May this written space give light to the pursuit and fight for life. Thank you for joining me as I reflect upon adventures three point four degrees south of the equator in Uvira, Democratic Republic of the Congo.
I love this video. It truly encapsulates the joy that can come from something so simple...feeding and caring for chickens.
If you are able to support CongoClucks, we would be extremely thankful as this new year approaches!
Here's the project's wishlist:
- Ingredients to make the next batch of FEED for the chickens: $500
- VACCINATIONS for chickens, to prevent the spread of disease: $100
- Another SOLAR PANEL to support the incubator: $380
- BATTERY to accompany the solar panel: $100
- RENT for land/parcel/coop/house: $70/month (1 full year= $840)
- SECURITY wire/fence to protect the chickens, and manager: $1200
- SALARY for CC manager (Jacques): $150/month (1 full year= $1800)
- You’re PRAYERS, WRITTEN SUPPORT, and ENCOURAGEMENT: $$Priceless
Click on the BIG PURPLE BUTTON if you are able to give!
Check out the CongoClucks Facebook group for the project's latest update and more information: CongoClucks Facebook Group
A flurry of flies radiate away from the goat legs raised boldly in the air, but the flies soon magnetically migrate back as the vendor offers “quinze mil” (15,000) franc-Congo, hoofs included. Of course, we barter down to douze-mil, a much more reasonable price to feed the team, enough meat for the evening’s supper and reheated next morning’s breakfast.
Imagine: without a fridge, the market becomes a personal fresh delivery system, women making their way from the surrounding villages to try to get their produce sold. The women sell most everything, some children try to sell fruits, and men barter the freshly cut meats.
But the market is wonderful. I mean, really filled with wonder and awe, a little glimpse of daily life and the possibilities that exist here in Congo. It’s where people gather for the direct provision of livelihoods and consumption, and so much more.
These markets really fascinate me. They are little cities of their own, districts separated by sellers’ valued products, splashing colors amidst the chaotic flurry of food, people, insects, and noise.
As the market begins, the men are busy restraining their animals, about to get to business with their machetes. They lay the various protein-packed meat options about their display table, sporting the head of the animal for identity purposes, and using the skin as a display cloth.
All the while, the women with the “fretin,” little fish (like sardines), starts to group together the fish from their plastic buckets into cinq-cent (500-fr) display piles, hoping to sell as many as she can, as they won’t be fresh past this market day.
There’s even some spices, mainly packaged from the cities, and salt sold in little cup quantities. Women sell sugar, salt, oil, and flour by little plastic cups, tin cans (gigoze), or makeshift ladles. Normally she even adds in an extra pinch with her hands, out of her graciousness for the purchase.
It’s mainly the women that go to the market, as they know what they need to prepare for their meal in the evening, but the men are not far away. They go just to see what’s going on, get a taste of the talk spreading about town.
If you don’t come with franc-congo, there is normally at least one money-changer, and if you’re lucky you’ll find the best exchange for 920 Fr per $1. And don’t forget your plastic-weaved side-bag, or else you’ll pay at least 50 Fr per plastic sac from the little boy selling black or green sachets. After seeing people throw out their garbage like the world was their trash-bin, I really don’t think that they bring reusable bags to save the environment, a trend that hasn’t quite reached Congo…
Markets aren’t always so pleasant for a mzungu, like myself. There are often too many conversations singling out the sole mzungu in the market, prices are hiked a bit higher, and little kids try to touch the white skin like it will bring them good-luck…but somehow amidst the chaos, the markets still remain one of my favorite places.
I realized the markets give life, and show how much is really possible here in Congo, since everything grows so easily. They truly give each location an individual flair.
I do sometimes miss the luxury of Trader Joes and Whole Foods, but I know Congolese markets will always remain a treasure in my heart…especially knowing I will never get such sweet pineapples for under a dollar, nor be able to bargain for it directly with the women that brought it from the field. I sometimes wonder where our food system went wrong with so many packaged goods, and grainy tomatoes that don’t taste like tomatoes should. We may have cleanliness, overly-abundant options, and Funfetti boxed cake-mixes, but we’ll never beat the authenticity of the marvelous Congolese markets.
