Crossing the River to Brazzaville: An Epic 2 Mile Trip

Living in Kinshasa, one is constantly teased by the so-called "better" Congo on the opposite bank of the river. Brazzaville, capital of the other Congo, is just 2 miles across the river. We're the closest capital cities in the world. It's so close you can almost smell it. For example, when there's an explosion over there, it breaks our windows.

This map was irresistible.

 But as close as Brazza is, it's no easy task getting there. In fact, most expats don't bother. So for Adam's 30th birthday, I surprised him with a visa in his passport for that exotic vacation destination of Brazzaville. (Never mind the two-week visa costs over $80 and we were going about 2 miles away.) Pregnant with Annaïs, we left Charlotte with Mamicho and went for a 30th birthday/last hurrah adventure.

I wanted it to be a seamless birthday getaway so I made sure there would be no surprises. I hired a protocol man to navigate us through Kinshasa's port. I asked my contact in Brazzaville what I needed to know when we arrived on their side. He said, "It's so easy. Once you get to Brazza you just step off the boat. No problems. We're not crazy like Kinshasa." I still kick myself for not recognizing these would be famous last words.

All photos courtesy of Sarah.  Except the whip and the map.  Click for links.

Of course once we arrive in Brazza, indeed a 3 minute boat ride away, we were swept into a dank office and held because we didn't bring a confirmation of our hotel reservation. They threatened to send us back. (Did I mention it cost $50 to take that 3 minute boat ride?) I was determined I could smooth talk my way out of this. I'm pregnant and pathetic. This can't be so hard...more famous last words.

Six hours later we have spent Adam's 30th birthday captive in an administrative office on a river bank in Brazzaville. We tried to bribe ourselves out with cokes and beers for everyone. I made hours of endless French small talk thinking the customs guy would just get sick of the pregnant American lady and let us go. Instead he sat at his desk for hours on end signing his name over and over on copies of the same "official" document. You know, just in case 5,000 people show up at the same time all wanting the same form.

Finally, I have no idea why, but a driver from our hotel showed up to claim us. Mr. Customs Official was sad to see us go. The rest of our time in Brazza was uneventful. It is true that Brazzaville is a totally different world. They have taxis! And pothole-free roads! And nice, affordable restaurants along the river where you can gaze at the Kinshasa skyline. Kinshasa looks so fancy from over there, all lit up at night. A true optical illusion.

I read about a little spot away from the city where you could sit along the river and drink beers. So off we went (in a taxi!) to find it. Once we arrived, it was again, a great view of the other side of the river. And then we realized that great view was of TASOK. The only thing separating us was a small stretch of river and unnavigable rapids.

After our few days in Brazza, we hopped in a boat and headed back to Kinshasa. As soon as we stepped off the dock, we were prepared to be assaulted by yet another port. The hurdle this time came in the form of a man carrying a Rotary Club styrofoam cooler (that had surely never been cold) who told me I couldn't enter without having another polio vaccine. Did I mention I was pregnant? After a minor scuffle, he let us go.

We had the misfortune of arriving back in Kin at the same time as a giant boat of imports. It takes hundreds of people to unload these boats and they do it by running with everything on their heads. Sacks the size of small cars are lifted on the heads of 5 men and they run together to unload them from the boat. Adam and I realized the only way out was through a narrow hallway full of men sprinting with these sacks on their heads. Our only option was to duck under and run with them.

As I'm crouched running (have I mentioned I'm pregnant) under a sack of who knows what, I see at the end of the hallway a man whipping people as they leave. I kid you not. There is one exit and a man is standing there recklessly swinging a whip. Beside him is a large mud puddle. At this moment I learned something very interesting about myself. When faced with the choice of stepping in a mud puddle or getting whipped, I chose to avoid the mud puddle. I remember running and thinking in my head: mud puddle? whip? mud puddle? whip? Thankfully I am married to a sane person who showed up at the car muddy.

Ah, Brazzaville. You taunt us from afar. But I'm still not sure if the trip is worth the misadventures at our respective ports.

