Bush Wacked

The grass parts before me like the sea. Long blades of grass, so recently arching elegantly above the single track of road, slash my arms as we blow by. I'm holding, with cramped fingers, onto the back of a motorcycle as the driver tears along the trail. As much as I'm getting stung by greenery, the poor driver is taking a whole lot more. I'm ducked into his slipstream, and only catch the occasional branch in the face as he ducks his head at the last minute. I'm fully concentrated on every dip and twitch of his head, since I can't see the single track in front of us, and we will unbalance and jump from the 6-inch-wide trail if I so much as twist to look over the driver's shoulder.

We spent 4 hours on the road in the 4x4, then another two hours finding, validating, and negotiating with the motorcycle drivers. We are an hour and a half into the bike ride, and still about an hour away from the village where we will spend the night. It's a long way to go just to do a health center evaluation, but this is the data we are here for.

A vista opens up in front of us, and the route widens to a luxurious 4 feet. I take the opportunity to swivel around like a tourist. I grin at the 3 motos behind me, slip my phone out of my pocket and take a few pictures. The rolling hills of jungle and savana against a backdrop of cloud-dotted sky is breathtaking. The Congo is beautiful, that is inarguable.

We are on a ridge, at the top of a rolling hill. We start to descend a bit, and our moto pulls ahead. It takes me a second to realize the motor is off, and we are coasting. It's only natural sounds as we bump along the die-straight track. Wind, a million insects, birds. Amazing.

The engine starts, I renew my deathgrip and return to the slipstream. One hour until the river, where we will take a local canoe across. Then the health center is apparently walking distance. We shall see. On verra.

Sanctuary

We have arrived in Sandoa, and have started our explo. At this point, it means asking countless questions of basically anyone who will listen. We spend our days seeing chiefs, administrators, health center managers (in the capital for a monthly meeting), the hospital administrator, and, most importantly, the chief medical officer of the health zone.

As we question our way through the week, we have established a very serviceable home base in a convent. We are housed among the Sisters as we undertake our mission. It is very calm and well-maintained. It's an island in the middle of dusty streets and livestock running wild. There is a courtyard garden with starfruit, avocado, and lemon trees, with manicured lawns stretching between blooming flower beds. Every once and a while a sheep or goat gets through security from the parking lot next door and runs wild, eating as much as possible. We all rally to chase them back to their side.

The Sisters are incredibly nice and accommodating. They quickly learned our foreign names and ask about our day and our mission. They all seem genuinely happy in their lives, and content to host us. They don't seem bothered by us being there and doing our thing, even when we work late into the night or leave early in the morning. There is hot water to wash with and a table full of food at each meal. It's a great situation for our explo week. We're hardly roughing it in our living situation.

The expeditions into the bush will be another story. It wouldn't be an explo without some hardship.