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The young foolish dreamer
Who wishes upon a star
Knows, like twinkling twice
Hope can carry you far

Even skipping and jumping
Along moon beams beyond
Into the heart’s imaginings
No faith in magical wands

Or witch doctor juju
Beneath dark African thatch
That conceals in shadow
A smoky deceptive catch

The celestial Congo sky
And way out milky haze
Too wonderful to behold
At heavenly bodies gaze

Looking for something known
The Southern Cross perhaps
Or a promise of new life
Like the magis’ maps

Nothing cries perfection
Beauty and strength, gone
Eyes once starry dimmed
Oh how her qualities shone

Alone, lonesome once more
The dirt road stretches out
To Saramabila and Kindu
Empty and without doubt

Human flaws exposed, ugly
Like an open cast mine
Diamonds and gold hidden
This scarred earth a crime

That weeping cannot cry out
The soaked up innocent tears
Or the blood of Mai-Mai
For too many years

Base instincts dominate
Sexual appetites ravish
Where savage violence reigns
Love surely must vanish

Vacant eyes mask the smile
Oh how we are weary Lord
Yet little ones still beam
Before fathers bored

Where in this land are you?
Your fabled fulness of life?
For these Congolese and me
Companions in this strife

The final flickering light
Of a planet that is dying
Once lovely, enchanting
Neither known nor crying

When wishing wish again
Let it be as children do
Hopeful and expectant
Light shining through

My Saturday Poem

Orchids and birdsong

Lake Kivu tranquil

Verdant bush-clad hills

Painted hazy in green

For a balcony exclusive

This Bukavian idyll

Almost colonial

In the NGO style

Too removed perhaps

From everyday life

A helicopter arrives

Obliterating the calm

Like coffee in China

Instant made fancy

A veneer so common

Like peace in Baraka

NGO Graveyard

A crowded jumble of signs dominates the northern entrance to Baraka, like an overgrown graveyard for humanitarian actors whose work here has finished. The late afternoon sun paints these white memorials to UNHCR, ECHO, Oxfam and various others in an orange glow masking the rust streaks and badly faded letters. They stand testament to projects undertaken to save lives and relieve suffering in this war-torn village on the western shores of Lake Tanganyika. As I read the text and photograph the scene I can’t help wondering if this image captures the idealistic nature of aid work in profound ways. These monuments to justice and an end to suffering speak of a brighter future, but ten years on from the first interventions how real are those prospects? Whose dreams were they in the first place? Did locals cherish them about as much as these dilapidated signs suggest or has hope begun to set like today’s sun because it only ever existed like a false dawn which once promised so much? There are undoubtedly statistics and justifications for every well-meaning action taken and budget line spent, but really we must also ask how different are the baseline figures today compared with the days following the fighting, raping and looting which devastated Baraka’s its inhabitants before the outside world tried to help? So much of the project work undertaken does not take root in places like the Congo and others. Sure, any assistance will be embraced but it is more about a financial transaction than partnership which is locally owned and embraced as something of integral value. When the funding disappears and NGOs leave, the decline begins – training forgotten, best practice ignored, maintenance disregarded until people are living as they did before disaster struck. I’ve seen communities targeted for water and sanitation programmes receive tens of thousands of dollars in aid for wells, hygiene education and maintenance committees which were all realised. A few years later the wells are in disrepair, the latrines full, unused and people are drinking water direct from the lake. Much like a Congo that had functioning transport, industry and infrastructure (albeit on the back of Leopold’s heinous slavery) where barely an overgrown railway sleeper can be seen today, these humanitarian projects seem doomed to decline in the same way. Perhaps it’s simply better to do nothing (as some critics of development have argued) and allow people the freedom and responsibility to live their lives as they see fit. Some days it’s hard not to view people here as beneficiaries receiving unemployment cheques, dependent on aid rather than honestly tackling the challenges they face as a local community. Worst of all is the way they have been defined (by themselves as much as others) as victims in need of a handout. The loss of dignity and dehumanisation is shameful for all. I suspect international NGOs, just like the colonists who abandoned this country fifty years ago, are taking away a lot more than they are giving.

Young Guns

For PT

Sunday

Enjoying a lovely, relaxing day after a full-on week. Emergency response for IDPs complete but not without considerable challenges including theft of one packet of cash (inside job) and a disgruntled chief who wanted money from us for doing his job. Principles went out the door when a local staff member paid the guy with his own money when I was explaining we couldn't pay him but would consider his complaint. Tough to trust anyone here which is a shame and makes work difficult. I'm currently reading Michela Wrong's book In the Footsteps of Mr Kurtz which rings so true when it comes to understanding the way things are in the Congo. At least for a day I can forget all that and just chill.