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About a Boy

I have a 6 year old kid.

And he's impulsive and dirty.  Concentrated and sparkling.

Last night, he decided at his 8pm bedtime that he really wanted to make a life-sized paper collage self-portrait, holding hands with a robot, jumping out of the wall.  Naturally. Why not?

So, I let him do it.

Waking up was hard this morning, but then again, we had a giant bespectacled boy (glasses made out of Post-It Notes) and his mechanical friend staring at us from their stuck on place (legs bent 3-D to demonstrate the "jumping out of the wall" part) while we got ready for school.  Totally worth it.

Today, he sat me down to listen to his carefully prepared proposal for why he should be able to buy an umbrella from the school store:

"Mama.  The rainy season is coming - didn't you hear the thunder last night?  The umbrellas are only $15 for me to buy. If I have my very own, you won't have to share your Congo President umbrella [this is true, I do have one of these] with me."

 Okay.  You can have an umbrella.

And, then, with barely a breath in between, moved on to important discussion #2: Why he should be able to buy school lunch two times a week vs. only once.  ("I would be such a happy boy if I could have macaroni on Tuesdays AND pizza on Fridays.")  I wasn't such a pushover on this one.

Have I mentioned his fingernails?  They are gross.  I try to clip them short so that all of that dirt can't just sit there.  But, every day, he comes home from playgrounds and soccer fields and tether balls and badminton racquets and his nails are just horrible.

One time, I heard someone say that little boys - around six years old - have a  "wet puppy" smell.  At the time, I though that the statement was somewhat sexist or cliched.  But.  It's true.  I make him bathe - often!  With this slightly-absurd, Shea Moisture Organic Raw Shea, Chamomile, and Argan Oil beautiful, natural children's all-purpose soap that I can't resist.  But, each night, I tuck him in and breathe in that slightly dirty puppy smell.

My boy is a crazy Risk genius.  Or, at least he thinks he is.  He thinks he's invincible.  He can play that game of world domination with the complete confidence that he will win.  Even when he has no idea about any of the rules.  It's very bad when playing Crazy 8s or War.  Something more cut and dry.  If he actually does lose, it's a tragedy of shaken sense of self.  Sadness for hours.

This child can glare better than anyone I've ever met.  In my family, we call it the "Flynn Look."  He's particularly adept.  I'm worried about how it will look on a 14 year old.

Homework.  As a grown-up first grader, Eli has homework.  He spent the first week being terrified of it.  Now, I find myself being totally confused about how my little kid can whiz through word games and book reports without my help (or not much).

Sometimes (well, a lot of times), I wonder what growing up abroad will do to him.  Most of my friends grew up somewhere other than the United States.  They are a giant lovely mess of ideas and experience and aspirations.  I want that for him.  I notice that he is already confused about "home."  If someone asks him where he's from, he says "Seattle."  Which is where he was born, but not where he most recently lived, and even I don't really know where he's from.  Is this good or bad?  For me, I love the ambiguity right now.  But does he and will he?

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Friday List!

Jill's List:

There are exciting rumors of an upcoming wedding set to take place at TASOK.  This made me think of another lovely friend who decided that getting married right at home was a perfect plan.  The local Charlottesville, VA weekly did a write up about this fantastic venue idea.

I've always wanted to go trekking around Norway with my extra-ordinarily Nordic-looking spouse and children.  This makes it seem like a very reasonable idea. (Thanks to Virginia-to-Norway transplant, Matt Monger for the link!)

Bad news:  Still fighting to try and redeem some Star Alliance frequent flyer miles.  Everyone just tells me to talk to someone else.  Good news: My parents have officially confirmed that they will be meeting us in South Africa for Christmas/New Years!  You'd think after showing them the photo below, the decision would have been instantaneous:

We have a ton of eggplants right now.  Plus, a large sack of quinoa hustled in our checked baggage.  I think I'll make this. 

Yeah, me too.  I loved this.  And this. 

