Great, Unstoppable Things

Hi everyone!

On Wednesday of last week, we visited a site near Mwenga (The name is too foreign to survive in my memory; and for that matter, I don't know how to spell "Mwenga"). The drive was about 3 hours, and toured us through some of the most beautiful landscape I've ever seen. Upon our arrival, we (There were six of us.) trickled between a cluster of small huts onto a narrow path, cutting through the residence and dispersing into the cassava fields. We went to witness the first cutting of the cassava, an essential part of Congolese diet that, after reaching sapling-like stature, can be cut down, chopped into small pieces, and planted again. FH has had a program there to kick start a system of cassava-farming as a sustainable source of livelihood. After a short distance and several venturing "Jambo's" and giggling "Jambo sana's" (Swahili greetings-- I'm not sure of the English translation), we stood in the midst of a unanimous, tongue-wharbling (kind of whoop or holler combined with the circling of one's tongue around the mouth) welcome. Children's big white eyes fixed on our white faces in wonder, and their mouths cracked into stupefied grins at the sight of the ivory tower that is Keith, who stands (or maybe sways) at 6'7". Behind them, fields of cassava cradled scores of black arms swinging machetes. I was given the chance to swing with them for an hour or so, wacking away at the cassava feet, and dismembering them into meter-sized sticks, as per the length of bamboo swingy clumsily from my measuring hand. Maybe a minute had gone bye before I was sweating through my shirt beneath the yellow sun.

After acceding my blade to far worthier fingers, I joined the others back at the start of the path where a bunch of kids were inching their way towards the "Mzungus!". Several bouts of "Look at my digital camera" and thumb-wars ensued. None of which I was avidly involved in, due to discomfort of the bowels or my "rite of passage in Congo". However, after surveying and nearly obliging to the available "facilities", I decided to hold it. Needless to say, the jostling ride home was a test of will-power. The addition of a broken down, fuming motorcycle pressed up against my knees was a bonus. It sounds bad, I know (due to some lavish word choice), but it was really a great adventure.

On our way back, it finally rained! The day before had teased us with a drop or two, but nothing like this. A low, black ceiling poured over us for most of our re-entry into Bukavu.

Thursday, we went to a village in Bohozie (spelling?) to visit a feeding center for malnourished children. I tried to be taken into silliness and laughter by the smiling baby-faces that surmounted bloated, starving stomachs. Most of the time, it's easy and fun to connect with kids, even if they speak a language you've never heard of before. Now, I was feeling sick with poverty. Every new spot my eyes would flee to held some evidence of it—this great hunger, suffering, darkness. I am crumpled into a corner, helpless against it.

I'm sorry I don't have many pictures of the things I've described. I've been holding out on writing this entry so that I might include more. Tomorrow, I'll post pictures of the cassava fields and all that. These pictures were taken at the feeding center.

Thank you for your comments on my entries, thus far. I truly appreciate anything you have to say (advice, questions, observations, whatever). And thank you for checking back on this blog and reading!