Dispatches from the Congo – A Journey of Love (Part 8)

Bonjour from Kinshasa!

Kinshasa used to be known as Kinshasa La Belle — Kinshasa the Beautiful. Now, it’s known as Kinshasa La Poubelle — Kinshasa the Garbage Can. It’s a very apt description. This city is wearing on me a bit. What was new and exciting for the first 5 days or so begins to get old after the first week. The power outages aren’t helping — the internet is my lifeline to the outside world! I think the hardest thing about this city is that I always feel dirty — like no matter how much I scrub, I’ll never get clean. How could I not feel that way? The streets are filled with trash, dirt and rubble. To get anywhere, I have to walk around, through or past heaps of trash.

On the way back from the Embassy today, my driver took a street that was nearly blocked by mounds of trash. There was a small clearance just wide enough for a car to pass. Some parts of the trash were burning, which I don’t quite get; don’t you burn all of it instead of just some of it? I suppose that if someone tried to do that, the entire block would go up in flames. Being here is like living in a garbage dump. The next hardest thing is that I can’t go anywhere without being mobbed. It was kind of fun at first, but now it’s getting old. Yes, this is my baby. No, I don’t speak French. Yes, I am American. No, I don’t want to give you money.

On Sunday (another power outage day), Andrew and I walked to the kosher market near the US Embassy (the other market I’ve mentioned, the City Market, is owned by a Lebanese family — they don’t sell pork or alcohol). I had Andrew in the sling, my slash-proof bag and the diaper bag…and I got stopped about every 5 feet. Most of it is fine — people wanting to coo at the baby, tell me I’m pretty, or practice their English. Some of it gets a bit aggressive for my taste. For example, after we left the market, we were accosted by a woman selling papaya. I declined, and thanked her (avoiding fresh fruit and veggies here). She persisted, and wouldn’t get out of my face until I finally said, “OK, if I give you money, can I take your picture?”. She agreed, and I gave her my change from the store — which was actually the equivalent of $1 US (no matter how you pay, you get Congolese francs in change). I held up my camera and she pushed it down. I guess I should have known better and paid her after the picture!! It just left a bad taste in my mouth — she was so aggressive and then so hostile to me (yes, I know $1 isn’t a lot. But we’re talking about a woman who sells fruit on the street in one of the poorest places in the world. It’s probably at least a day’s salary to her — likely much more. Plus I wasn’t about to reach into my bag for a larger denomination). Immediately afterwards, I was approached by a police officer (guarding the store, of course) with a machine gun. He was just curious — of course! — wanting to know if I was American and if the baby was mine. Yes and yes. I explained that Andrew is from Goma and he’s coming to the US with me. Next thing I know, he’s whistling down his fellow police officers — 3 more men with machine guns! — and 2 street vendors (one selling bootleg Julio Iglesias CDs and one selling giant Congolese paintings) joined the crowd. Now, I didn’t feel unsafe — the US Embassy was within eyesight — but it wasn’t exactly comfortable. I am aware that I am tall, blonde and white, and that I have a black baby. I just don’t need to be the carnival sideshow everywhere I go.

Andrew started to cry; he genuinely seems to not like going out on foot, at least in part because of the crowds that gather around me. It was a great reason to excuse myself and head back to the hotel. While I had 3 police officers and several other able-bodied men jabbering away at me in rapid-fire French, not 10 feet away there was a legless man who had fallen off his wheelchair and was sitting in a pile of rubble. Actually, I should clarify that I don’t know if he had fallen or gotten off voluntarily — he appeared to be sorting through the rocks and had a plastic bag that he was putting them into one by one. I stopped to see if he needed help, and he said no and thanked me politely. This is what I don’t get — there is a man who could really need help within a short distance of these police officers, and instead of helping him, they bug the American and demand bribes from patrons. These are the things that are getting to me.

On the other hand, I have seen a really cool invention for handicapped people here — it’s half bicycle, half wheelchair. The front is the bicycle, but it’s rigged so you pedal with your arms. The back is a plywood platform on a wheelchair base. I’ve seen at least a dozen of them around, and they’re kind of awesome. If we don’t have them in the US, I call dibs on the patent.

Today was the embassy appointment. As far as these things go, it was fairly uneventful….and more like a Congolese appointment than an American one. My appointment was at noon; we arrived at 11:45. Thankfully, Bashaka had obtained the proper documents — amazing how being stuck in Kinshasa motivates him to put a rush on things. We went to the front of the line, as usual, but the guard at the door wouldn’t let us in. Why? Because there were no seats at the front of the room. Seriously. He made us stand outside in the heat and sun because he didn’t want me to sit anywhere other than the front (God forbid, among the Congolese — like my son!!).

The consular section at the embassy consists of a long, narrow room with about ten rows of seats running front to back. I would have happily sat anywhere inside — I’ve sat in the back before! But this guy was a bit concerned about me being in the proper place, I suppose, and I didn’t have the energy to argue my point. Happily, every American I know in Kinshasa was at the Embassy today, so it was fun. J had run of out of pages in her passport (happens to me all of the time!), and 3 families staying at the hotel were there checking on their visa status. Good news — one of the men got his today, and his interview was 4 days ago! Given that I’d been told to expect one to two weeks from the date of the interview, this was fantastic news!!

