An unintentional Kindu love letter. (Or simply, random things this blog missed)

Yes, I left Kindu about a couple of months ago, and yes, I know that 3 entries in six months is a dismal effort. It has to be said though that my procrastination cannot solely be blamed for this (partly, yes) --- we had no internet for two months in Kindu. Two months! Buuut the piroguepilot is alive (still referring to herself in the third person haha), and previous disclaimers still apply (if you’ve forgotten what they are or if you’ve not read my blog before, I strongly suggest you click the link and scroll to the disclaimers identified in the last paragraph. It’s for your own good.).

I am now in the town of Butembo, in the province of Nord Kivu. This means the original six-month plan to stay in DRC has now been extended, and the intern/professional student is (finally) employed (woohoo!). I arrived in Butembo just this week, after six weeks at home and two weeks in Goma; but I’m not going to tell you about Butembo today, mainly because this blog missed a lot over the last few (okay, not so few) months.

Going home to Manila was an unexpectedly strange and funny experience after being in Kindu for seven months. At one point, I exclaimed in an elevator full of virtual strangers, ‘Wow! This is my first time in an elevator in seven months!’(lots of strange looks there), and for a while I couldn’t help but say ‘Mmmm _________’ (insert whatever was being ingested; this was usually some type of meat) every time I took a bite out of something. The quite comprehensive list of Things Camilla Wants To Eat When She Gets Home was wiped out after just three days. I pretty much ate my way through the six weeks (see photo below for reference, courtesy of mon cousin and his LCA). I think I really scared some people (though they should have expected it, because there came a point while in Kindu when I demanded everyone I spoke to online to give me a very, very detailed description of what they had for lunch). Those were some of the funny bits of going home.

The unfunny parts were when I’d be sitting in a car, on the highway or a flyover, looking at the Manila skyline and realize how so, so different things are there and in Kindu; and how hard it was to believe that two places soooo different could exist in one planet (and the Philippines isn’t even a developed country!). It was unfunny watching the news on TV about the situation in DRC, and feeling so angry about how indifferent this part of the world seemed to be. It was also unfunny when I spent quite a while staring at a great big tall rack of all the varieties of cooking oil you can imagine in one of those hypermarts, wondering (ALOUD to my poor, poor mom for what must've been a good couple of minutes) why people needed 100 types of cooking oil. Okay, maybe that last one was a little funny. (I think I should stop now, lest I risk sounding like a crazy person).

I did eventually re-adjust to the elevators and all the varieties of cooking oil… And being home for such a long time made me realize how homesick I actually was after a very nomadic three years (six cities lived in, in three years. Normal? Don't answer.). But, I have to say, I always missed being in Kindu. And I miss it even now that I’m in a new place (maybe even more so, at least for the moment). The lack of blog entries is not at all proportional to how much I enjoyed Kindu (Okay, new disclaimer! I’m gonna go switch ON the reminiscent-fool-mode now).

Some people really find it hard to believe I liked Kindu (to the extent of congratulating me for surviving!) or find me a bit odd for liking it (which I think I kinda am anyway. Kinda.). And then some people find it surprising I even lasted my six months. I remember before leaving for Kindu, a lot of my close friends and family were very confident that I would not, could not survive --- the only thing missing was a bookie to take bets, with the longest prediction being three months! Best comment: ‘Ano? Eh ang arte-arte mo tapos pupunta ka dun?!’ (Unfortunately, I cannot think of an accurate enough way to translate this that can capture the incredulity and shock that was expressed.)

Maybe it’s just cause I’m a young(ish), idealistic, foolish person, or maybe it’s cause it was my first field posting that made Kindu what it was. I do not know. But I do know that I remember my flight to Kindu, my first glimpse of the Congo river from the sky. I remember thinking as I looked at the river curling around the jungle like a ribbon that it must be man-made, thinking ‘Hey, look where you are!’ (and this distracted me from the other thought which was, ‘Get me out of this small plane!!’ which is still a prevailing thought whenever I fly… Turbulence sucks!). I remember when a photo I took of Kindu and its pirogues was photo of the day for a day for this daily travel photo competition website (see this blog’s banner image, or click the link to see it and what my sweet mom said about it. Haha.); and cheesy as this may sound, I was proud not cause it was my photo, but because it was Kindu, and I was able to share it, and it looked prettier than many people thought possible… And I also remember leaving Kindu, the sad goodbyes that were said then, and the river’s ribbons smiling at me as I flew off on another small plane (‘Get me out of this f***in’ small plane!!’ The curse box in my head overflows whenever I fly).

