To celebrate my upcoming move to a new country, I've moved my blog on over to a new site.
My next digs are yet to be announced publicly but to give you a few clues I'm headed south and east from Congo and hope to be spending my weekends on the water.
Thanks for all your comments and camaraderie over the last two years!
Monday, August 13, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
Paradise found?
Having just spent a short but entertaining stint in Costa Rica, I have to say, I'm a bit in awe of the place. Granted that even as Africa goes, Cong's a bit the bottom of the barrel, so to speak. But Costa Rica is downright pleasant.
Some of the more fascinating bits were
Even apart from novelties such as traffic lights, the country's tourism industry is booming with 51% of the country forested, up from only 25% a few decades back. There's a strong national health care system in place (ranked one step above the US's on the World Health Organization's global list), funded partially due to the absence of a national military.
Which is not to say that the thing don't happen slowly or ineffectively. It takes about 2 years to have a phone line installed in your house, the electricity blips on and off regularly, and the government just released 3 Colombians who were arrested for plotting the assassination of the Minister of Justice as a warning against prosecuting drug runners. Bribes are still somewhat of a necessity when dealing with bureaucracy. But all in all, it's not a bad place to set your hat.
I'm now back on U.S soil and enjoying the northern hemisphere summer. Here's a small clue as to what I've been up to:
Some of the more fascinating bits were
- Traffic lights! Everywhere!
- Kids riding bikes and skateboards (as opposed to playing with balls constructed from old plastic bags)
- Bee-yew-ti-ful roads
- Potable water right out of the tap
- Notable absence of pushy hawkers
- Ice in beer - this one I'm not such a fan of
Even apart from novelties such as traffic lights, the country's tourism industry is booming with 51% of the country forested, up from only 25% a few decades back. There's a strong national health care system in place (ranked one step above the US's on the World Health Organization's global list), funded partially due to the absence of a national military.
Which is not to say that the thing don't happen slowly or ineffectively. It takes about 2 years to have a phone line installed in your house, the electricity blips on and off regularly, and the government just released 3 Colombians who were arrested for plotting the assassination of the Minister of Justice as a warning against prosecuting drug runners. Bribes are still somewhat of a necessity when dealing with bureaucracy. But all in all, it's not a bad place to set your hat.
I'm now back on U.S soil and enjoying the northern hemisphere summer. Here's a small clue as to what I've been up to:
Thursday, July 19, 2007
What I did on my summer vacation or The Bullfight
I’m drinking a watery tico beer bought for me by a gringo in a cowboy hat. My generous companion has the distinction of being the tallest person (as is his usual honour at public gatherings) at the bullfight. The fight is about to begin and my companion alternates between translating the million-mile-per-second Spanish-speaking announcer and making facing at the 5-year old Costa Rican boy sitting in front of us on what passes for a bleacher.
The temporary stadium where the fight is to be held is essentially constructed by driftwood toothpicks which pose more risk to spectators surviving the evening’s event than the fight does to the bull.
My companion explains that unlike bullfights in other countries, bullfights in Costa Rica consist of two teams who each try to herd the bull in question through a set of orange traffic cones on either side of the ring.
The teams enter the ring and begin by throwing one of their compatriots several feet in the air on what may at one point in time have resembled a parachute. The attempt to catch the flying team member in said parachute is genuine though not always successful. It is at this point that the first fire breaks out.
I am under the mistaken assumption that fire in a rickety stadium is something to be avoided, however when laughter ripples around the audience, I realise I am missing the punch line. A few pieces of newspaper have been twisted together, tucked into the back of someone’s trousers and set alight. The fun begins when the victim registers his predicament and tries to snatch the burning newspaper from his ensemble before he himself is set alight. Somehow the elementary-school anti-fire advice “stop, drop and roll” does not seem appropriate in a dirt-floor arena that has been absorbing the last few hours’ constant drizzle.
The first bull to enter the ring is named Dynamite and seems more the spindly bookish adolescent than the bully who shoved your head in your locker. It’s difficult to tell which team is ascending toward victory as the spectators are more apt to shriek at the bullfighters scaling the arena walls as Dynamite patters towards them that hoot at actual scoring. The fiery newspapers continue to be tucked into unsuspecting fighters’ belts, adding to the mayhem and hysteria.
