Christian Eschrich: So there I was … smack dab in the middle of the Congo.

If you know Christian, you are familiar with this.  He busts this one out a lot, for no apparent reason, other than to amaze and bewilder his fans.  There is no rest of the story; it ends with "That's all I got," which always makes me smirk and shake my head.  I found myself hearing this one-liner in my head a lot this weekend.

Ok, so I’m not in the middle of the Congo, but I can see it across the lake every day, and I am smack dab in the middle of something, though these last three days, I’m not entirely sure what ...  

I have written about the muddy shoeless children hauling buckets of unclean water, pregnant women carrying babies and loads on their heads on busy roadways, the seemingly impossible things that are carried on bikes and heads for lack of any other option, the extreme poverty and lack of medical care.  And then I came down from the mountain top to the capital, Bujumbura, to spend the weekend.  My American colleagues say they are meeting friends for a drink Friday night, and would I like to come along.  Who are these friends?  How did they make non-VHW friends in Burundi, I wonder? 

For those who have lived in developing countries, this is no surprise.  But as the weekend continues, I realize my expectation for my time here did not consider the ex-pat community.  As the NGO “scene” is quite small in Burundi, relative to say, similar-sized Rwanda, all the ex-pats come to know each other very quickly.  We take a taxi ($2) from our residence to a hotel called Ubuntu, that has a beautiful interior open air restaurant with a tiki bar, tiled dining area, winding pool, candlelit tables on the surrounding grass, pergolas, and football (soccer) on the bar tvs.  Our table is filled with South Africans, Belgians, Dutch, a Lebanese, and a Congolese-born Brit.   These, however, are not NGO workers.  Most have been here a while, one South African had arrived just four hours before – I've been here four days and I welcome him.  We eat and drink, and our ‘facture’ comes to $176,000.00 Burundian francs – Monopoly money.  

After drinks and dinner, the night continues at the tall, attractive linen-clad Dutchman’s house.  It’s gated and he has 24-hour guards, two cars (one kick-ass open air military jeep-style vehicle), two motorbikes (one a legit 1000cc motorcycle), and two bathrooms.  That said, his kitchen is something out of a time warp and is a bachelor’s mess.  His shelves are filled with books like Romeo Dallaire’s account of the Rwandan genocide Shake Hands with the Devil, and titles like Sons of Africa.  He is a warm and gracious host; he pours us Jack & Pepsis in repurposed mismatched honey jars and we toast to worldly things.   A Belgian plays Flemmish rap and the Dutch, Belgians and South Africans throw a mix of Dutch, Flemmish and Afrikaans at each other.  They are smoking like chimneys, and the Lebanese cozies up to the hookah.  The Congolese-Brit speaks more than a dozen languages.  I have no idea where I am.  Next thing I know, we’re at a club that may have been the backyard of someone's house.  There is a Burundian cover band rocking out and the most random mix of Africans and badly-dressed westerners dancing, as the bartenders ineptly scramble to fill about one drink order every four minutes, and serve ice into the glasses from salad bowls with a spoon.  The Lebanese comments that he feels like we arrived via time machine.  We dance until 3 a.m.

The next morning, one of my roommates and I go to the public pool that we can see from our balcony.  It’s 3,000 Burundian francs, ($2) per person and we can swim and lie in the sun on the lovely grass.  We are the only mzungo there, and the stares eventually wear off, though they move out of our way as we do laps in their direction.  I fry my stomach and chest in the African sun.  Older men are taking advantage of the outdoor showers by soaping up, and without any hesitation, plunging the soap down their shorts to deal with the important bits.

Yesterday was a ‘fun run’ in the jardin publique, a fundraiser for VHW, initiated by the young sons of an Irish UN officer married to an American.  It’s NGO ex-pat mania at the park, and I meet a whole slew of new people, mostly American women, who hug me and say things akin to “let’s do lunch.”  They work for the UN, USAID, Lifenet.  They all discuss the jello shots served at the Marine’s St. Patrick’s Day party the previous night at the embassy, what time everybody left, etc.  

The day was hot, but the run really was fun, as parents and children ran and walked together for a great cause. One of the African running groups came through and did a few laps as well, chanting their melodious African songs, to the cheers of the mzungo.

My colleagues in the park (the four on the right), along with two other NGO workers (left).

