It's based off of my trip to the DR Congo...different than the Congo. Hopefully you like it, I know it needs work so I'm open to suggestions.
“Hope in the Heart of Darkness”
The taxi bounced up and down on the terrible suspension of the 30-year-old delivery van, which was slowly falling apart with every pothole that it bumped over. At least it was surviving better than the van that had just passed with a man sitting in the engine compartment holding onto the engine. The wind barely made it in though the two front, and only, windows to cool down the 29 passengers crammed tightly onto the six, seven inch wide wooden benches in the back of the van. Everyone in the van sat in each other’s laps, not out of familiarity but out of necessity. It was generally accepted that if you wanted to sit you were going to end up in someone’s lap at one time or another. The passengers swayed and bounced together while the driver swerved to miss huge potholes, though at times succumbing to the terrible jolt because of oncoming traffic. The people crammed into the taxi talked on charismatically in Lingala, occasional French words pouring from the string of constant chatter. The bleating of goats, the squawking of “free-run” chickens and the din of human laughter and conversation announced that they had finally reached the main marketplace.
The women and men wiped themselves with tissues as they waited for the taxi to finally come to a halt. Rachel just gave in to the heat and let the sweat drip down her face. Stuck between two large Congolese women, it was impossible for her to do otherwise. A serene smile was on her lips as she was jostled side to side in the van. Rachel breathed in deep the smell of burning plastic, diesel fuel, sweat and dirt, regretting her decision to do so moments after. She had forgotten the thickness of the Congolese air during dry season and the way the smell hit her in the back of her throat and nose. The taxi screeched to a halt and everyone in the taxi scrambled to make way for those getting out. Some of the people jumped out the back door that the taxi driver’s assistant had opened by prying the wire coat hanger off that had been keeping the door shut. Rachel squeezed her way out, tripping once or twice on her long skirt. She scrambled over the benches after her husband and Eric, who she jokingly called their protector. As she extracted herself from the back of the van she turned her face towards the sun dimmed by the heavy pollution in the air. Her feet stepped down onto the earth, and a smile stretched across her face.
The sounds of the market place reached her ears. Young boys shouts of “Eau Pui! Eau Pui!” filled the air. Rachel smiled happily at their innocent mispronunciation of the French word, “pur”. Horns honked for hundreds of reasons, for seeing friends, for taking the right of way, for giving the right of way, for announcing their vehicles presence, for announcing pleasure and for announcing displeasure. Music blasted from a speaker a far way off, playing music to attract attention to a cell phone provider at the side of the road. Her husband Jamie smiled encouraging back at her and then looked forward to find Eric, excited to continue on their journey. People stared at them from their different positions along the street. Some of the people were sitting under umbrellas or overhangs of buildings with bins or baskets full of different items in front of them. Rachel’s mouth watered at the sight of fresh bananas and roasted peanuts. Eric smiled at her when he caught her starring at the bunch of bananas sitting at a woman’s feet.
“Already thinking of lunch?” Eric teased her.
Rachel laughed, took one last look at the beautiful, fresh bananas and followed after him, with her husband following behind. It was always strange to walk through streets flanked by two men, but she knew from previous experience that it was necessary. She smiled, remembering from their last visit when the man had sneakily run up behind her and pinched her bum, giggling like a school boy as he ran away. Now she could laugh, at the time she did not remember finding it so comical.
Suddenly a young boy appeared at Rachel’s elbow, holding stacks of tissue.
“Mouchoir?” he asked innocently looking sadly into her eyes.
“Non merci.” She replied gently, smiling down at the boy, a pang hit her heart.
The boy insisted again, some of the sadness in his face replaced with frustration.
“Mouchoir.”
“Non merci.” Rachel smiled again.
She glanced back at her husband who smiled encouragingly at her, reminding her that they were there to encourage and empower, not to increase the dependency that had existed for decades. The boy then moved on to Jamie, with the same result, growing more frustrated with their unwillingness to buy his tissues. He turned away from them and began to offer tissues to the other people who had just extracted themselves from the sweltering van, with much better results. A few people called out to him and he happily obliged, rushing to their sides before other young boys could swoop in and take his customers.