It is at about this point that I notice that one of the bullfighters is dressed in drag. It’s not the sophisticated fashion of a cross-dressing lounge singer but rather consists of a stretched neon green slip dress covering a size triple D chest with a haphazardly placed long brunette wig that may at one time have resembled a Beyonce do. It’s unclear whether the presence of a supposed woman is supposed to excite Dynamite further or calm him.
After a good while, three cowboys ride into the ring on horseback and lasso poor Dynamite to his knees, all the while with the announcer yelling “Aye yaye yaye!” as Dynamite is led off the stage.
Just as The Gift, the next bull who is only slightly more robust than Dynamite, enters the ring, what was a light drizzle turns suddenly to a windy downpour. The wind whips the rain around the stadium, drenching anyone brave enough to be seated in the first row. There was much shrieking as those being pelted tumble backward in search of drier ground, in the process giving one the sense that the stadium is slowly swaying with the massive synchronised movement. Thirty seconds later, it is back to a drizzle.
The Gift’s stint in the ring follows a similar pattern to Dynamite’s as he graciously chases a bunch of raucous men -one dressed as a woman- around the mud arena with a dog yapping as his feet. The moment The Gift turns to eye the dog personally, the small beast dashes under the rickety bleacher wall and barks back at The Gift from relative safety.
After The Gift, two more equally impressive bulls follow, all with equally mild temperaments, all equally sluggish in their pursuit of their tormentors, by which point my attention begins to wane. There are really only so many times that watching someone being set on fire is funny.
As we drift away from the makeshift stadium and back to the rest of the county fair in search of another beer, I am happy to note that the nearby port-a-potties are considerably better constructed than the stadium itself. The shrieking and clamouring from within the stadium echoes across the night sky until the sounds of the latin music tent take over.
The temporary stadium where the fight is to be held is essentially constructed by driftwood toothpicks which pose more risk to spectators surviving the evening’s event than the fight does to the bull.
My companion explains that unlike bullfights in other countries, bullfights in Costa Rica consist of two teams who each try to herd the bull in question through a set of orange traffic cones on either side of the ring.
The teams enter the ring and begin by throwing one of their compatriots several feet in the air on what may at one point in time have resembled a parachute. The attempt to catch the flying team member in said parachute is genuine though not always successful. It is at this point that the first fire breaks out.
I am under the mistaken assumption that fire in a rickety stadium is something to be avoided, however when laughter ripples around the audience, I realise I am missing the punch line. A few pieces of newspaper have been twisted together, tucked into the back of someone’s trousers and set alight. The fun begins when the victim registers his predicament and tries to snatch the burning newspaper from his ensemble before he himself is set alight. Somehow the elementary-school anti-fire advice “stop, drop and roll” does not seem appropriate in a dirt-floor arena that has been absorbing the last few hours’ constant drizzle.
The first bull to enter the ring is named Dynamite and seems more the spindly bookish adolescent than the bully who shoved your head in your locker. It’s difficult to tell which team is ascending toward victory as the spectators are more apt to shriek at the bullfighters scaling the arena walls as Dynamite patters towards them that hoot at actual scoring. The fiery newspapers continue to be tucked into unsuspecting fighters’ belts, adding to the mayhem and hysteria.
It is at about this point that I notice that one of the bullfighters is dressed in drag. It’s not the sophisticated fashion of a cross-dressing lounge singer but rather consists of a stretched neon green slip dress covering a size triple D chest with a haphazardly placed long brunette wig that may at one time have resembled a Beyonce do. It’s unclear whether the presence of a supposed woman is supposed to excite Dynamite further or calm him.
After a good while, three cowboys ride into the ring on horseback and lasso poor Dynamite to his knees, all the while with the announcer yelling “Aye yaye yaye!” as Dynamite is led off the stage.
Just as The Gift, the next bull who is only slightly more robust than Dynamite, enters the ring, what was a light drizzle turns suddenly to a windy downpour. The wind whips the rain around the stadium, drenching anyone brave enough to be seated in the first row. There was much shrieking as those being pelted tumble backward in search of drier ground, in the process giving one the sense that the stadium is slowly swaying with the massive synchronised movement. Thirty seconds later, it is back to a drizzle.