Rapid Response?

Super busy working on an emergency response for people who have been displaced from the moyenne plateau above Lake Tanganyika. The hoops that have to be jumped through are astounding. The layers of hierarchy from sub-chief to chef du secteur and cooperation with the appropriate chief for the group of villages is a long and painful bureaucratic nightmare. Let's just say it hasn't been the rapid action we hoped to deliver to people who fled their homes, fields and livestock with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Of course, the right signatures and stamps are necesary but have more to do with power, control and ego than any tangible service which belies their titles. In a country where there is very little infrastructure or useful governance this situation would be a joke if it weren't for the common citoyens who are suffering. So, to bed and rest before another day trying help those in need. Oh yeah, officials are only half of it. Identifying legitimate IDPs is also very difficult because everyone wants a slice of whatever pie the NGOs are serving. Humanitarian objectives are so easily lost in translation.

The Wakey-wake Bird

The Wakey-wake Bird is up before dawn

Busying itself even before I yawn

To whom is it calling, I wonder why?

Awake on my bed not sleeping I lie

What is its message each day?

And what is its song I pray?

It seems to chirp ‘wake-wake wakey-wake’

Quit your rest and now your fast break

In a place with no rhyme and reason

It’s not so strange or out of season

Has the Wakey-wake Bird been woken too?

The mullah’s call told it what to do

Or the bugle of a Christian réveillé

Maybe the clanging for worship today?

Reasons to be up at this hour not bright

Perhaps more to rest on this fitful night

With dogs howling and gunshots fired

God knows that we are terribly tired

But the Wakey-wake Bird is wide awake

So must you be, make no mistake

Put behind you your Noddyland dreaming

Dress yourself and start your scheming

Everyone’s up so you might as well be too

The only problem is its four forty-two!

Tuesday

I coming out of a bit of a dip. It's been a tough ten days or so and I guess that's why I haven't been posting. I probably just didn't want to share these lows. However, this is part of the reality when adjusting to a new, different and challenging context. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I was aware I was once again going through a kind of cultural recalibration, but it took the events of today to somehow get a better perspective. Here's to honest blogging.

Dismissal

Today we dismissed a staff member who had not performed to the required standards of behaviour and performance during his probation period. It was a serious and difficult encounter of which I was willing but not happy participant. I completely agree with the decision that has been made but as I watched him pack up his things I was moved by compassion for this man. I was sad to see him go through the indignity of losing his job and that he was unable to perform and behave better. In that moment it would have been tempting give him another chance in the hope his best might shine through. In this country wracked by conflict, suffering and where decent work is difficult to come by, it’s unclear the immediate and longer term effects may be for him and his family. I learnt an important lesson today – you must be convinced beyond any doubt that a dismissal is justified and carry the action out swiftly and with great humanity. For NGOs working in a country like the DRC, there is a very real risk of repercussions. Although he maintained his composure during the process, it was clear that as he left the compound for the last time, the man who had lost his job was angry. His parting words were that he would seek justice. Tonight I go to bed in the firm belief that we did the right thing but also in the sober knowledge that our actions today may cause us problems and even put the lives of those involved in the process at risk.

Primus

It has been brewed in Kisangani since the colonial era, and across the Congo it enjoys the status of a national institution. During my research most people with any direct experience of the Congo mentioned Primus. During the various wars and periods of turmoil here, just about the only thing that remained open in the city was the brewery, churning out Primus lager in large brown bottles that bore the name not on a paper label, but on a stencil of white letters glazed direct onto the glass. There were legendary stories about bottles of Primus being opened to reveal human nails inside, or insects, or other detritus too gruesome to go into. But the point was: while every other factory in Kisangani collapsed, the Primus brewery plodded on, filling, recycling and refilling the bottles, time after time, year after year, crisis after crisis.

Each bottle I drank seemed to have its own story. The tiny chinks on the lip or missing letters on the stencil told of boozing sessions and bar fights through the city’s turbulent past. Drinking a bottle of Primus made me feel more in touch with the country’s recent history than almost anything else I did in the Congo. And another thing – it tasted great.

Extract from Blood River: a Journey to Africa’s Broken Heart by Tim Butcher, pp. 266-267

Primus is over-rated. By any measure it is a mediocre lager. The fact that is comes in a 720ml bottle and tastes like beer might appeal to some. If I had never tasted beer before, or if no other beer was available, Primus might be worth mentioning. Certainly, after the author’s overland journey through hundreds of miles of mosquito and Mai-Mai infested jungle to Kisangani (a feat which I have tremendous respect for), any beer would taste amazing. That said, after all he had been through, the fact that the intrepid Mr Butcher deemed Primus to be the best connection to the Congo’s recent past seems a sad indictment on his profound exposure to the human suffering and developmental regression (in Western terms at least), which he experienced first hand like no other in recent years. One would think that cannibalised skulls from the massacre of villagers near Kindu would have made a deeper impact and connected him in a way that no beer ever could. I get his point about the enduring nature of beer production in the place he was and how every bottle tells a story of the murderous rapist or proud new father supping in satisfaction. It’s just not the conclusion I would have reached. Or so I’d like to believe. That section of his book sounds like the romantic musings of an inebriated, homesick adventurer.