The interview itself took place around 2:30 pm. While I waited, I had the pleasure of being called to the cashier’s window 4 separate times, spaced 15 minutes apart, which was awesome given that I was lugging the baby, his gear, my stuff and Bashaka (OK, he walked…but still!). Apparently, they were confused about when I should pay the fee ($404, of all of the random amounts) — that was the first two trips. Then on the 3rd trip, I paid. Finally, on the 4th trip, I was called back to give me my $1 change (because really, why would you give someone change when they pay? I actually just assumed that I wasn’t getting change).

Then I was called to a different window so the consular officer could chastise Bashaka for not getting the documents translated. Finally, my interview — short and sweet. How did the baby become an orphan, did I see him before the adoption (affects the type of visa he gets), and do I have proof of relinquishment. Everything was great until we got to that last one. First, Bashaka claimed that my son’s father was deceased. Untrue. Stomach dropping to the floor, I immediately corrected him. I did have a copy of the birth father’s signed relinquishment. Bashaka said he “thought” the original might be at his hotel. It was irrelevant, though — our documents were in English, and because the birth father speaks only Swahili, I had to get a relinquishment, signed and notarized, in Swahili. It seems a bit silly to me, given that we have no idea if my son’s father is even literate. Is a Swahili version any better than an English version if he can’t read and write?

My son’s father is an itinerant farmer, and education isn’t free or compulsory in the Congo. Literacy is not a given. Regardless, if the US Embassy wants the document in Swahili, they’ll get it. We were instructed to sit down and wait again, and then another officer called us to his window — he’s African, and he could communicate better with Bashaka (the officer who did my interview is American and spoke continental French, which doesn’t work as well in the Congo). We finally left, and I learned that my Swahili lessons paid off — Bashaka called Reverend Timothy in Goma, and from what I gathered, they were not amused by the requirement of the relinquishment in Swahili. Thankfully, this exact document had been submitted to the court for the adoption case, so we should easily be able to get it.

We get back to the hotel, and I have another surprise in store — power outage. I stupidly didn’t think this would affect the elevators (they’re so tiny and ancient that I was pretty sure that they had POWs in the basement cranking on a chain). So, up I go — 5 full flights of stairs in total darkness, carrying the baby, his gear, my bag and the big binder of documents. It was a miracle I didn’t fall! Around the third floor, I started wishing I was back in the US. Of course, this wish was intensified when I realized that I didn’t have air conditioning or Internet because of the outage, and I couldn’t make myself lunch (a rehydrated meal). Suffice to say that I was over the Congo at this point. There was nothing left to do but take a nap, which Andrew and I did.

By 5 pm, the power was back on — and hooray for the Internet! In Andrew news, he’s doing fabulous. The de-worming medication worked, and tomorrow we’re going to start the next one — it apparently kills the rotovirus. He’s feeding himself with a fork and a spoon, and just a happy, lovely little boy. He’s gaining weight and getting stronger, and is quite attached to his mama. I taught him where his nose is today, and that’s been the big hit — touching Mama’s nose and saying “Na! Na!”. Very cute!! He loves taking his shoes on and off and has mastered the Velcro straps on them and on his sunglasses. He is also a full-fledged Pringles addict. I bought some at the store last week, and gave him a piece of one on a whim, to see if he’d eat it (they’re sour cream & onion flavor). He went bananas. Today, he pitched his first fit and cried for the first time since last week — all because I cut him off on the Pringles. He watches to see where I hide the can, and then grunts and reaches in that direction until I’m about to scream. I’ve created a monster!!! (But a REALLY cute one…it’s hard to say no!).

One last note….from my messages, you know that I’m not that big of a Reverend Bashaka fan, because he’s generally not cut out to do this work. I learned something about him today that softened my heart, though. He came by at 10:30 instead of the agreed-upon 11:30, and Andrew was still sleeping. We sat in the second room (I asked for a room, they gave me a suite….all part of the shake down plan, I assume), and talked. I brought up the genocide, and he started to cry. He sheltered over 100 Tutsis during the genocide — in his church and in his home. We talked about it for nearly half an hour — the truth & reconciliation commission, the aftermath, the genocide museum. He’s a very strong and courageous man. He could have been killed for sheltering Tutsis — actually, he could have been killed for not murdering Tutsis (so-called “moderate” Hutus were routinely killed for not supporting the Hutu Power cause). I give him a lot of credit — I can’t imagine going through what he did and seeing what he saw and still being such a kind and loving man. He asked me if I adopted again, would I adopt from Rwanda? I wanted to tell him that I would only if he didn’t handle the adoption — but I told him yes. And you know what? I will. For one thing, Kigali is a clean, beautiful, modern city — no more cities with garbage can nicknames for me!

Until tomorrow, assuming that the internet works- Love, Erin & Andrew

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