Rachel walked through the street, the dust, particles from fires, and other sediment brushing over her feet some of it settling there permanently upon her sweaty feet. As she looked around, she already felt out of place, the minority, the oppressive minority.
All around her creativity seeped through the walls and onto the once paved streets. It seeped through the cars that had been fixed with a home-made welder by the side of the road. It seeped through the women and men carrying precious stacks of goods on their heads. A man stepped carefully but confidently through the streets, five crates of eggs balanced delicately on his head. The women’s brightly coloured dresses and skirts shone in the sunlight. The bright and bold patterns of their dress spoke of the untapped strength and power. Babies heads bobbed as they slept, arms splayed, tied to their mothers backs, Rachel saw creativity in it all.
Eric turned down a side street and continued purposefully along his route, weaving expertly through the crowds of people and cars.
Rachel and Jamie had arrived, incredibly jet lagged, early the previous morning, with a different sense of purpose from the last time they had come to this place. Their trip had been a long one, over 30 hours, with many transfers. airports and planes, but they knew it would be worth it. Their host, Eric, who saved them from the many men offering to help carry their bags, welcomed them and took them to where they would be staying. Eric kept them laughing the whole way with his “jokes” which they had dearly missed since their last visit. Rachel was waiting expectantly for his hearty laugh to start as he laughed at his own somewhat dark jokes. As much as their squeaky bed had seemed welcoming, they were promptly rushed off to a traditional Congolese meal. The meal was complete with Coke in a glass bottle, wonderfully fresh, moist bananas and toasted peanuts. Jamie dove right into the meal, forgetting the heat of the peelee-peelee, a hot pepper, sauce he had mixed into his foufou and caused a round of deep laughter to erupt from their dinner hosts. Conversation had happened in rapid fire French with a splash on Lingala thrown in for good measure. Rachel kept up with the conversation enough to translate to Jamie and to throw in her own word every once and a while. Eric was helpful in translating when the excitement in the room led the Congolese to speak their native language. Conversation ultimately turned to what the Congolese hosts wanted from Rachel and Jamie, who listened intently and earnestly. Rachel and Jamie did not have any intention to provide or hand-out what their new friends were requesting, but they did hope to see a place where they could encourage creativity and ingenuity.
They shared their ideas of wanting to inspire them and work alongside them as they created unique solutions to the Congolese peoples problems with their Congolese counterparts. They nodded with disappointment, and some of them angrily, but a few seemed willing to listen to what they had to say. Rachel understood that what her and Jamie suggested, in encouraging and empowering them to use their own resources and creativity would seem to some unhelpful, inconsiderate and heartless. But they had a hope to empower the Congolese and to break their dependency on the developed world when they had so much creativity, life, hope and strength in their own people. Some of the Congolese people left, upset and frustrated with the fact that Rachel and Jamie were not there to give them what they asked for. They let Rachel and Jamie know what they thought of them as they left.
“Selfish people, with all you have you’re willing to give nothing?”
“You come to observe but not to help?”
“What do you know of our situation? You do not understand where we come from!”
Rachel and Jamie understood their anger, and knew that they could never truly understand where these people were coming from. They wanted to try to understand, they yearned to provide support, but just not in the way that was expected. Rachel and Jamie talked with their friends who had stayed of life and ideas, of hope and of desperation, of needs and desires, well into the night.
They left their dinner stuffed full of Congolese hospitality, and questions and debates. As they walked three in a line, Rachel stared forward, out past Eric as he led them bravely into the darkness, with a sense of hope in her heart and faith in her step.
The three, together, faced the darkness with strength not knowing what their journey held. The End
Sorry about the wonky spacing.
This makes me want to go back, and eat banana's and talk to Jean Baptiste and hold his, now one year old, and laugh at Eric's terrible jokes, and hug Hussein even when he's been a huge brat about the bubbles.
That's all.
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