At the start of this New Year, as I eagerly awaited my sister Emily to get out of class at Pepperdine University to come pick me up at the LAX airport, my brown boots were just calling to be touched up, shined, and given some love. Little did I know the shine on my boots would be dull in comparison to the brilliant grin and joyful appreciation that a Congolese widow would have for the stranger that shined my boots.
As I sat in the chair of “Marvin’s Complimentary Shoe Shine,” nervously awaiting my turn, not really knowing what to expect for my first boot shine, I was delighted to find a new friend, an older Swiss psychiatrist sitting next to me, travelling on her way back to Switzerland. I curiously asked about her life adventures taking her on such travels, and she insisted to know my whereabouts as well. Congo doesn’t make sense to most people, let alone do many people know where DRC is (I’m lucky when they don’t mix it up with the Dominican Republic- DR). I was surprised by the curiosity of my strongly built, friendly boot shiner in overhearing our conversation, probing to find out more about the conditions in the Congo. Oh he knew there was poverty, and he knew there was suffering, but he didn’t know the impact that he would make.
Last weekend I met that widow. She actually made her way behind me into a small store seeking for someone to help. Hakuna Bwana, hakuna watoto (no husband, no kids), but she could use some help. Her basket was strapped to her back, her clothes torn a bit. You see, women here are expected to go to the field, and their expected to produce something to bring back. This woman was on her way back, but I didn’t see much in her basket.
While normally I am overwhelmed by the great demand of those in need, I knew this occasion I was specifically sent on a mission.
“Well it’s just your lucky day, because a stranger in the United States gave me this to give to you,” pulling out the six dollars from my wallet and putting it in her hands. I stressed it was not from me, but a gift from God through a stranger in the States.
And it is that grin, even with a few missing teeth, and the grasp of her thankful hand that gave me a much brighter joy than the shine on my boots. She leaped with joy.
What a blessing it is to make someone’s day; if only my boot-shining stranger knew that he made many more people’s day than just one.
Thank you Mr. Shoe Shining Stranger for putting some shine in my boots, but an even greater thanks for showing me the joy that comes in making me a messenger, weaving your hope into the life of a Congolese widow.
Recycling never seemed so normal. When poverty looms, ingenious creativity spreads like wildfire.
Hence, resources are reinvented:
Mosquito nets may keep out the bugs while sleeping, but they also fence in home gardens to keep out curious critters
Water bottles are snatched and kept, cutting to form cups, reused-reused-reused
Toys are made from old wheel posts and sticks
Bicycles act like pick-up trucks, carrying dining tables, chickens, bakery loafs of bread, you name it
Cell phones by day, flashlights by night
But one of my favorites was an ultimate transformation: US-donated-oil metal cans cut, flattened, and nailed to fill-in windows and doors. These large cans normally host vitamin-A-fortified oil that is mixed with corn-soy-blend flour during distribution of food rations, but I don’t think that the US realizes that their Food-Aid grant is filling shelter gaps almost as much as it is filling nutrient gaps.
On the way to the office this morning, the driver reminded me that I have already become “African.” “What does that even mean?” I asked him back, curiously questioning what he was specifically referring to.
It wasn't my color; sure I am a tad bit more tan from being out in the field for data collection, but I still somehow can’t pass for “African” by the looks of me.
Instead, he clarified, “you’re African because you eat together.”
Not quite the answer I had expected. But of course: I’m African because I eat with the team. When we’re in the field I no longer am offered a separate plate or given a spoon, I eat with our family.
Long after our stomachs start growling, men start to impatiently wait as the women finish up cooking. Making the foufou-ugali balls is the last step, making sure they are nice and hot to serve as the vehicle for the rest of the meal. A bucket of water is filled and a bar of soap is placed by its side. One-by-one our teammates thoroughly wash their hands, a friend helping them to pour the water from a cup. And wash our hands we must, for there are rarely utensils to help us eat. I mean, why use utensils when we were made with hands?
