Out on a Boat: Congo River Sandbank

Today is May 1 - which is a proper holiday here in the Congo.  What can one do on a day off around these parts?  Read on.

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Kinshasa is huge and sprawling and has a particular sort of city craze.  It's hard to find a place that isn't packed with people or buzzing with noise.

Sometimes, it's nice to get away.

"Away" in this case is a sandbar in the middle of the Congo River.  After thirty minutes on a slow-moving boat, you are transported to relative silence and an uncluttered visual field.

For the trip in these photos, we went through the Yacht Club de Kinshasa, which has boat rentals and catering.  

There are other, frequently changing, options for getting to a sandbar as well.  If you're interested, you can try the numbers at the end of this post, or ask your friends.  Chances are, they "know somebody". 

Now, lest you get too excited and/or judgey about our fancy lifestyle, let me be clear, this is a yacht:

And this is a dock:

But, the stripped-down surroundings force stripped-down fun.  Kubb on a Congo River beach being one of life's pleasures in which everybody really should indulge.

Maybe mothers should temporarily put away fears of river blindness and let their kid just go for it because how great is it to be able to casually mention that you've been swimming in the mighty Fleuve Congo?

And then, the mothers should jump in too.  

Kanga and pagne make for perfect muggy-weather beach wraps.

Frisbees should be tossed.

(Don't worry, I'm sure we picked up that Tembo bottle...)

And unprotected eyeballs seared by the equatorial glare.

(Johan is clearly miserable, due to his lack of sunglasses and choice of attire.
Note:  Do not wear black skinny jeans to the sandbar.)

(I'm clearly gloating.)

Kids big and small should plop themselves down and dig.

 And be cuddled when exhausted despite the sand.

You should remember the people you see as the boat pulls away.

And consider the water cities that hug the shore.

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If you want to go to a sandbar on the Congo River right outside of Kinshasa, try calling the numbers below, but no guarantees on anything.  You should ask around for more tips and contacts. Be prepared for the price.  It's not cheap to rent a boat.  Best to get a big group together and split the cost. Here's what the ever-knowledgeable Wiki has to say:

A BBQ on a sandbank on the Congo River is definitely also a must. Renting a boat for a day with a driver and all the gear (tables, chairs, a suntent and a BBQ) will cost around 150$ at the Yacht Club Kinshasa. The boat can take 8 people, so if you share the cost it is quite affordable. A truly unforgettable experience.

• Donald:  081 64 35 151
• Mr Simba:  09 99 93 73 98 
• Alain: 081 01 89 281 
• Yacht Club de Kinshasa:  081 40 47 784  or  081 50 96 315

Find a map here.

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On Bananas and Self-Pity

It’s pretty safe to say that the summer I gave birth to Annaïs was a special one. And when I say "special" I mean crappy. Sure it was great because I had a baby and all, but it’s kinda the pits when you’re away from home, your other child is a toddler, and all you want to do is give birth so you can start the paperwork to get everyone back to Congo.

Remember me whining about my awful labor? Well I was actually showing uncharacteristic self-restraint and left out my sob story of having surgery a week later. It wasn’t serious surgery, but it was surgery none-the-less. And I was one week postpartum (read: crazy hormonal).

Gosh what a beautiful baby. 1-minute after labor: Not worth it. 2 years after labor: Worth it a million times over. Photo: Jill Humphrey.

Have you ever been around a postpartum woman? After a crappy labor? And about to have surgery? If you hear of someone in this trifecta of misery, stay far far away.

All I really remember is sitting in the hospital room about to go into surgery with newborn Ani sleeping in her car seat in the corner, and Adam beside me (but it’s safe to say I had snapped at him about something so we probably weren’t speaking) and I was feeling unbelievably sorry for myself. 

So instead of taking those final moments before I went under to tell my family how much I loved them, I read one of those shiny hospital magazines that are really just thinly-veiled fundraising attempts. There was an article about the fancy new cancer center. It went on and on about the cancer patients and their fortitude and positive outlook. Cancer patients are obviously very amazing and strong folks. I thought, “Well on the bright side, I’ll never get cancer.” If I can summons this amount of self-pity over some dumb surgery, I would never be able to deal with cancer. I would feel way too sorry for myself and self-pity does not a proper cancer patient make. And thus it will never happen to me. So I got in a little better mood because I convinced myself I was too miserable of a person to get a terminal illness.  