There are quite a few followers of Rev. Dr. Sun Myung Moon in Kinshasa. Before moving to the DRC, mass-weddings were all I thought of  when picturing "Moonies" or member of the Unification Church.  I was surprised to find out early in our tenure here that I know and love people in Kinshasa who belong to this group.  They are feeling quite sad after his death this week. 

Did you know there is a serious blog about Four Square?  I had to look up the rules when Elias started asking complicated questions in preparation for recess today.  Craziness!

 Sarah's List:

I would like to see a calculation of how much of my life has been spent recalculating. Actually, maybe I don't. This kitchen cheat sheet is totally helpful. Can't we just all pick a system and stick with it.

Metric or Standard? Let's just call the whole thing off.

  by  Biking Nikon SFO 

A bunch of Argentinians re-create their past in this amazing/hilarious series of photos. Years later, how did they find the same clothes in adult sizes!?

I can't tell if this is a joke or not. Anyone ever heard of this? Morphsuits. The FAQs are the best in case you're wondering where to keep your wallet.

Did you know there's 24 trillion dollars buried under the ground in Congo? Well, kind of. All about China's deal with Congo and how our minerals account for 40% of the world's economy.

  by  Jon Gosier 

Expatify. That's right, there's a whole website for us. Information including, How to Deal with Foods You Miss From Home and Do Different Types of Expats Move to Different Areas? (Yes, the crazy ones go to Congo.)

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Bonjour Mes Amis

All week, LouLou has been belting "Bonjour Mes Amis!!!!!" at the top of her little lungs.

That's cute.  Why?

Well, because of the guy with the guitar at preschool, of course.
Doesn't your school come with this perk?

On Monday, LouLou and Charlotte went for their very first day of Pré-Maternelle.  The decision to start French preschool was one of opportunity: we live in a place where we can actually afford French immersion preschool.  Done. Easy. Decision made.

So, along with a veritable entourage of mamas, drivers, cars, mothers, and fathers, we set off for their first day.  Charlotte went with a très classique blue-dress-plus-white-ankle-socks combo.  LouLou was in one of her own fashion-forward designs: a skirt with a dress over top.  Nice.

Photo by Jill.

While they were adorable, I couldn't stop semi-wishing that they were wearing the little pré-scolaire pinafores that most Congolese two-year-olds don for school days.  Sarah thinks I'm nuts.

After making our way through a classic Kinshasa emboutiage in front of the school, we unloaded and went to find the classroom.  Easily, the most impressive thing - to kids and adults alike - was the guy playing "Bonjour Mes Amis" on the guitar in the hallway.  Subway busker-style.

Sarah said something to him like, "Oh, hey, that's nice that you're here for the first day of school."  He said, "First day of school?  I'm here everyday!"

Photo by Sarah.  Don't you wish your preschool teachers dressed this well?

Student names were posted outside of each door and we looked to find our girls.  Pointing to my daughter's four names, the teacher, Madame Sidonie, asked me,"Are all of those names for her?  What do you call her at home?"  She seemed visibly relieved when I said, "Oh, just call her "LouLou.'" and made me carefully write it on the list.

Mme. Sidonie and her assistant, Mme. Bibi,  bustled around the room.  They tried to distract the sad ones with dolls and blocks (this strategy proved useful for Charlotte and Lou as well).

Photo by Jill. or Johan...

They answered questions.  They tried to encourage the clingy parents to just leave already.  They asked everyone to copy down the supply list...

The supply list.

I have no idea where to find these 5,000 items in Kinshasa.  Wish me luck.

On day two, the girls were eager to "aller à l'école."  Upon pick-up, Adam (who went to photograph them paparazzi-style and collect information as to their true feelings about pre-school), said they didn't want to come home.  Operation Pré-Maternelle success.

I'm thinking of hiring that guitar player for bedtime.

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Poorest Country in the World: Running the Numbers

Congo's famous for a lot of things. Perhaps you've heard some of our superlatives:

• Home of the worst war since World War II. 
• Most dangerous place on earth to be a woman.
• The IMF, World Bank and CIA all call us the poorest country in the world.
• Congo is one of the most corrupt countries in the world.
• Oh and of course, rape capital of the world.
• And if it was possible to measure the unemployment rate, we'd probably top that list too.