Someone says a prayer in Swahili, and “bon appetite,” everyone starts to dig in, grabbing a small handful of ugali, kneading it in their hands, making a small indent to serve as a spoon, and scooping up either the cooked greens or tomato-sauce with goat. And don’t forget “pili-pili,” a small little cooked pepper, the life of the meal adding quiet the intensity to spice up anything bland.
So we share a common plate, table, and thanksgiving, all standing or sitting on mats, and most always using candle-light or flashlight. For in Africa everyone is family, everyone is responsible for everyone. And no one is shy in taking their share of the meal, for to be “bien mange,” or “well-fed,” you have to take what you can while it’s still on the plate.
While I used to be afraid that I would have to be eating ugali for every meal, I learned the joy of eating together, the joy of eating as one African family, and the appreciation of having food to fuel us for the next long day. Even if last night’s dinner became the next morning’s breakfast.
But before ending our discussion as to why I am now African, he made sure to emphasize: “AND you no longer get sick!” Oh, so that is the true reason I am African: my stomach can handle their food. For he warned me that I will probably get sick going back to the food-environment at home because…my stomach will no longer be used to it, now being African.
While I will never get rid of my American roots, it is quite the honor to be welcomed into the African family, many family meals later.
Photo: The Land/Parcel at it's beginning stages before fixing it up.
We consider “shock” as a momentary occurrence, but when it lasts over a month, I think it falls into the category of grateful humility.
During the last month I have continually been shocked, humbled, and evolved to be forever grateful for all the efforts that have contributed to help make this project happen! Thank you, thank you, thank you to all who have shaken a bit out of your own piggy bank to toss into our chicken-bank. God is good and continues to surprise me through all of you: your gifts of words, finances, prayers, and encouragement!
While I have been in-and-out of the field for my job, and working on the fundraising goals and business plans in my spare time, my comrades Jacques, Jules, and Augustin have been busy finalizing the land-rent agreement, cleaning up the land parcel, planting grass, fixing up the human-house, and starting to build the chicken-house! A lot of this preparatory work (and more to come) will be necessary to secure before welcoming our family of chickens. While time here in Africa seems to run a bit different than my clock in the States, I must admit, I am pretty impressed with the progress of our project!
I look forward to updating you with time, so be sure to join the CongoClucks Facebook Group to hear more (CongoClucks). There, you can also find out some of the creative names that will make up our coop! While some updates are sure to sneak their way into my blog, it’s a better bet to find CongoClucks information on the Facebook page, so that I can continue to share about Life here in the Congo, 3.4DegreesSouth with family and friends.
And yes, friends can still continue to support by buying chickens!
An example of the "Kanga" chickens, just one of the local clucks we plan on raising.
The construction of the chicken-house/coop begins! Jules, the "chicken-raising expert" stands at it's entrance.
The house that we will store the feed and give the chicken's care takers a place to rest.
(Photo: A generous donation of a local chicken to our team! Yes, that is a chicken in my hands)
Dear Friends,
It may sound coo coo, but I want to start a chicken house/coop here in my hometown, Uvira, Democratic Republic of the Congo, but I can’t do it without your support.
Eggs cost about 200 Franc Congolais (equivalent to $0.22), but there are no local producers here in Uvira. Instead most eggs come from Burundi, Rwanda or Uganda, something that I want to change. Plus most of the eggs found in the market are not of the highest standard, but they could be if we invested in the local chicken.
Not only will we be adding to the local chicken population here in Uvira, but we will be creating a local market option to buy fresh eggs and chickens (thus increasing nutritional options), opening more economic opportunities for the local population, and providing resources for teaching how to raise chickens, something that I plan will eventually reach beyond Uvira’s borders. But it doesn’t stop there: hens reproduce! This project has opportunity to double, triple, and continue to multiply with time. After an initial investment my goal is for it to be self-sufficient within the first six months.
I am going to start with 100 chickens. These aren’t just any chickens, nor are they the genetically selected “layers” to overly produce eggs of mediocre quality; these will be the cream of the crop local Congolese hens and cocks. By investing in the local chickens, including one type called “Kanga,” I eventually see this as being something we can take to the villages to invest in smaller projects to produce more nutritious sources to help meet women and children’s nutrition and protein needs.