And then the nurses came to get me and they expected me to get all sentimental over leaving my newborn for the first time. I was more worried about leaking breast-milk all over the operating table. Yeah, yeah. See ya baby. Can we get this over with before I get too full of milk? A horribly unloving mother and a terrible future cancer patient. An ultimate low in an otherwise pretty happy life. 

Then for some reason I started thinking about Mupwa the gardener back in Kinshasa. And how he said he was planting banana trees for the new baby. I got kind of teary thinking about the beautiful banana trees waiting for us in our backyard in Congo. I kept my focus there for the rest of that crummy summer. I knew our lives would be happy and normal again when we got back to Congo and had our swaying banana trees.

The morning after we returned to Kinshasa, I looked out our back window. This was the triumphant moment I had been envisioning. We were back. I was healing. I was post, postpartum and ready to be cheerful and have a normal life again.

And there were no trees. “Mupwa, where are my damn banana trees?” Oh they’re there! Look real close. I put on my glasses and there they were. About 6 inches tall and wilting. 

Mupwa laughing in my face for thinking I'd have bananas and life would be normal again anytime soon. (Not really, photo from here.)

Turns out it takes a ridiculously long time for banana trees to grow, not to mention bear fruit. Over the next year or so, our precious newborn baby kept us up every night. And having two children in under two-years nearly killed us. Our lives were not normal. Fittingly, most of my inspirational banana trees (aka very small banana plants) died.   

Then one day not all that long ago, our girls started sleeping all night and playing together instead of screaming and crawling up our legs. We started to emerge from the fog of sleep deprivation. And I swear, I looked out back and one of those damn banana trees had a bunch of bananas on it.   

Yep, there they are.

I jumped up and showed Mama Youyou, who was unimpressed. I told Mamicho to keep an eye on them so they wouldn’t get stolen. They both did their laugh-till-they-cry thing and in between snorts said, “Madame. No one’s going to take your bananas.” Yes they will. Those are very special bananas to me. It is only fitting that they will get stolen.

My bananas still weren’t ready to be picked by the time we left Congo this past summer. A good two years after that crummy (I mean "special") summer when Ani was born. So with the seriousness of telling someone what to do with your remains after you die, I told Mamicho to eat the bananas while we were gone. She looked at me like I was nuts. I assumed her look was because she knew she could never bring herself to eat my “special bananas.” In reality it was because she knew they still wouldn’t be ready for 5 more months. 

Sure enough, they were still on the tree, green as ever, when we got back this year. Our gardener said we had to wait for the precise, right moment to pick them. 

When I got home one afternoon last week, Mamicho ran to me out of breath. “Madame, les bananes!” She said she knew it was the right moment, but couldn’t find our gardener to pick them, so found the next best thing, his womanizing father (hey, we never said all Congolese are saints) and he chopped them down for us. She hoped that was okay. 

This weekend we plopped the whole bunch down in front of Ani. She deserved first dibs. After all, she was the one being born when they were planted. The birth experience probably wasn’t so great for her either. And I was kind of mean to her when I was busy convincing myself I was too pathetic to ever get cancer. 

She ate about 7 and then we made ice cream with the rest. The bananas gave Adam sores in his mouth, Ani got a rash around her lips and I got hives on my feet. But I got to eat my damn bananas. And a very long wait for everything to be normal again was over. 

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Holy Moringa!

For a long time, I was convinced that when Mupwa talked about "moringa" he meant passion fruit.  In fact, I spent an evening insisting to Sarah that "moringa" was a different name for my beloved passion fruit.  She told me I was crazy, pulled the I've-lived-in-the-Congo-a-lot-longer-than-you card, and told me that she'd never heard of "moringa." 

This is the point when I announce that Sarah was right.  Sort of.

Maracuja is passion fruit.  Moringa does exist, but is something else entirely.