I said in my first entry that I thought this blog might be a way for me to share Kindu to anyone who would want to be acquainted with it. I’m not so sure how successful I was at that, given my three entries (that were quite lengthy anyway!). But the whole point of this (if you haven’t gotten it yet), is to simply say that I had seven months well-spent. I learned a lot, both on the job, and off it. Big things and small things. About myself, about other people, about Kindu , about DRC, about what I reeeeaally want to do, about simple things that make any place feel like your own even for just a while, like conversations that go nowhere and everywhere over bottles of beer by the Congo river under an unbelievably red-orange moon, like sitting in a swing you made under a tree of pink flowers and reading on a sunny, humid day (at least until my motion sickness hits), like being reminded constantly how much you love what you’re doing and where you are, and like the hope despite all cynicism (and no matter how stupidly idealistic and young this may sound) that what you’re doing there might mean something, no matter how little or how small.

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And now for the second part of this entry (Yes, there's a second part! I've held a lot in over the last few months!!! Save it for later if you want.)..

A random list of random things this blog missed (Since coherence isn’t one of my strong points and rambling is, we're all better off if I wrote a list out of the top of my head):

A LOT of stomach bugs. Everyone, meet Lucy the worm. Yes, I assumed it was worms, and my worm’s name is Lucy, and she’s a she, and she’s got a temperamental character. But despite this I do try and keep her in check. (You may think I’m strange, but start having stomach bugs as much as I did and you’d name her too.)

2 awesome trips to Zanzibar (Two! In the span of four months. I liked it that much.) that included a fainting spell on a restaurant couch (brought about by my moonlighting for a day in a restaurant’s kitchen and slicing my finger instead of the cassava), counting forwards and backwards in Swahili to an audience in a local bar (I did get applause), a spontaneous trip (hitching a ride with a eight-wheeler) to a little village with a women’s soap-making cooperative, and lotsa fun, quality time spent with the other Merlin girls, E and J.

A 25th birthday, and the ensuing bouts with quarter-life crisis.

My rekindled relationship with the guitar, thanks to D’s blue guitar which I pretended I could play while pretending to sing; and which he graciously let me borrow/monopolize aaaall the time (I’m off to get my own guitar this week!!).

A(nother) failed attempt at adobo, a traditional and simple Filipino dish. Of all my failed adobo attempts, this was the worst! It ended up tasting basically like saltwater chicken. Salty, salty saltwater chicken. That after I boasted that I was gonna cook everyone a great Filipino meal. This was my lesson that soy sauce is very salty, especially when you soak something in it overnight that apparently you’re not supposed to soak at all. For dessert, I attempted banana in sweet caramel-like sauce and this too failed: mushy-bananas-soaked-for-a-long-time-in-water anyone? This comes after a long tradition of kitchen failures. Though I did have some successful attempts at Nutella cakes…

Funny morning scavenger hunts for water.

Two cats, named Zebra and Tiger (and three kittens I have yet to meet).

Giving random, fun karate lessons for F; that often ended up with us two dancing around the living room.

A little sparring session on the dance floor of the UN’s welfare club (which I’m convinced I won). What is it with me and haphazard sparring sessions/fist fights.

The birth of the nickname ‘Clumsylla’. Self-explanatory.

My comic book converts thanks to Alan Moore’s Watchmen and Spiegelman’s Maus. Who said comic books were for kids?!

A Halloween that was marked by the very amusing yet disturbing realization that I didn’t have to change outfits to go to a costume party, and just wore what I was wearing the whole day. It was a subdued costume… yet costume it was.

A rocking six weeks in the Philippines, where a lot of overdue catching up was made and a lot of food was had by all, especially by me. Where an affair with electric-blue-high-high-heels, plaid, and the men’s section/my brother’s closet was started, and my love for black stockings and my dirty-well-worn sneakers was rekindled. Where I shattered my brother’s illusion that he had become an only child, spending almost aaall my time constantly invading his space (see, we call that bonding right Vincent?). Where I realized that I will probably always go to and love live gigs in small, very crowded pubs. Where I realized how much I missed my family and hooooome, and why it’s home in the first place.

Visa issues. Again. I hate visas.