So here is where you come in: Will you help me by buying a chicken? I want to find 100 friends to invest $50 (the amount that it will cost to initially support the chicken, supplies, land, hens house, etc). Every $50 you spend will give you pride in naming one chicken in the coop and the honor in knowing you are providing life to so many more chickens to come, and many eggs to feed the population of Uvira. So will you be one of the first 100 to pitch in?
I have already found a chicken-raising-expert who takes pride that he previously successfully raised 465 chickens in Bukavu, a city a few hours North of Uvira, and who is willing to invest his time to help Uvira. I also have a trustworthy business manager, and someone who will protect the chicken coop and manage the sale of eggs once we start producing. To do this right I need to raise $5,000 before its start. This will support the purchase of the chickens, renting the land, investing in both an incubator and hen’s house, and creating an area for the chickens to run free.
What I love about this project is that it has so much opportunity to grow. I am not asking you to pay $50 to buy a meal to feed a family in need, because as great as that is, it would only amount to one more meal for that family. But this project will give life to more projects, thus adapting the model of “teaching to fish rather than giving a fish.” I want to make a longer-term impact, and the local capacity that we invest in will last so much longer than my time here in Uvira.
So can you help me buy a chicken? Can you also ask a friend to join our effort?
How to Buy A Chicken:
1. Click on the The Purple Button to the Right ($50 suggested purchase)Credit Card or PayPal accepted
2. Join the CongoClucks FaceBook group to Name your chicken and to hear updates!
There are two things that I love about the Congolese Mamas’ bond with their babies (watoto): how willing she is to give of her breast for its main purpose (yes dietitians admittedly love breastfeeding) and how she carries her child around town.
Women are not afraid to breastfeed in public. In fact, they’re quite overly-open about exposing their chest when it’s time to breastfeed, at least compared to American’s standards. And it’s absolutely accepted as appropriate. To show for it, they have some of the best breastfeeding rates in the world, something that truly helps their child’s growth and nutrition, if only they had means to better support other nutritional aspects. Now if only breastfeeding was a bit more accepted and supported in the States…
The other thing I love about Congolese Mama's is how they carry their children. The local fabric, pagne, is used for many more purposes than just beautiful apparel. One of those purposes is a mother’s transport of her child, fitting so perfectly as a little sac of love, hugging the baby tightly to its mother. It seems so natural and easy. It’s like the taped on version of a piggy-back ride, and it really works well for mother-baby transportation. There are no strollers here…so how else are you going to get your baby from A to B, especially when you have to carry so many other things.
Oh just some of the many reasons I love these Congolese mamas!
Brush.
Comb, pic.
Straight, curly, wavy.
Dreads, locks, long, short.
Black, blonde, red head, brunette.
Extension, treatment, highlights, coloring, and perm.
Trim, cut, buzz, bic.
Snarly, ratted, messy.
Dirty, clean.
Shampooed plus conditioned.
Clip.
Tie, pin.
Gel, mousse, spray,
Braid, bun, tease, and crimp.
Hat, bow.
Hair.
The stage for the day’s identity, it’s a high-priced commodity very few are willing to get rid of. And here in Congo I would argue that people spend as much time and effort on making a statement with their hair as Californians spend sitting in traffic. A lot.
Being new to Congo, I overreacted any time someone changed their hair, like it was a huge life decision that they had made and I was proud of them for taking that step, for any similar drastic change of hairstyle for my friend’s at home would probably take a year to muster up the courage. But here people change their hair as often as we have full moons, like it’s a natural new start and time to change seasons.
But one hairstyle in particular is worth the highlight. I’m fascinated by a local Congolese hairstyle that to me seems like spikes, and sometimes I don’t know how the hairstyle doesn’t get in the way! I have seen many versions of this prized presentation, even with the “spikes” up to a foot long. Normally the head is covered in small twisted hair sections about 3 inches long. It’s proof: I’m not as brave as Congolese women when it comes to hair identity.