Mupwa told me all about the amazing benefits of the magical moringa.  It helps children who do not have enough to eat.  It gives weak people energy.  It is a weed but more precious than  medicine.  He should sell the stuff.  (This was followed with a lesson on how to use papaya tree roots to treat hemorrhoids.  I spare you the details.)  The whole time, I was picturing this:

When I should have been picturing this:

Then, I came home the other day and found my porch table covered with those massive amounts of leafy branches.  Mama Vida said her husband was sick, so she was going to dry these leaves and make a moringa tea for him.

Hold the phone!


I went looking for some solid research on this moringa business and found loads of "SUPER BODY IMMUNE HEALTHY POWER MIRACLE" links.  Many internet businesses trying to sell the mystical power of moringa.  So I reasoned that if Mama Vida, Mupwa, and make-a-quick-buck-on-gullible/desperate-new-age internet folks all have interest in this plan, there must be some truth there.

Pub Med seems to agree with the hype:

 Moringa oleifera Lam (Moringaceae) is a highly valued plant, distributed in many countries of the tropics and subtropics. It has an impressive range of medicinal uses with high nutritional value. Different parts of this plant contain a profile of important minerals, and are a good source of protein, vitamins, beta-carotene, amino acids and various phenolics. The Moringa plant provides a rich and rare combination of zeatin, quercetin, beta-sitosterol, caffeoylquinic acid and kaempferol. In addition to its compelling water purifying powers and high nutritional value, M. oleifera is very important for its medicinal value. Various parts of this plant such as the leaves, roots, seed, bark, fruit, flowers and immature pods act as cardiac and circulatory stimulants, possess antitumor, antipyretic, antiepileptic, antiinflammatory, antiulcer, antispasmodic, diuretic, antihypertensive, cholesterol lowering, antioxidant, antidiabetic, hepatoprotective, antibacterial and antifungal activities, and are being employed for the treatment of different ailments in the indigenous system of medicine, particularly in South Asia.

There are a handful of NGOs who base their work on encouraging malnourished populations to plant and consume the moringa plant.  The nutritional information is quite convincing:

For a child aged 1-3, a 100g serving of fresh cooked leaves would provide all his daily requirements of calcium, about 75% of his iron needs, as well as important amounts of potassium, B vitamins, copper and all the essential amino acids.

But, it's a bit hard to find hard evidence that isn't glossified and packaged.  This is a very interesting little discussion about why the benefits haven't "made it big" in the NGO world.

At any rate, Mupwa doesn't care if moringa has "made it big" - he believes that it works.  Mama Vida doesn't care if the nutritional facts are sound, she is happy to have a free way to give her husband "medicine" when he's ill.  And, I am a firm believer that if many people "know" something, there must be a grain of truth in there somewhere.  Or, if not truth, iron, potassium, and calcium...

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Tony, COME TO MAMA!

All I have to say is that Sarah started this.

She posted this challenge the other day:

Anthony Bourdain says the only place he's never been and wants to go is Congo. Come on over, Tony.

So, I was all, "I LOVE Anthony Bourdain!  Isn't he great?  What if we could really get him to come here?  Oh wow!  What a super great idea, Sarah."  (I really talk like that.)

And she says, "What are you talking about? I can't stand Anthony Bourdain.  He's an idiot.  I just thought it was good that Congo got a plug on American television."

Sarah and Paula Deen.


Or maybe Anthony Bourdain started this.  He was the one who told Jon Stewart that the DRC was on his list of haven't-been but wanna-go countries. I find it hard to imagine that Tony would need a hook-up (isn't he already friends with Tim Butcher?  Holy Congo!), but maybe he needs a little more motivation?  So, we'll start the chorus this week:

Sure, Tembo is great.  But, the main reason anyone should visit Congo?  Well, Tony actually said it quite eloquently himself:

 Because it's essentially the same story every week of a guy going somewhere, eating stuff and coming back, we're definitely making an effort to try and get into places like Libya and the Congo to tell some more difficult stories. This is not a political show, but I think that what people eat is, in itself, very political. Without having us tell people one way or the other how I feel, just by showing what people eat and don't eat in a place, and how they feel about their food, and how they behave around their food ... that gives me a lot of satisfaction, particularly when it's places that surprise people. I like being surprised. I like, at my age, being forced to learn stuff. Big stuff and little: learning how to order breakfast in a country where I don't speak the language and haven't been before -- that's really satisfying to me. I like that

Surprise?  Forced to learn?  Is that what you like?  Well then, Tony, COME TO MAMA!