The Gift’s stint in the ring follows a similar pattern to Dynamite’s as he graciously chases a bunch of raucous men -one dressed as a woman- around the mud arena with a dog yapping as his feet. The moment The Gift turns to eye the dog personally, the small beast dashes under the rickety bleacher wall and barks back at The Gift from relative safety.
After The Gift, two more equally impressive bulls follow, all with equally mild temperaments, all equally sluggish in their pursuit of their tormentors, by which point my attention begins to wane. There are really only so many times that watching someone being set on fire is funny.
As we drift away from the makeshift stadium and back to the rest of the county fair in search of another beer, I am happy to note that the nearby port-a-potties are considerably better constructed than the stadium itself. The shrieking and clamouring from within the stadium echoes across the night sky until the sounds of the latin music tent take over.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Vanity Fair does the Congo
Reading Vanity Fair's July article Congo's Battered Cockpits brought back to life Congo's chaotic beauty for me. ...Though perhaps beauty is not something most people would take away from an article about Congo's frighteningly unregulated airline industry. The anecdote whose punchline is a plane bellyflopping on Brazza's runway only to fly again no doubt will bring a nostalgic smile to any ironic soul who's spent time in the Congo. (I keep my own air travel stories to myself if only to avoid being grounded by mother who occasionally reads this blog.)
But then, Vanity Fair's article succeeds where most others fail: it creates an realistic image of the Congo without the pity party in tow. From the pillages of the 1990's to the diamond smuggling back and forth across the Angolan border, one can begin to imagine how things work and don't work in the Congo. The sense of complete freedom that only comes with the absence of government mixed with the destruction that decades without governance has intertwined itself with each story told.
For my own part, this article reminded me that living in the Congo, however briefly or long, gives one a sense that anything is possible in this world -- no matter how outrageous, forgiving, or impossible. The Congo is filled with extremes: riches and poverty, opportunity matched with risk, and hope facing down desolation. Go out and read this one, folks; it's well worth your time.
As for myself, I've been bumming around the US for the last month and am having a pretty good time of it. I'll be heading to Costa Rica this weekend for a bit of holiday so stay tuned for the tales of woe as I discover that the phrase 'Donde esta la cerveza?" is not a good substitute for actually speaking Spanish.
But then, Vanity Fair's article succeeds where most others fail: it creates an realistic image of the Congo without the pity party in tow. From the pillages of the 1990's to the diamond smuggling back and forth across the Angolan border, one can begin to imagine how things work and don't work in the Congo. The sense of complete freedom that only comes with the absence of government mixed with the destruction that decades without governance has intertwined itself with each story told.
For my own part, this article reminded me that living in the Congo, however briefly or long, gives one a sense that anything is possible in this world -- no matter how outrageous, forgiving, or impossible. The Congo is filled with extremes: riches and poverty, opportunity matched with risk, and hope facing down desolation. Go out and read this one, folks; it's well worth your time.
As for myself, I've been bumming around the US for the last month and am having a pretty good time of it. I'll be heading to Costa Rica this weekend for a bit of holiday so stay tuned for the tales of woe as I discover that the phrase 'Donde esta la cerveza?" is not a good substitute for actually speaking Spanish.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Tutaonana
In a funny twist of fate, this week marks both the fourth anniversary of the first time I came to Congo as well as my departure from Congo.
For the time being, I'm headed back to the land of sushi, bagels and friends who've known me since before I could go down the block by myself forget about leave the continent all together. I'll be back on this side of the world again before too long, though not in Kinshasa. No doubt I'll find myself back in Congo again at some point.
So I'll sign off for now with tutaonana (Swahili for see you again).
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Rien que la verité
What better way to spent a Saturday night in Kinshasa than hearing live to the biggest Congolese musicians around. Last night was the concert for the ABCD - Rien que la Verité album at the main stadium. Rien que la Verité (Only the Truth) is a US Embassy project which collected 14 of the top Congolese musicians make an album raising awareness about HIV/AIDS surrounding the 4 main messages:
While official data shows Congo's HIV prevalence at 4.5%, it is suspected that many areas where there have been foreign militaries operating or which have road access to higher-prevalence countries such as Zambia and Rwanda, have significantly higher rates of infection (UNAIDS speculates up to 20% in conflict-affected areas). Unfortunately for those Congolese living with the virus, there is only limited access to ART (anti-retroviral therapy), which can significantly increase an infected person's expected lifespan. The best way to stay well is still to focus on prevention, which is where Rien que la Verité comes in.