The Hong Kong Weekend, entitled ‘Ang Pinakamahal na Inuman sa Mundo’ (closest translation: The Most Expensive Drinking Session in the World’) with mon cousin musicien, Joon.

A Christmas in Goma and a New Year in Gisenyi, Rwanda.

More ‘Get me out of this small plane!!!’.

And The New Year’s Resolution, among many others, that the piroguepilot’s entries won’t always be novels, and won’t always cover periods of a few months!

Top 5 lists and the tale of the troublesome sunrise.

This post is a little late to due to a trip to Kalima, where internet was not available at all; and more internet failures. And it is also looong.

I have this habit (or hobby?) of making ‘top 5 lists’ of random things, mostly hypothetical and very rarely not; mostly made-up and compared with friends’ answers but sometimes better kept to myself. It is highly probable that I spend more time making-up hypothetical lists compared to other normal human beings… I therefore have my top 5 dream things-to-become (things-to-become, because I think the word ‘job’ is too limiting, and by ‘dream’ I of course mean not factoring in the quite consequential factors that are time, money, talent, and well, reality), top 5 books I wish I could literally jump into and set my feet in, top 5 songs I would want to have written, blah blah. You get the point.

But, as usual, I digress (this entry has a point, I promise). Since I’ve been in Kindu, I’ve found myself uttering sentences I never would have imagined I’d ever have to say out loud. So I decided to make a top 5 mental list of things I never thought I’d have to say. Mental, mostly because the list is/was mostly made up of the stupidest, random-est things (including things that will make me seem like a very, very odd girl). However, the other weekend the sentence that trumps all sentences-I-never-thought-I’d-ever-have-to-say was uttered: I was detained by the Congolese military for taking pictures of the sunrise over the Congo River. (That I was awake in time for sunrise is pretty unbelievable in itself, but I think being detained by the Congolese military truly trumps that.) What follows is a pretty long narration, so if you don’t feel like reading through it, skip to the photos here.

After I laughingly told the story of what happened to some people, I realized that saying I got detained or arrested made it sound much worse than what it was. Although I do appreciate that really, it could have been a lot worse. Being caught by officials in any foreign country is scary enough, but I think that being in the Congo, a country where strict security procedures are a must and where much of the country is still caught up in conflict, made it sound especially bad for others (not that it was a particularly pleasant experience).

I’ve taken a few photos of the river before, but I always imagined how beautiful it must look when the sun rises over it in the mornings. After my camera trials the week before, I decided to take photos of the sunset that weekend. So, I was (barely) up at 5 in the morning, and at the last minute I decided to bring one of our security guards with me because it was still dark, and I thought he could tell me where I could and could not take photos (he didn’t). We walked along the river and he told me that further down was better, so I walked on until I found the spot.

I remember thinking how peaceful and relaxing everything seemed, thinking that this was not a bad start to the weekend; and I remember that I had barely taken my first (blurry) photo when I heard someone talking to us in a raised voice. Now, at just after 5:30 am, this sleepyhead did not process what was happening until she looked up to see a very young man in all-army-green attire, from trousers all the way to his beret, looking at her very sternly. He was telling me off for taking photos of people and pirogues and everything in general without permission, asking what kind of person takes photos at that time of day. I tried to explain to no avail that no, I was merely taking photos of the sunrise and did not mean any harm or disrespect to anyone. At this point another young soldier joined in and they both started raising their voices even more, and to my frustration, began speaking in Lingala, the official language of the Congolese military (luckily, the guard I had brought with me spoke Lingala and therefore did most of the talking). As if that wasn’t enough, a group of local men joined the party, and a little crowd had surrounded us --- at one point I got a bit upset and said I can’t understand Lingala so I would appreciate it if they would switch back to French and talk to me and not my guard, and a couple of local men basically started shouting at me in the most arrogant tones ever, asking what it was that was sooo hard to understand, and then going on to explain what they thought the problem was.

At this point I was truly set to go home, sod the bloody sunrise, and just go back to bed. So I told them, okay-nevermind-sorry-I’m going home-we’re leaving-thank-you-i-don't-want-to-take-photos-now. But oh no, the moment I started to turn around, they said ‘NON! Toi, tu vas avec nous.’ I had to go with them to their office and speak with their chief. This is when I think I began to get scared and truly worried, being escorted (or arrested) by two young soldiers who still refused to tell me in a language I could understand what exactly it was they wanted. That the guard accompanying me simply shrugged his shoulders and said nothing didn’t help matters either.