Hair has always been a sensitive subject for me, scarred from the hairdresser that cut my hair too short for my liking while in preschool, making me feel all too close to looking like my brothers. After that I was even afraid to get a trim, and have always preferred longer hair…thankfully this scar has pretty much healed…and a few days before returning to Congo I made a practical jump to cut off my long locks, justifying my decision by donating the 8-10 inch strands, knowing it was going to be so much easier in the field.
But I think a change in hair is good. Like baptism for a believer, it can help shed the old, and transition to the new, remembering that each day is a new day. Its an outward statement that its okay to move on and see what other possibilities may bring.
And just last week, while I was in the midst of correcting surveys, my team informed me that all the Congolese women were discussing if my hair was real or not. Ha. Of course it’s real…but they had to have proof by touching it for themselves. One woman even tried to braid my hair, but sadly realized there was no way my hair would hold up to the amazing hairstyles in the Congo.
Here is tribute to the Congolese women’s dynamic hairstyles. May we be encouraged by your prideful ownership of your hair, giving life to changing seasons. http://www.aol.com/video/congo-womens-hairstyle/516996619/
Sometimes I am overwhelmed by how much the locals openly ask and expect to receive from the “Mzungu,” while other times I am overwhelmed by how generous the Congolese can be, even amidst the poverty.
Nearing the end of a long workday in Bitobolo, a lakeside village in the Fizi territory, our team received quite the surprise. Here return the women we had enrolled in the study that day, not to follow-up with their interview or ask to receive something for their service, but in song and thanksgiving presenting a meal for the team to later prepare. They dolled up a live chicken with local flowers and a bowl full of cassava flour to make fufu, and danced and sang, and shouted in praise to thank us for our presence in their village. Overwhelmed doesn’t even explain it. I didn’t even know how to thank them, but they assured us that it was something they had to do. For them to have a team of visitors come to their village and work all day without eating was not allowed; they were to provide a meal. And a meal they did…the next dinner that our team enjoyed together was more than filling. What a gift, and what a reminder of what it means to give, even when you think there is not enough to share. A real life example of the poor widow giving her two small copper coins as offering (Luke 21:1-4).
May I learn to know when to give amidst a world that needs more than I can provide, especially remembering how much I been given.
Thank you Pepperdine for instilling such enriching values: Freely ye received, freely give. And thank you Congo for overwhelming me with your generosity.
Traversing the mountain roads to reach tucked away villages makes me feel like Indiana Jones, or at least his cousin. In fact, it is too much like the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland (minus the bigger-than-life serpent and rolling ball), but the body shaking bounce of four-wheeling over adventurous terrain is not much different. And after the rains we still continue--we fight the muddy roads, all to reach the women to hear their voices and gather details about their families’ food security and children’s’ growth measurements. Add in the general fear of rebel groups in the area and I think I am starting to take on a new role; I’m not just a research field coordinator, but one that a friend generously and humorously deemed, “Indiana Amundson.”
It is when I am in the field that I truly find life in the work that I do. Struggles over logistics at the office, gaining respect from the team, and lack of budget to fully do things right are more than a challenging pain, but our trips to the field remind me why it is worth enduring. It reminds me why it is so important to be in contact with the project’s recipients, for without them we would not have the job that we do.
When we are along for this ride, we have to remember to look out the windshield. These are the moments that I have time to reflect, moments to reconnect with our mission, and moments that show me that there is more to reach and attain than the struggles that lie in front of us.
Sometimes our present view, what is just in front of us, seems like it is all that exists, as if we could only see the dashboard or the steering wheel. But remembering to see the greater view is so important, to look past the current struggles and understand the bigger picture.
It is here in DRC that I witness the problematic impacts of malnutrition, but when I focus just on this I know that I am staring directly at the dashboard, forgetting there is a windshield that displays the healing of our ultimate creator, the one that gives insight into the bigger picture.
Although the team can speak French, they naturally revert to Swahili, a language I am far, far away from mastering. So normally during our jeep rides when I am not painfully trying to pull out words from the smorgasbord of Swahili conversation, I have moments of healing reflection, all the while admiring the mountain peaks, lakeside glimmer, and tropical plains.
And just the Friday before last, admiring the view through my windshield, I tasted a teaspoon of heaven.
