July 2 2010
As I cross the border between Rwanda and DRC, on foot, I am reminded of when I was younger and thought it was too quick to have December 31 followed immediately by January 1. I needed a few days to prepare for the new year. December 31 is Rwanda; January 1 is Congo. With 20m in between where you really cant say where you are. The rocky lakeshore continues, the lake is still there – on each side – but somehow you have changed countries. Once this was all chiefdoms and forest with boundaries much more serious and convoluted than a change of uniform and a passport stamp. But do not be mistaken, today these are 2 different countries, which share a border that has led to a very motley social and political relationship, much less a permeable economic trade route.
I am reading “The Congo Wars: Conflict, Myth & Reality” by Thomas Turner (2007). Perhaps like the phenomena whereby guardians select for pets with similar characteristics, and sweet senior couples stretch and grow into matching track suits, primatologists often resemble their species of study. I am comforted when I see the globular belly of a wild gorilla; foliage and gas. No longer apposite as primatologist, I look for some other representation. According to Turner “the Democratic Republic of Congo is a very large, very well endowed country that has been poorly governed, when it has been governed at all” (2007:24). Its neighbours’ – termed invaders by those with the congophile lens – tend to be much smaller. Maybe this explains my affection for DRC. For me, the Congo Basin is the last frontier for conservation in Africa; it’s the last place on this continent with enough forest and wildlife outside of existing protected areas that there is at least the opportunity to make change. The policies established in these areas will greatly impact the future role of the existing protected areas, as either reservoirs of resources, or, hopefully, core conservation zones. Eastern DRC straddles the thrill of the Congo Basin and the elaborate demographics of the Albertine Rift. It’s a social scientist’s mind-freak.
My first stop and likely base for my research, is Goma. Goma has a fire beneath it. Goma is many things. So far, its mostly dust. By the grace of Mount Nyiragongo, whose lava oozed under, bubbled up and slide over Goma, most recently in 2002 (but documented at 34 eruptions since 1882 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Nyiragongo ), there is volcanic rock, which quite easily breaks down into soil and then into dust, everywhere. Living in the interior of Goma town, where I do, it took a few weeks to appreciate the very different experience from those in multi-story houses with garden and grass sprawl down to the lake. I am so sorry you cut your knee on the rocks as you crawled from the crashing waves while exiting from your morning swim. This morning I swept the house for the 128th time. I have been here for 4 days. In our compound there are piles of volcanic rocks – either from when they knocked down the old house or built this simple new slab- there is dirt, and there is Poo-poo. A sassy brindle ‘hyena’ born on the beach in Gisenyi, Rwanda. Yesterday I watched as her 2 bottom incisors loosened, bled, fell out and the new adult shredders grew in. Life is extreme here in Goma; for us in the dustbowl.
Poo-poo is a scavenger in the barren compound. Shown by her collection of favorites: 3 old plastic sandals, 1 leg of a pair of jeans, 2 broken broom heads. It’s dog mathematics. Buried garbage and laundry hanging on the line are the equation to solve. Avocados lump down from the branch of the neighbours tree balancing on our side. Even dogs get tired of avocados. She loves pasta and laps powdered milk with delight shown by the splatters on her forehead. Poo-poo is an expert ant eater, with a hard clap of the teeth: an expert moth snatcher, licking lips.
With adorable swirls of fur on her haunches and one headwater on her sternum, she has the whites-of-her-eyes-sideways-glance charm. Oh poo-poo ain’t this life so sweet! She sits before she eats – from her bowl – but will snatch even tomatoes off my plate. Poo-poo ate all my earplugs: 3 pairs. And sent me on a desperate mission to 17 pharmacies and 4 supermarkets. Marie from GoShop took pity on me and gave me a pair she received on her last flight – business class – so I didn’t feel too guilty to accept some sleep.
Poo-poo sleeps through the night now with me under mosquito net, no longer on the stake jacket outside. I put her out early morning. She wakes me with ever konk on the gate: water bill collector, neighbourhood kids, friend with bread. Poo-poo attacks with love when I enter the compound. Paws up, mouth open, teeth on. She will happily take dust bath for a tummy scratch. Growls with a wet towel off. Snuggles when tired, but seeks to be alone when exhausted.
Today as I was leaving through the gate, Poo-poo gave me one last toothy grab goodbye. Mouthful of back pocket. I am breaking down the beast with love. I negotiate a motorcycle taxi to either the International Gorilla Conservation Programme’s or WWF’s offices mainly and continuing with interviews and meetings: the Gorilla Organization, the Jane Goodall Institute, ICCN, Frankfurt Zoological Society, Wildlife Conservation Society (more on the research in the next post)…
Like so many places, there are many different realities here. From life under a bougainvilla, to the Wednesday cocktail night lakeside, to staying inside the dustbowl with Poo-poo. If one is extreme, then smooth is two. The neighbour children climb up the rocky fence wall to peer bonjour. Sometimes their dog’s head peeps over too. I have no idea how he climbs up! Every evening a cat scurries through our compound, a pause for the kiss-squeak greeting from me, crouching along with Poo-poo’s barks (good girl) and whines (wuss). This is where I am for the next month. $3-5/day and Flagyl on-hand. It’s the balance on my knee.