In their office, I was sat down to wait for their chief who looked only a little older than the two previous soldiers. He spoke to me, saying that I needed permission to take photos in this area because it was their turf, they were in charge. Although he was visibly trying hard to assert their authority, the chief was unexpectedly polite about it, and I’d go as far to say that he was even shy and soft-spoken. Quite the opposite of his subordinates whose egos seemed to be bloated by their uniforms, with one of them trying to contribute to the conversation by telling me to bring them beer and cigarettes the next time I planned to take photos. I knew there was absolutely no point in arguing or defending myself (although I wanted to ask them since when the sun became their property). I just sat there and waited, waited, until they said I could finally go and that they have granted me permission to take photos. I was in no mood for photos but the guard with me said it was better if I did, since they were still watching us. And then just when you think it’s all over, they call the guard over and ask him for money.

So there’s the (looong) story.

Like I said, it wasn’t as bad as it sounds. To be honest, I don’t know what I think of it. (I know I don’t need to think about it and the lesson of being more careful should be enough, but if you’ve read previous entries then you already know that I like to analyze and over-think.) The standard reaction from this was that it was bit much for a bit of photography, that they were looking for trouble and easy money, that they were abusing their authority. And, I do think that too. But when I think more about it, I think I can understand how a newcomer, a foreigner with a not-so-tiny camera taking photos at 5:30 am, not so far from the military base, can be suspicious. I have been told more than once that the military are wary of foreign spies, and can be quite paranoid (I would never pin myself as the spy-type though. Undercover ninja maybe.), and I was not careful enough.

Also, just because I’m in the Congo doesn’t mean things are much worse than what they are in say, hmmm, oh, I don’t know, the Philippines? Where cops hide themselves and obscure traffic signs, waiting for a vulnerable driver to break the rules and give you the choice of giving them money or having your license confiscated, among all the other things they may do. Think about it. Just because this happened in the Congo doesn’t make the situation unique to this country or this setting or this state.

Just tiny thoughts. And I laugh about this now, but, truly, things could have been worse (just this week an NGO car was hijacked by the mai-mai for four hours somewhere in Maniema province), and I'm glad they weren't.

I was released with still a couple of minutes left to take a few photos of the last bits of sunrise.

And maybe I will share my top 5 sentences next time. I have to weigh how embarrassing they are first though.

Random thoughts from the camera-toting stranger.

I wanted to post this sometime last week but our internet was out for about 5 days since then, and is still struggling (naghihingalo!). So a bit of a delayed post but oh well.

While I’ve been in Kindu for a few weeks now, I haven’t really had much time to go exploring on my own. Shameful, I know… but there are reasons for this. One, the office and the house are in the same compound, less than a minute’s walk apart, meaning it’s easy to actually not see anything of the outside world Two, about three out of my five weekends here have been spent trying to finish reports for a deadline. The times I’ve done some exploring have always been with someone with me, or in one of our trusty (I was tempted then to remove the t from trusty, but I thought that was mean.) vehicles.

So last, last weekend, I decided it was time to go explore on my own. Given my quite impressive bad sense of direction that has more than once led to tears, I decided to just walk along the train tracks up to the old train station since I figured there was no way I’d get lost doing that. Although… I never did make it to the train station, because I was too scared to cross a very old-looking and menacing bridge (just take my word for it) with huge, huge gaps between its planks, so I decided to turn back --- much to the amusement of the people sitting and children playing outside their houses by the tracks, who watched as I stopped for about a minute at the top of the bridge, pondering my sense of balance, and then said out loud to no one and everyone in particular ‘Umm.. Non. Pas aujourd’hui, je ne suis pas prete’ (Translates to a cowardly, ‘No. Not today, I’m not ready’). Yes, they did laugh at me and ask me if I was scared.

So since my attempt to reach the as-of-yet elusive train station failed, I want to instead recount a little ‘trial’ I decided to do with my camera on my way to the train station. Explanation as follows…

Even without a camera, a foreigner (especially a female or females alone) will get noticed. So adding a camera to the equation, I wanted to see what difference it made if any. I wasn’t planning to take any photos, and just wanted to see how people would react to me walking around with a camera. I thought this would also be a good way for me to find out for future reference what seemed to be okay, and what was not, photography-wise. (Another disclaimer: No, I am no expert or especially great photographer; I merely love and enjoy taking photos of everything. So the following ramblings about cameras and photography are wholly and only from that perspective. But I’d be curious to know what the dilemmas might be for someone who does this for a living.)
Before I came here, I searched through flickr for people with photos of Kindu to get an idea of what it was like. This search came out with a grand total of two people, one of whom provided a useful and important analysis of how most people in Kindu react to foreigners with cameras. He said: ‘In most parts of Congo people are quite ambivalent about photographers or even like the attention. In Kindu many people don’t want to be photographed nor do they want you to photograph the town. It as if the camera makes painfully obvious the heights from which they have fallen.’