My team started in joyful praise, both in French and Swahili, full of rhythmic life, African beat, and soulful voices. And it was surrounded by this harmonious praise, and lush mountainside views that I realized what heaven even must be like: no longer with suffering, but only the giving of life, full of celebration, and what I hope: surrounded by awe inspiring natural beauty.
May the pain that we witness remain powerlessly limited as solely our dashboard, but let us look past this dashboard, to seek inspiration from the heavenly views of our journey in front of us, the views through the windshield that provide life to our present purpose.
Update: As I continue in the field, I have had limited energy and internet connection to update as often as I would like, but this week I hope to share some more stories even while I am away, back down in the Fizi territory. I thank you for your continual encouragement. The messages that I have received from family and friends have meant so much and have kept me going! I am excited to share more with you, as I continual to learn so much! And God is listening to your prayers, so praise to Him, and thank you for gifting me with your thoughts, care, interest, and time!
Chemical reactions often require an initial extra spurt of "activation energy" in order to jumpstart the reaction that follows (as many of us science nerds learned in school)…so do studies in the field. To explain in a way we can all relate, the maturity of successful studies cannot be complete without the awkward teenage growth spurt. No matter how much preparation beforehand, no matter how well the research team is trained, survey field work still requires an initial test period of trail, error, failure, mishap, success, and learning-on-the-job; a painful activation energy that hopefully jumpstarts positive results.
Our first morning out, the team picked us up three and a half hours late due to payment issues at the office; just the start to our painful trail period. We had already had a difficult, yet productive, training period the week before with our research team to get them ready for the first cross sectional survey, and I had even spent the last month and a half preparing for what was to come…but the logistics of planning a structured research study proves almost impossible, especially when working within the boundaries of a complicated, high demand, constantly changing NGO project. And the problems of performing research amidst program implementation only decide to appear once out in the field.
Our first day we were supposed to interview 50 women: 25 WEG (women’s empowerment group, one of the intervention arms of the project) beneficiaries and 25 neighbors…totalling 50 interviews, a very reasonable task given a team of 12 trained interviewers. But when unforeseen problems arise, 50 interviews actualize into only 20 interviews. Unless asked to come to the research site, women tend to their daily activities cultivating in the field. So our team’s lack of village-preparedness was about ready to send us home.
It is during times of perceived failure that a shooting star of hope glimmers. A star that either inspires one to adapt and carry on, or give up and turn home.
Picture: Our Uvira Research Team, Self-proclaimed team name: "Okapi"
Thankfully our shooting star of hope came by the third day: an organized village, women ready to be interviewed, survey team ready to work hard, and a successful completion of 50 interviews. We really needed this sign of potential success to carry on. I especially needed this hope, given leading a team of 12 researchers in the Uvira territory, and 12 in the Fizi territory offer enough logistic challenges on its own.
Overwhelmed by the need and the continual demands from children and adults to give, give, give--food, water, supplies, money--whatever they see that we have and they long for, I have to realize where and how we can actually help. Right now my help means spending my days and nights out in foreign villages, always with a sense of post-war conflict insecurity, and learning how much I have to grow in leading a team. It means spending all my energy to fight sickness and carry on. It means taking cold showers from buckets of water that I fetch, peeing in small key-shaped holes, organizing more studies than I have ever organized in my life, and breaking my back on crammed 4-wheel drive jeep rides up mountains and through rivers. Yes, sometime through rivers.
But it also means remembering how good our Creator really is. Loving on His children as I hold them close to collect their weight, having “family dinner” with the team, and seeing some of the most beautiful starry night skies I have ever seen remind me why I am doing what I am doing. Yes, I love the adventure, and yes I love playing a small role in learning about the nutrition situation…but it is nature’s beauty that reminds me that there is a bigger picture, that our Creator that craftily painted the night’s sky and picturesque mountain views also has a hand in painting our lives, changing our hearts, and giving hope to this world’s perceived hopeless.
