Dispatches from the Congo – A Journey of Love (Part 4)

~Kinshasa

Forget whatever I told you last night….I love the Congo! Well, more importantly, I love my son — he is just the sweetest little thing. But I really am finding myself loving Kinshasa despite the overwhelming poverty and dispair. The people are just amazingly friendly — it’s been fantastic.

I woke up bright and early this morning so I could be ready to meet Andrew. Reverend Bashaka brought him to the hotel along with Timothee, a local woman whose name I didn’t catch, and his foster mother Sarah. He was dressed for Alaska — those red shorts from the last picture underneath a pair of white sweater pants, a white sweater, and a white cardigan. I was in a dress and dying from the heat, so no wonder he wasn’t too happy! After we introduced everyone, we tried for a hand-off. Not. Happening. Andrew screamed and batted my hands away, and then proceeded to cry/scream for the next hour. I tried everything I could — food bribes, toys, showing him my iPhone, but he was just mad. Not only was I a stranger, but I was a white stranger who is holding him instead of his foster mother. Poor little guy.

We attempted breakfast in the hotel, with the two women sitting away from us so he wouldn’t see them and cry more, but no luck. He did kiss the pictures of himself on my iPhone, though — adorable. He also drank some OJ for me before melting down again. All of the waitresses were in traditional garb, and I think they looked way too much like his foster mother in those clothes. So I took him up to his room, where I learned that his diapers were (a) put on backwards and (b) covered tightly in a plastic bag. He eventually cried himself to sleep, and I laid with him for 3 hours, just watching.

When he woke up, Andrew was less than happy to see me. This was compounded by Bashaka and Timothy coming to the room to give me his paperwork for the embassy appointment tomorrow and to check on us. The sight of somewhat familiar faces just set him off. Bashaka watched him for a while so I could say goodbye to his foster mother and give her a gift (the agency said no money, but I’m sorry — this is a desperately poor woman who raised my child as her own and who has 4 kids of her own back in Goma. I’m giving her money.). We took pictures and exchanged email addresses, and I promised to bring Andrew back to Goma to visit when he’s older and it’s safer. The foster mother was very shy and reserved — I don’t know if it was just the situation, or she is always like that. I think this was also really hard for her — as attached as he is to her, it’s clear that there is a strong bond between them. That’s what made it feel OK when he was screaming and pushing me away — while I hate to tear him from the only caregiver that he’s known, I know that it means that he is able to bond with someone and that he was well cared for with her. Bashaka and I decided to not take him to the doctor today — it’s been a big day, and he needs to rest. Plus, without getting into too many details, let’s just say that multiple diapers changes were necessary in a short period of time. He wasn’t in any sort of shape to go anywhere.

After they left, I gave him formula, cheerios, yogurt melts and even the chocolate part of my Luna bar. He realized then that I wasn’t so bad — especially once I broke out the iPad and we watched Yo Gabba Gabba. He was using the cheerios to touch the screen….I’m going to have quite a sticky screen!! He finally was acclimating to me, to the point that he started to cry if I left his sight. Hooray!!

I realized that I needed to get passport pictures of him and some other supplies — a Congolese cell phone and diet coke being my top priorities, of course. I attempted to put him into his stroller, but he freaked out — and it actually would have been worthless because the streets and sidewalks are either dirt or rubble. So into the sling he went, along with my hidden money pouch under my clothes (this is a cash-only economy), a slash-proof bag with my other important/expensive stuff in it, and then a diaper bag. It was quite a load — and once I added groceries, I was wishing desperately for a cab! (No such luck — and I wouldn’t actually get in one even if they had them. I’d rather break my back carrying all of this stuff than drive when not 100% necessary!!). And so we headed out…

Kinshasa is essentially unbelievable. I’m in the Gombe district, in the “nice” part of the city, and it’s basically a hellhole. My hotel — a nice hotel for Kinshasa — is on a dirt road. The streets are covered in trash, and there is a 3 inch think layer of dust/dirt on top. It’s like walking through sand, except with a fine dirt instead. There are open ditches along some roads, which seem to function as possibly a water run-off, and judging by the smell, a sewer. The streets are packed with people — and every single one of them was staring at me. In the 2 hours I spent running these errands, I was the only white person (that I saw) on the street.

Women and men were walking down the streets and sidewalks with loads balanced on their heads. The women would be selling fresh fruits and cooked yams from the baskets on their heads — totally amazing that they could carry such heavy loads (at least 40 lbs!) and that they kept it balanced when the going was so treacherous. Little street vendors were set up everywhere — often just a man in a chair with a few items on his lap. A lot of what they were selling looked to be used American clothes — I saw a Farve t-shirt for sale, but I’m holding out for Hines Ward. The sidewalks would end abruptly in a pile of rubble, or there would be a random permanent fence. The streets are no better, as I described last night. I am trying to figure out how much of this is from the war, and how much is just decades of neglect. I suspect it’s a combination of both. A lot of buildings look like they’d been bombed out. And admist all of this, there are thousands of people, and every one of them seemed to want to talk to me.

It’s for this reason that I’m falling in love with the Congo. The people are amazing. I was a curiosity, of course, so I drew a lot of open stares. I greeted each person I passed with “bon jour!” and I stopped to talk to about 50% of them. Everyone wanted to know if the baby was mine and if I was American. One guy wanted to know if he could take me to dinner! He was wearing a suit and having his shoes shined in the middle of the road by a child, so it was tempting, but I figured I should refrain from dating for at least the first few days of being a mom…;-)

One woman decided to help me, and walked me three blocks to a grocery store. She introduced me to people as she went — she had celebrity by proxy. I suppose that the staring could have been intimidating, but as she explained to me, “It strange, you white and baby black.” The Congolese love babies — people stopped to coo at him and tickle him. Andrew was less than impressed — he comes from a rural village on the other side of the country. This heat (oppressive), noise and pollution aren’t exactly his favorite things. But he was good — excellent, actually. He didn’t cry until a group of men in the photo shop were teasing me about the price of the passport photos and they all laughed together. Andrew covered his ears and started screaming — and stopped as soon as we got home.

The grocery store was pretty basic, but it had just about everything that I could need. Expensive, but the important thing is that they have Diet Coke! This trip is getting considerably better.

Andrew is napping now — he’s had a big day. We both have! And tomorrow is an even bigger day. We’re going to the U.S. Embassy to file his application for an entry visa into the U.S., and then to the doctor for his medical examination. Tonight, he’s going to get his first bath (from me, at least — he seems pretty clean overall, actually) and maybe we’ll watch some Yo Gabba Gabba if he’s lucky…

Love and miss you all — see you soon with Andrew!!

Comments

comments