Pushing Cabbage In Congo

Saturday 3 March, 2007 – 07:40 – Kigali

The last couple of weeks disappeared on me and I’m not sure which direction they went, but all of the sudden these are my final days in Rwanda. On Tuesday Tanzania greets me with the challenge of learning Swahili through a two-month intensive training course, followed by a month-long internship in a remote central-Tanzanian clinic.

The Physics of Medical Imaging class wrapped up nicely, and after that the Kigali Health Institute (KHI) had me on assignment crisscrossing the country to teach and supervise students learning to take blood from patients’ arms. They first sent me to the western city of Kibuye – a quaint town on lake Kivu that overlooks Congo across the water. Gacaca was meeting when my partner and I arrived; prior to 1994 approximately 60,000 Tutsi lived in the area, but 54,000 were killed – hence the community court hearings that still take place. Some of the saddest stories come out of Kibuye, but I wish not to share them, as Rwanda deserves to be known for things apart from Genocide – and we’ve talked enough about the lingering pain.

Being on an assignment for a teaching institution here is much different than what might take place back home. Imagine reaching your destination after a three-hour nauseating ride in an overcrowded van, only to discover there is still another half hour to be traveled on foot out of town, through the woods, along a pristine lake, and passed the fishermen before reaching campus. But what delight it was to be so far removed from the hustle and bustle of Kigali and to make friends with fishermen in their carved-out trees that serve as boats.

The teaching itself was pretty uneventful. We brought needles and what not, and after a short lecture taught the students to take blood from each other. They did well too, most hitting the vein on their first attempt. Only one student passed out in a class of fifty, so I was pretty happy. It did not dawn on me until walking out of the classroom how painfully ironic it was that in trying to help a Rwanda rebuild its health care system I was teaching students to take blood, when taking blood was the very thing that killed their families and crumbled their country.

















With an open Monday and Tuesday a few weeks ago, I made my way through the mountains in the north-western part of the country to the north-shore town of Gisenyi. There I hopped on the back of a motorcycle and crossed the border into Goma, of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Fearing petty theft, I left my credit card in Kigali – but unfortunately did not bring with me as much money as perhaps I ought to have. After paying for a visa and one night in a cheap and sleazy hotel (look closely at the picture... on the night stand next to the bed lay a bible and a pack of condoms for the occupant to choose from!) only 100 Congolese Francs remained in my pocket… about 27 cents. The only affordable activity available was walking, and I dearly wanted to visit the base of Nyirangongo – an active Volcano that spread sheets of lava all over the area five years ago – so I did just that… walked… some 20 kilometers out of town, through villages, to the base of the volcano. About mid-afternoon and in the heat of the day, I passed through a police checkpoint and was whistled off the road. My face must have looked exhausted and delirious, because the policewoman, bless her soul, sat me down in the shade and offered both an avocado and a mango. I cannot even remember the taste, but it was the most enjoyable fruit I’ve ever had. She was a pleasant woman, by contrast to the Congolese army who also pulled me aside earlier in the day, but who were not as friendly.

After resting shortly in the shade of her hospitality, I continued. Some time later I passed a beat up truck with a coffin strapped to the back, and a crowd of people gathered around to walk the body to a nearby cemetery – and for some reason they asked me to take a picture. Perhaps it was an honor to be photographed, with a little dignity restored to a sad set of circumstances, I don’t know – but I took some pictures and they were happy.

At last I reached the Volcano and went to take a picture but a park ranger stopped me, saying a permit was needed to do so if standing within the confines of a national park… so I backed up fifteen meters to an area that wasn’t part of the national park, took the same picture, and headed back – on foot – to Goma, now 20 km away.

It didn’t take long before some guys from the Congolese army jumped out from the forest, berets and all, strapped with AK47s – but they were friendly. We exchanged greetings in Swahili, then they helped me try to flag down a car heading back to town… except after fifteen minutes no cars came, so I continued on foot, eventually catching up to some boys pushing cabbage on a make-shift bicycle. Since we were both going to Goma, and I could not just walk beside them as they worked hard pushing a heavy load, I jumped between them and started pushing as well. It was damn funny for the peasants we passed to see a white boy pushing cabbage through Congo – but the laughter was rewarding as it was directed less at me and more at the comical situation.

Some time later a Lorry (open bed semi truck) came roaring by, carrying produce and people from Lord knows how far away. Seeing an opportunity to get back before dark, I bounced out from between my friends, ran down the truck, and with a leap of faith pulled myself up and joined the peasants. They also found this to be funny – but again it was beautiful laughter. Maximizing my limited Swahili, a few of them almost cried they were laughing so hard – and we just rolled like that, barreling through the countryside back to town. When one of the gentlemen came around to collect money, the peasants all stood up for me – saying the Mzungu was too funny to have to pay. And what a Godsend that was, because I didn’t have much in my pocket and was not looking forward to picking a fight in Congo. In a gesture of friendship, one woman even gave me three hand-lengths of sugar cane for free – and oh my was it good; even were there to be no sugar, the liquid in and of itself was healing to my dehydrated body. Lord, bless her soul too.

Last week a friend and I attended a neighborhood barbeque, and the national TV cameras were there as well. Although some local elders talked for three hours about Gacaca and local politics, the majority of the footage that made airtime was of the mzungu eating at a barbeque and listening intently to a speech he did not understand. Sometimes when they spot a white they can become very excited.

Last week I traveled with a coworker to Rwinkwavu, a rural village that is home to a Partners In Health Clinic. The place was amazing, and their philosophy radical. Imagine a clean facility with internet in the middle of nowhere – and picture every patient being fed warm, nutritious food. Try to understand that by protocol, doctors make home visits if patients don’t show for appointments. But most importantly, picture an environment that breeds some of the ugliest and far-advanced tropical diseases, and yet even the patients and their families exude positivity. It’s like finding a patch of sunflowers in the slums; we did not want to leave. Since then we’ve submitted a preliminary research proposal with hopes of returning to work alongside friends who graduated from medical school him. If they pick up our proposal I’ll share it with you all.