So amidst the survey beginning’s struggles, there is light. The initial energy to get this first set of studies up and running and jumpstart the reaction of studies that will follow is most definitely strenuous, but the potential prize is worth the effort. So here’s to finishing my third week in the field! I can’t wait to tell you more about it. The lack of internet connection has kept me from updating more often, but know that I am safe and that the Lord has His hand in my team’s journeys. And know that my thoughts about my family and friends are helping me push forward.
So thankful for my dad who helped me to appreciate living life as a journey, who taught me to love spending nights outdoors, and who continues to remind me to point to our Creator as the ultimate power behind all of the beauty we see in front of us.
Now, time for another cold bucket shower…gotta try to scrub today’s hard-work-dirt off my feet before I begin the next!
Good night,
~Kim
WEG Beneficiaries after their first interview in a village called Nyamutiri
I thought it fitting to make this a short and sweet update time. Tomorrow morning our team of 12 surveyors and two leaders will start our first big study, something that will last at least 6 weeks (being home on the weekends), and will keep me from having adequate internet to update as much as I will want to. We will be travelling to just over 30 villages in two territories and visiting about 1400 households to collect information on food security (comparing between different interventions). Please keep our team in your prayers for safety, endurance, quality data collection, guidance, and enjoyment. I am excited to get back out in the field...it gives life to the office work, even amidst some of its unplanned surprises. It has taken a lot of preparation, and we finished the training last week, but we won't know what the hardships and strengths will be until we get out there! Thank you for your interest and I look forward to updating you as we go!
If you are in search for that old Abercrombie Shirt that your mom sold at your last garage sale, you may just find what you are looking for in Uvira.
I found out today that the outdoor clothing shack which opened next to my office a couple of months ago is really the entrepreneurial-baby of one of my coworkers. A $2000 investment and a $30 plot-rental fee per month has served him well in his business adventures: He brings in about $130 in sales a day. He uses the profit from the sales to purchase more merchandise from Bujumbura next door. That’s genius if I ever saw it.
But the best part about it is that it is probably the last place I would ever consider buying clothing. For I am in a country that takes pride in their fabrics’ beauty and quality, and where women dress in colorfully-printed dresses tailored specifically to follow their curves . Yet locals are still tempted to purchase this “quality” American clothing, which I was quick to point out to my coworker the tags stating, “Made in Cambodia.”
My coworker explained that the clothing may be made somewhere else, but it is made in an American company’s factory which produces quality items. This trend is not common to find here, so demand is high, the style is “in”--there is profit to be made.
It’s amazing how quickly we can desire something because of its perceived appearance, because it is different than what’s normally available, because others consider it superior.
While part of me detests that my country is supplying such “valuable” items, in the state we like our Goodwill wardrobe: slightly worn and washed, I marvel at my friend’s ingenious resourcefulness and innovation. Not many could be creative enough and love American clothing so much as to successfully saturate Uvira’s fashion-culture.
“The Shop” may allure many locals, but I think I’ll stick to the brightly patterned-uniquely designed treasures, what I perceive as beautiful here in the Congo.
It’s Sunday. The day that I have claimed as “football at 16:00.” Many people in the office offered up interest, but only a few actually show up. Instead we get to have the joy of playing soccer with so many young and strong Congolese boys. I bring the ball, they bring their energy. And off we go choosing teams by height differences. I have no idea how I am going to remember who is on my team since many of them look so similar to me, but it all works out in the end somehow.
Lucky for me, I get to choose our team name. In the spirit of my beloved soccer team in Seattle, I name ours “The Blueberries” something that makes no sense to these Congolese boys, many of whom only speak Swahili; yet they are excited all the same. Getting them to chant “Blue-berr-ies” really ends up sounding like “Bu-bar-ee” (insert looks of “this white-mzungu girl is crazy”)…but it still brings good team spirit. For me it’s just another way that I get to connect my two worlds. The other team is of course named after another soccer team “Chelsea” or decides a much more fierce title like, “The Congolese Tigers”…but no name can beat my beloved Blueberries!...okay well maybe the first week the Congolese Tigers won (classic losing streak of my Seattle-Blueberries)…but the last week The Blueberries definitely beat Chelsea!!!!