I don’t want to theorize ‘the camera’ and how it can affect a person’s perception of you, but aside from irrational over-thinking being one of my talents, I’m also very, very conscious of offending people by taking a photograph of them or of something they don’t want me to. I may say I’m based in Kindu for the moment, but I know that the operative phrase in that sentence is ‘for the moment’ – a transient, camera-toting stranger. And I feel that a camera (a not particularly small one especially) can magnify this position and leave you disconnected. (But then again, foreign-ness is something that’s - more often than not, at least – obvious with or without a camera, isn’t it?) So yes, I think that afternoon I did get a few cold looks.

But, (and this is a good but!) I also arrived at another realization quite the opposite of this. As a few people surprisingly approached me themselves, asking me to take their photos, I realized that while the camera can sometimes serve as a means for disconnection, stuck behind a lens, it can also actually serve as a way to speak to people, or in my case, for people to actually open up and speak to you. While I admit that that afternoon was a bit stressful at times due to some rude and even aggressive remarks addressed to the lone female (remarks that you’d get anywhere, mind you), it was enjoyable and even enlightening. Here are just some of the people I spoke with, and the some of the photos that came out of that afternoon.

I had my first conversation (if you can call it that) in Swahili (if you can call it that too) with this lady.

Little boys playing football, who paused their game so I could take their photo.


(Unfortunately, the internet isn't letting me post as many photos as I want to, but I will post more on my flickr
this week.)

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Since that weekend, this camera-toting stranger decided to take photos of the sunrise over the Congo River, and as a result, got detained for a bit by the Congolese military. Next on the piroguepilot!!

Karibu hapa Kindu (....or, [un]necessary introductions)

Getting here wasn’t easy. It’s a story that’s 4 months long, ridden with visa and travel problems (including a brief stint as an illegal immigrant), lots of waiting and uncertainty --- 2 days worth of tears at one point, about 6 flights and as many airports. But today marked my first month in the town of Kindu, in the Maniema province of eastern DRC where I’m working with the organization Merlin, and I thought it was about time I started the blog that I said I’d start in March. Always the procrastinator.

But I do have a reason (or excuse?) for being late. I didn’t want to write about a place I didn’t know, that I had just got to. I didn’t want to talk about Kindu as a complete stranger, throwing around shallow first impressions and judgements. One month isn’t a long time, I know, but I think it’s given me time to maybe gain even just a little familiarity with a place so different from anywhere I’ve ever been to before, and maybe think about things with a different perspective. (Please note the 'Maybe'.)

I remember planning to just keep a simple photo-blog thing, but I soon realized that while photos can tell you a lot, there are many, many things that photos cannot say. Like for example how surreal it felt (still is) to be sitting on a balcony overlooking the Congo River, watching the pirogues pass by, when a pirogue filled with a choir dressed in uniform patterned bright yellow and green pagnes crossed the river to Kindu, singing all the way. Or even how the flour mill right behind my room wakes me up everyday at 630 am (including weekends). Earlier on bad days, but later if we’re lucky. (Note: I am keeping my photos on flickr. And I may be starting a photo-blog for Merlin.)

I sometimes think blogs can be a teeny bit self-indulgent and a teeny bit pretentious, but oh well, I will indulge myself [--- and provide disclaimers that: I do tend to ramble quite a lot (often senseless ramblings too); being incoherent is a talent of mine, that I attempt to hide through little notes in parentheses such as this; and I have a tendency to write the way I talk, which I imagine can be a bit irritating. Disclaimers that assume someone actually reads this. Hmm…]. So, self-indulgent maybe, but in the end of it, this will be my reminder of how it was, and my way of ‘sharing’ Kindu with anyone else who cares to become acquainted with it. My way of counting souvenirs. And maybe (hopefully) I’ll even be able to say something useful…

So more in this space very soon… and welcome to Kindu, or as they say it in Swahili here… Karibu hapa Kindu!