It's hard to understand what any of this really means. Recently I was talking with a friend -okay, I was being super nosy- and here's a glimpse of what life is really like for a typical Kinois (person from Kinshasa).

It's probably not fair to say that "Jean" is typical. He is a skilled worker at a good organization. His job is secure. This is very rare and he is very lucky. Still his monthly pay is about $360. (The average annual income for a Congolese is $210. I repeat, annual income.) When I asked what his wife does he said, "Oh nothing." Really? Come on. What does she do every day? "Well she sells things at the market."

Jean's wife, Bibi, buys a 50 kilo sack of green beans from a distributor for around 60,000 francs. This is around $65. She divides this into 1 kilo portions to sell in the market. If she's lucky, she profits $8 to $10 after she's sold the whole sack. This takes about 2 weeks. That's right, $8 to $10 after 2 weeks of work.

Jean and Bibi have 6 children. Three girls and three boys. Their house has 2 bedrooms and a small living room. Here's what the rest of their expenses add up to look like over a month. *These, of course, are all estimates:

Rice: $25
Fufu: $20
Beans: $20
Pondu and other greens: $15
Tomatoes, rice, peppers, onions, cooking oil: $20
Bread, tea, sugar, butter, milk: $100
Charcoal for cooking: $20
Electricity (usually not on): $5
Water (at shared outdoor faucet): $12
Phone credit: $5
Rent: $70
Transportation to and from work: $50

Monthly Total: $362 vs. Monthly Pay: $360

Here's when that extra few dollars Jean's wife can make at the market becomes essential for his family. With a budget like this, an illness can be catastrophic and there's no possibility for savings.

  by  Rachel Strohm 

Still there are many families where no one is employed. I have no idea how they do it. Or anyone, for that matter.

It doesn't take long in Congo to understand our list of superlatives.

Bonus: Here's a peek inside some Congolese homes.

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Friday List!

Sarah's List

I remember nothing from my college graduation except this guy. His son graduated with me so he was there, being a dad. You want to see a bunch of kids who grew up in the 90s get excited, put Bill Nye in the audience. Who knew he could be such a controversial character? And no, he's not dead.

Do you believe this is ball point pen? I'm not sure I do.

Maybe if Todd Yoder was the artist...

Fascinating story about a Ghanaian returnee who chose to go back to what her parents fled. (As much as I love Congo, Ghana is my secret first love.)


Making Tetra boxes beautiful. It's about time.

Want a cookie? Don't want to make a whole batch? This is a very dangerous recipe. Good thing I don't have access to chocolate chips.

  by  Gudlyf 

Would you ever sleep in a capsule hotel? Oh, those Japanese.

  by  Joanne and Matt 

Research shows recess is good (duh). Chicago Public Schools bring back recess after 30 years of too much classroom time. I don't think the research brought it back, but rather John Searles who left Congo to be a recess coordinator in Chicago. Bravo, John. Keep those kids playing.

  by  Irish Typepad 

Jill's List:

I love Todd too! (Almost as much as Elias.)  His most recent work literally made me do a double-take.

This painting is of another Harrisonburg artist, Kurt.  Remember Kurt?

Our fellow-blogger, Matt, burst into my office this morning just to tell me about Chakalaka.  What?  You haven't heard about this South African awesomeness?  Neighbor James suggested dumping it over pasta for extra deliciousness.

  
 Enjoyed sharing Pete Seeger's banjo with my middle schoolers for a lesson on nonviolent communication and restorative justice.  We watched an old (meaning, 1960's) clip of "If I Had a Hammer."  They asked, "Ohmygosh!  Is this from, like, the 1990's?!?  It is SOOOO old, Ms. Jill!"

Totally trying this service out - maybe this weekend.  Chinese food delivered to my house in Kinshasa?!