My first Primus was warm and came with a sticker over the white stencilled label. It tasted piss poor. Mind you, if that’s all you’ve got, even a warm beer starts to taste alright by the end. Thankfully, Primus is not the beer of choice in Baraka – Amstel is. Maybe the locals have shifted allegiance to dissociate themselves from recent Congolese history. My guess is that something much better came along and they were only too happy to leave Primus to the corrupt, oppressive and exploitative thugs, officials and outlaws which have plagued the DRC since King Leopold claimed this land as his personal dominion. Not that I’m a huge fan of this Dutch lager, but it’s a definitely an improvement. I wonder how things might have been different had The Netherlands colonised this part of Africa instead of Belgium. Probably only this – the Congolese would speak Dutch and have much better beer.

Friday

Disappointment about not visiting to our project sites in more remote parts of South Kivu exacerbated the boredom of a weekend in the Tearfund compound. No one to play games with and no license to drive meant I had to get creative. That said, there's only so much time you can spend reading, writing, studying French, watching pirated DVDs and doing yoga. Even less doing push ups, pull ups and sit ups. I've started plotting some escapes and hobbies. Maybe I will brew beer out here. I'm sure I can do better than the Amstel on offer. Work has been good this week and I'm definitely settling into sustainable rhythms here that are important for health on every level. Love my siesta!

Thursday

Denied. But for a bit of paper confirming that my passport is in Kinshasa I can't leave Baraka. Ultimately my choice to play by the rules. In DRC you have to announce your presence upon arrival in a new town. Of course, it stands in the venerable company of China and other states. In a place where little else functions well, the monitoring of foreigners and beareaucracy surrounding them is remarkable. Of course the motivations for this activity are dubious. As an aid worker one could make a stand regarding unlimited access to those in need addressed by various international codes covering humanitarian activity (which the DRC has welcomed). Paper work for profit is perhaps a distorted colonial legacy. Access is always paid for in these contexts. Wouldn't it be funny if on my recent trip to America I had been required to report to the mayor's office in every town I visited. 'Yes, good morning Mr Mayor. I love New York. Can I please visit MoMA today then go to a gig at the Village Vanguard. "Well sir, let's just check your documents. And while you're waiting here's a short quiz on Kandinsky."' All good fun. Right, time to sweat it out in the office. No adventures and project assessments for Dunky.

Wednesday

The boy is back! Turned the corner last night and woke feeling chipper. Off for a field visit until next Saturday. Deep Congo.

Tuesday

Struck down with Baraka Belly. Resting in bed the only place for me. Travelled in developing counties? You know the drill. Just weather the full-body ache, fitful sleep and gastro-intestinal storm until it blows over. Yeah, I take drugs and pray too.

The Shores of Lake Tanganyika

Baseline Survey

First forey into the town last night in search of a cold beer. There was none of the local beer, Primus, but long neck bottles of Amstel were found. Unfortunately, it was served up warm so it looks like a takeaway option to be cooled back at base might be best. The NGO influence mustn't be that big here if there isn't at least one bar serving up booze and food to cater to the expat palette. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing but a nice cold pint would be lovely. Secretly what I would like is the existence of something like Rick's Cafe from the movie Casablanca right here in Baraka.

Friday

First working week over. It's been a while since I did over 40+ hours. Getting stuck into projects and settling in to living on a compound again. Have been getting back into push-ups and yoga.

Thursday

A long hot day in the compound writing the monthly report. Projects seem to be progressing well as a number of grants draw to a close. Had a late afternoon game of badminton. Dinner was an already familiar serving of rice, chapattis and beef stew. Sipping on a nice dram of Ardbeg 10 year old single malt. A small pleasure on a hot, clammy evening in Baraka.

Tuesday

Attended my first humanitarian coordination meeting today. This began with a very scenic 1 hour drive to Fizi, the provincial capital of the province with the same name. The 4 hour meeting was excessively long and all in French so it was exhausting.

Destination Congo

Recently arrived in South Kivu, DRC to work for Tearfund. Living conditions are basic. Work off to an interesting start.

Au Revoir

Come on Snowy, time to go!