The Rien que la Verité album (which can be downloaded free from the link above) has one new song from each of the artists dealing with some aspect of the fight against HIV/AIDS and then an ensemble piece at the end. A video of the ensemble piece has also been produced and production is underway for a televised version of the concert.
The concert itself was fantastic -- and I'm not just saying that because some friends organised it. Clips of the documentary made to accompany the album were also shown between acts. In the film, each of the artists speaks to one aspect of A, B, C or D or about destigmatisation of those living with the virus. Small film segments were also shown at the concert detailing how to correctly use a condom. Three organisations had rapid HIV testing booths at the concert and report having tested more people at the concert than in the last 6-8 months.
With Congo's vibrant music culture, these musicians are national heroes whose voices hold serious weight. Seeing them speak on stage after each of their sets about the importance of dealing with the HIV/AIDS pandemic went far beyond lip service as the Lingala words went bouncing across the stadium filled with thousands. With the laughter bubbling across the stands during the condom demonstration, it was clear that the audience was taking it all in.
Philly Lutaaya, a Ugandan musician who contracted HIV early on in the epidemic was one of the first prominent Africans to come out with his status and used his popularity to promote HIV awareness and prevention, which he did with much success in his final days.
Having seen what the Rien que la Verité musicians -from Papa Wemba, the granddaddy of Congolese music, though newer stars like Werrason- are up to provides a lot of hope for stopping the spread of the disease in its tracks here in Congo. It also reminds one of the amazing things that can and do come together in this chaotic place.
- Abstinence
- Bonne fidelité
- Condoms
- Dépistage (Testing)
While official data shows Congo's HIV prevalence at 4.5%, it is suspected that many areas where there have been foreign militaries operating or which have road access to higher-prevalence countries such as Zambia and Rwanda, have significantly higher rates of infection (UNAIDS speculates up to 20% in conflict-affected areas). Unfortunately for those Congolese living with the virus, there is only limited access to ART (anti-retroviral therapy), which can significantly increase an infected person's expected lifespan. The best way to stay well is still to focus on prevention, which is where Rien que la Verité comes in.
The Rien que la Verité album (which can be downloaded free from the link above) has one new song from each of the artists dealing with some aspect of the fight against HIV/AIDS and then an ensemble piece at the end. A video of the ensemble piece has also been produced and production is underway for a televised version of the concert.
The concert itself was fantastic -- and I'm not just saying that because some friends organised it. Clips of the documentary made to accompany the album were also shown between acts. In the film, each of the artists speaks to one aspect of A, B, C or D or about destigmatisation of those living with the virus. Small film segments were also shown at the concert detailing how to correctly use a condom. Three organisations had rapid HIV testing booths at the concert and report having tested more people at the concert than in the last 6-8 months.
With Congo's vibrant music culture, these musicians are national heroes whose voices hold serious weight. Seeing them speak on stage after each of their sets about the importance of dealing with the HIV/AIDS pandemic went far beyond lip service as the Lingala words went bouncing across the stadium filled with thousands. With the laughter bubbling across the stands during the condom demonstration, it was clear that the audience was taking it all in.
Philly Lutaaya, a Ugandan musician who contracted HIV early on in the epidemic was one of the first prominent Africans to come out with his status and used his popularity to promote HIV awareness and prevention, which he did with much success in his final days.
Having seen what the Rien que la Verité musicians -from Papa Wemba, the granddaddy of Congolese music, though newer stars like Werrason- are up to provides a lot of hope for stopping the spread of the disease in its tracks here in Congo. It also reminds one of the amazing things that can and do come together in this chaotic place.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
A girl's best friend?
I was having a few beers and roasted goat with some workmates at a Kinshasa terrace last night, when for the first time since I came to Africa, a hawker wandered over to us to display his pricey wares: raw diamonds. Friends from my Namibia days will remember my indignation at having never been offered diamonds (am I that scruffy-looking?!), but in truth, I am not one for glittering rocks.