Awesome.  Especially this:

9. Move.
Live in different houses. In different parts of the country. Travel. Make it so that you can look back and divide up your life into the years you spent in different cities, or different houses. If you're feeling stuck geographically or physically, you can confuse yourself into thinking you're stuck romantically. See your husband in different places, in different contexts, in different countries even. Try it. Take him to a mountaintop and give him another look. Pretty sexy. Take him to a new city and check out his profile. Along the same lines, don't be afraid to change personally, or let your wife change as a person. Don't worry about "growing apart." Be brave and evolve. Become completely different. Don't gather moss. Stagnation is unattractive.

I have a weird obsession.

My awesome hair is growing out.  Eeek! Do I attempt the self-trim?

Not me.  But, what my hair is looking like.  Instead of this.

Intense.

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Thoughts on Worms

Last night, Johan said, "You have to read this" and shoved the computer in my face, (thank you, New York Times digital.)  Then, he said, "It really is a good thing that we live in the Congo."

And so, I read this opinion article on "Immune Disorders and Autism."

Autism isn't a topic that we discuss frequently at home.  But immune disorders are.  Well, semi-frequently.  Remember this?  I have what I referred to before as a "pesky post-baby Rheumatoid Arthritis issue."  Luckily, I'm on some heavy-duty, but miraculous, drugs and, right now, I can do ridiculous things like this without a problem.

So, this article focuses on the theory that immune dysfunction is behind autism.  Specifically, increased inflammation in the mother during pregnancy causing increased incidence of autism in the baby.  The numbers quoted in the article are shocking:  women with active Rheumatoid Arthritis have an 80% increased chance of having a baby with autism.  Women with Celiac Disease? A 350% increased chance.  Whew.

Remember my thoughts on having a third child?

The initial claims of the article, by Moises Velasquez-Manoff, made my head spin.  But, the proposed solution to the issue made me laugh.

Worms.

According to Velasquez-Manoff, we are too clean.  Our immune systems are designed to be held in check by coexistent critters.  Since parts of the world have become increasingly developed, we have successfully kicked out most the little buddies that traditionally (and evolutionarily) cozied-up in our guts.  These worms, in turns out, may actually be more friend than foe.

About the same time as we have cleaned ourselves out, the incidence of asthma, rheumatoid arthritis, and other autoimmune disorders has risen.  And the incidence of autism has skyrocketed - especially in urban centers with real nice, sophisticated waste management systems.  
Many epidemiologists state that this increase is due to higher rates of diagnosis vs. actual existence.  But, some look to the near-nonexistence of autism in the developing world and wonder...

...is it the worms?

There is some anecdotal evidence that whipworm infestations help autistic children.  A real-live clinical trial is underway right now testing whether purposely infecting autistic adults with a super-sophisticated-medicalized (really) parasite will prove beneficial.

After I finished reading, Johan seriously said, "So, where can we find you some worms?"  He seemed hopeful that a little therapeutic infestation of some of Congo's famous micro-creatures could reorganize my dysfunctional immune system.

I'm getting my own filtered water from now on...

Many experts remain skeptical at theories such as Velasquez-Manoff's. I am on-board however, with the idea that living in Congo is great for my family - even from a health perspective.  Before we left, folks begged us to reconsider...asking us to "think of the children!"  The malaria!  The yellow fever!  The dysentery!  We take plenty of precautions, for certain, but I like knowing that living in a far-from-sterile environment isn't all scary...it might actually be helpful.

There is a oft-told story that floats around missionary and international aid worker circles:  A child, born in the U.S., grows up in Africa.  He decides to be a doctor and goes back to America for med school. In an immunology course, all the students had to give their own blood to be tested for antibodies - just for curiosity and comparison.  The young man who grew up in Africa had immunities beyond belief.  His professors were gobsmacked.  Everyone is amazed at the power of African dirt.

Maybe it's just lore.  Maybe I latch on to such stories to reassure myself that my decision to live in Kinshasa is a good one for my kids.  But, maybe it's true.  Maybe our immune systems - even my messed-up one - are a little better off for a few worms. 

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