Afterwards, a few of us go to get a bite at Café Gourmand, apparently the one super-euro spot in town; it’s air conditioned (yesterday was bloody hot) and has excellent pain chocolat, so excellent in fact, that they were sold out before our arrival.  I walk in to immediately spot the South Africans from Friday, just finishing lunch.  They have already seen one of my roommates earlier in the day and plan to meet up with her later at the beach after they go sailing.  A few minutes after they leave, the Lebanese walks in – greetings all around again; he joins us.  Before we depart, the fun-run UN family walks in.  I’m starting to get the picture.

I ride with my Lebanese friend along a dusty, destroyed, potholed road, lined with tin shacks selling roofing thatch, wooden poles, and random supplies, to meet the Congolese-Brit at a beach club called Bora Bora.  We walk up the steps, and through the doors I enter an alternate universe.  The club is so beautiful that I expect there to be a charge (like at the rudimentary public pool), but it’s free.  It’s one of the nicest clubs I’ve ever seen.  Gorgeous blue and white cushioned beach furniture with whitewashed wooden floors, an ethereal open air bar, palm trees blowing in the breeze, two beautiful pools with pool-side service (no problem with glasses of beer in the pool – yes, glasses), canopies over lazy cushioned banquettes, volleyball nets on the beach, and more lounge chairs with umbrellas in the sand.  

I am astounded that there is space everywhere – it’s free, it’s beautiful out, and nothing is crowded; this is not New York.  It’s a mix of Africans and mzungo; I don’t understand why more Africans are not here, as there is literally no cost or pressure to order anything.  Many people, mostly Africans, are swimming in the warm waters of Lake Taganyika, the Burundi coastline majestic along to my left, the Congo looming across the river to my right.  It’s sunny and breezy and gorgeous.  As we walk out to the pool, who do we see but the same mini UN from Friday night.  Everyone is so nice and fun and welcoming; it feels like it’s been a beach house weekend with old friends.  Where. the hell. am I.

I post a photo of this gorgeous club and my friends’ comments drip with sarcasm:  “humanitarian work?!”, “good job saving the world”, “did you find hope there?”  As much as I enjoyed this club and this day, I have to agree with them.  This was an aspect of my time here I did not anticipate.  These guys (all guys, btw, no women in this non-NGO mix) work for the port, in telecommunications, in (gasp) mining.  When asked what I’m doing here, my response, beginning with “I’m working with an organization,” elicits subtle eye-rolls and lightly sarcastic but good-natured responses of “of course you are…”

When sharing yesterday with the Dutchman my role here at Village Health Works, his response is something along the lines of, this can be a great stepping stone for you; consultants like that can make upwards of $10,000US a month at organizations here.  I am silent.  I cautiously mention “helping people,” knowing the likely response will be rife with cynicism.  These 20- and 30-somethings tell me they once had altruistic and noble goals too, but the corruption is so pervasive that the idea of making any real change is hopeless.  That even if people make their way out of the bottom, usually with assistance, the cycle is perpetuated, as the instinct for survival is so deep-seated, and the means for getting ahead in such a country has been so ingrained, that honesty will result in stagnation; so people continue to take advantage of each other in effort to get ahead.  There is no middle class here; there are only the two extremes.  Until something at a core governmental level changes, efforts to “help” those most in need are futile, they tell me.

So now, they’re all young and wealthy, or on their way, living lives of ridiculously low-cost luxury, among the poorest of the poor.  Do they even see what’s going on around them anymore?   They talk about what a great life it is here.  Some want to buy property and stay.  They spend their weekends taking motorbikes up the coast, sailing, sunning and drinking at the beach clubs, and their weeks in overly air-conditioned offices, funded by the government and foreign money.  Their time in Buja is spent in mzungo places like Ubuntu and Bora Bora, and they ignore what they no longer see as they speed their motorbikes and Land Rovers on by.  I know what they say is an unfortunate truth here as in many countries.  But I can’t accept that no change can come.  Slowly, slowly things are changing, aren’t they??  But indeed, the dent feels minuscule when compared to the need.  

Does that then mean we just ignore the need and call it hopeless?   I of course think that’s a cop-out.  As our clinic on the mountaintop treats patients who are the poorest of the poor, creates the means for the ill to have much-needed surgeries, nurses the malnourished back to health, teaches about nutrition and gives training in agriculture, and provides otherwise impossible education, I have to hold on to hope.  A hope that all this work being done by all these wonderful people is not for nothing.  A hope that has sprung from misery and despair, as people band together to better their country and give means to their community.  A hope that as people find health, they will indeed find hope.  The cynicism is everywhere – it’s palpable.  But much like these ex-pats, whizzing past the road-side impoverished on their way to eat lovely grilled brochettes and sip on cold Primus behind gated walls, I choose to ignore it, and hold on to hope.