Amnesty International offers these words on the diamond trade:
To many people, diamonds symbolize love, happiness or wealth. However, for many others, they mean conflict, misery and poverty. In some African countries, such as the Democratic Republic of Congo, profits from the unregulated diamond trade are used to fund armed conflicts. As a result, tens of thousands of civilians have over the past years been killed or tortured and millions have been displaced.
The Kimberly Process of diamond certification was established in 2003 with the intent of preventing the flow of conflict diamonds or blood diamonds that fund into the world diamond market. I'm no expert, but my understanding is that countries which have signed on can certify that the diamonds have been obtained legally and then export them to the international diamond market. Unfortuantely the process is fairly flawed, especially as many of Congo's neighbours with no mines of their own want to export.
Even beyond illegally-mined diamonds that fuel conflicts are the daily risks taken to exploit legal diamonds. One of my colleagues who comes from the Province Orientale, where the 134 carat diamond* was recently found, explained how the rivers are mined: Divers go down in the rapids to fill bags of sand, which are then pulled up to the surface and sifted though. The divers often die, either because their air hose is not attached correctly or because they get swept farther down the rapids and trapped between rocks.
Many workers have also died recently with the collaspse of several underground mines. In the province of Kasai Oriental, once mine tunnels have been abandoned by mining companies, illegal diggers enter the tunnels, looking for diamonds that may have been missed. It is many of these people, in addition to formal miners, who are killed in such accidents.
When we turned around a few minutes later, our diamond hawking friend was standing next to a large SUV. A Congolese man inside was examining the stones with a jeweler's eye piece, as we watched from the terrace. I remind myself that Congo is one of the countries signed onto the Kimberly Process and I wonder who exactly it is to decide which pieces of rock get a certificate and where the rest of the stones find themselves.
For this girl, I think I'm going to pass on Elizabeth Taylor's best friend and go in search of a more amicable relationship.
*Apparently the infamous 134 carat diamond was sold not for $1.4 million as reported but $1.8 million, $400,000 being knocked off the official price to reduce the government's share of the pie.
Amnesty International offers these words on the diamond trade:
To many people, diamonds symbolize love, happiness or wealth. However, for many others, they mean conflict, misery and poverty. In some African countries, such as the Democratic Republic of Congo, profits from the unregulated diamond trade are used to fund armed conflicts. As a result, tens of thousands of civilians have over the past years been killed or tortured and millions have been displaced.
The Kimberly Process of diamond certification was established in 2003 with the intent of preventing the flow of conflict diamonds or blood diamonds that fund into the world diamond market. I'm no expert, but my understanding is that countries which have signed on can certify that the diamonds have been obtained legally and then export them to the international diamond market. Unfortuantely the process is fairly flawed, especially as many of Congo's neighbours with no mines of their own want to export.
Even beyond illegally-mined diamonds that fuel conflicts are the daily risks taken to exploit legal diamonds. One of my colleagues who comes from the Province Orientale, where the 134 carat diamond* was recently found, explained how the rivers are mined: Divers go down in the rapids to fill bags of sand, which are then pulled up to the surface and sifted though. The divers often die, either because their air hose is not attached correctly or because they get swept farther down the rapids and trapped between rocks.
Many workers have also died recently with the collaspse of several underground mines. In the province of Kasai Oriental, once mine tunnels have been abandoned by mining companies, illegal diggers enter the tunnels, looking for diamonds that may have been missed. It is many of these people, in addition to formal miners, who are killed in such accidents.
When we turned around a few minutes later, our diamond hawking friend was standing next to a large SUV. A Congolese man inside was examining the stones with a jeweler's eye piece, as we watched from the terrace. I remind myself that Congo is one of the countries signed onto the Kimberly Process and I wonder who exactly it is to decide which pieces of rock get a certificate and where the rest of the stones find themselves.
For this girl, I think I'm going to pass on Elizabeth Taylor's best friend and go in search of a more amicable relationship.
*Apparently the infamous 134 carat diamond was sold not for $1.4 million as reported but $1.8 million, $400,000 being knocked off the official price to reduce the government's share of the pie.
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