(stay tuned.)

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Friday List

JILL'S LIST:

Anthony Bourdain!  Come to Congo!  We know you want to.  Operation "Tony, COME TO MAMA" underway.  Stay tuned for a week of food posts designed to entice him our way.  We've also got some personal connections we're planning on milking for all they're worth...but, let us know if you have other ideas for getting his attention.

Really?!  Couldn't stop myself from thinking how my kindergartner would fare.  Ugh.  Stop it.

Elias looking out over Kinshasa from the EU offices.

And.  Also in my catching-up-with-the-NYTimes reading:  Thinking about the urbanization of Africa.

  by  United Nations Photo 

Mad Men.  Really want to watch you.

Johan's been (attempting) to download a bunch of music thanks to birthday Amazon.com gift cards.  His favorites?  It's between the new Dirty Three and the new Twilight Sad.    Oh, how I love a good Australian hairy post-rock violin.  Seriously.  It's amazing.

            

I know that the "French parents are THE BEST" books are all the rage right now.  And that the commenters on NYTimes.com love to hate "wild generalizations" of another culture - particularly when it's somewhat critical of Americans.  Yeah, I read Pamela Druckerman's highly-touted book.  But, I'm really thankful to Karen Le Billon's thoughtful Michael Pollen-meets-Jamie Oliver-meets-really-likeable-mother-who's-also-a-great-writer-and-researcher recent release, French Kids Eat Everything.

I really want my kids to love and appreciate real food and this book was kind of great for me.  I liked what she had to say Friday on the Motherlode too.

Radishes and navy beans, pumpkins and garlic sausage….what French kids are eating for school lunch this week!

And.  I promise the return of the pink arrow when we work out whatever kinks are preventing us from having workable internet on most computers here at TASOK.  For now, it's just too laborious to use one computer for graphic design and another for internet.  Sorry.  I'm a little lazy, it turns out.

Unreasonably excited to be flying Brussels back to the U.S. for summer vacation.  Now, don't burst my bubble with stories about how crappy the flight will be.  I have my heart set on spending my layover in Brussels (vs. Addis Ababa) shopping the Euro pharmacy in the airport.  Gwenyth understands.

  by  douglemoine 

SARAH'S LIST:

Doing a lot of cooking, grilling and baking over break (well, Adam is). Did you know he's a fries expert? Guess the Belgians have worn off on him. His fries are made with such care, our friends claim he names each one. The trick is the double fry.

  by  Steve Snodgrass 

Played this game, Cards Against Humanity, last night. "A party game for horrible people." Extremely politically incorrect (the faint-of-heart excused themselves early). Already thinking of who will get it as a Christmas gift. Or you can go to their website and print it for free.

Read this article this week. And I have to say, I believe in the power of Epsom Salt. When Charlotte was born, the SA sisters and doctors recommended a "swim in the sea" for its healing properties. I whined it was too cold, so they said bathing in Epsom Salts was a close second. I think I've gone through a truck load of this stuff since.

  by  kevin dooley 

One topic of conversation at Easter dinner, Lehman's Hardware Store. In the days before the generator, I used to dream of all their great electricity-free appliances.

  by  aussiegall 

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Part Deux: The Front Sling

I promised that we'd bring you the second part of NouNou's DIY babywearing instructions a while ago...and here they are...finally!

This front sling carry uses the exact same piece of fabric from the back carry - but is an alternative method that works well for tiny babies without good neck control.  We used Ani again as our demo model.  She obviously can hold her head up quite well at 8 months - so she is shown in a "supported seat" position.  Later, we'll borrow 8 week old baby Clara soon to show how a tiny baby can be cradled safely and securely in this front carry.  Stay tuned...

 (and older babies too...!)

Special thanks to Mama NouNou!

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