What is more fascinating than the game is the rugged field, “terrain de foot.” Now, I am humbled in saying that I used to complain when our Blueberries team had to play on a hard, cruchy, rocks-in-your-shoes-soccer field…but this new Congo field has changed the name of the game of soccer. I literally now play: “Obstacle Soccer.”
While I try to avoid tripping over piles of trash or falling into ditches, the other players are busy running from one end to the next. And oh boy, are these young boys crafty. In fact: I think we may need to bring some to Seattle to help our Blueberries team!
This attraction seems to draw crowds of children to the goal posts to watch. Shouts and screams and plays are called; I can't tell if they are calling someone's name or a command.
Another friend from Uruguay has brought drums and he gets the children on the sidelines to start drumming and chanting, “Kimberly.” While I am quite amused, and it helps our team to score, I know the majority of them have no idea why or what they are shouting.
Other Congolese Mammas and Sunday-dressed Babbas casually walk through our field barely missing being trampled by all the kids. I have no idea how many people are on the field, and the referee doesn’t seem to mind either. The more-the-merrier for obstacle soccer.
So Blueberries: know that we play Obstacle Soccer in your honor, and we are gaining more and more skilled athletes. If you are ever in the area on Sunday stop by around 16:00…it’s actually more like 16:15 or 16:30. And the next time I get to play with you in Seattle, please remind me to never complain about the state of our playing field again. Miss you guys!
Our satisfaction and purpose in most all situations are very much dependent on our attitudes and perspectives, and less so fashioned by the actual circumstances themselves. While present conditions may have great influence, they are far from being the final determining factor of our potential gratification and inventive progress.
In many countries other than my original home, a long pause in the middle of the day is customary, and here “repose,” or rest, is almost mandatory. An hour and a half break in the middle of the day gives coworkers a chance to make it home, enjoy a warm meal, rest or visit with their family, and make it back in time to finish the work day “en forme.” I knew when I didn’t find a refrigerator at my office, where electricity fluctuates daily, that “sack lunches” may not be a typical part of my workday.
I enjoyed this afternoon lunch break the other day with newly formed friends, one of them being a calm, level headed, attentive Peruvian UN officer who runs the air terminal base here in Uvira. I have begun to admire his quiet strength and perceptive listening. He even shared past pilot stories involving high energy missions flying helicopters to drop wooden beams right on target in efforts to fix the electricity towers in the hillsides of Peru; a mission to repair the damage caused by landmines from rebels who sabotage power lines. He’s the kind of father figure that I want to grasp even a glimpse of his experienced-backed, example-led wisdom, much like gaining insight from karate master Mr. Miyaga on Karate Kid.
And sipping green tea after lunch, just slightly sweetened, I did just that: I grasped a glimpse into how he would purposefully push forward if he were in my position. As he listened to some of my concerns regarding my newfound role in the Congo, expressing that at times I feel like the “guinea pig” for the project, I could see his magic wand of wisdom, that changes perspectives and shifts attitudes, start to light up. His inspiration was so simple:
“YOU: are a pioneer for your project.”
I’m not a guinea pig, I’m a pioneer. Just because my role has its hardships and puts me in uncomfortable situations where I am still supposed to maintain levelheaded leadership, that doesn’t make me a test-animal, but gives me strength, passion, purpose, and desire to push onward. Pioneer; I like that. The first and only one that is currently making a path in-country for those that will follow. I have the influence to form standards of practice, build relationships, and set a foundation for future collaboration between my university and the organization that is leading the project.
And this spoonful of sugar advice truly helped the medicine of the project’s growing pains go down, to come up stronger on the other side. Here we go; changing perspective to gain new purpose, and pushing forward to pioneer a path for future people to continue to make a difference.
This gives life to our given challenge to learn that in whatever situation we are to be content, to find the secret to facing plenty or hunger, abundance or need, to remember we can do anything through Christ, who gives us strength (Philippians 4:11-13).
So, what present circumstances do you find yourself? Are you the guinea pig or the pioneer? If you feel like the guinea pig, I would challenge that it may just need some Peruvian Pilot wisdom to help change perspective and purpose in your current situation for quite possibly you are instead: truly a pioneer.
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