Darwin's mad props go out to...

Faithful blog readers…
After a weekend of personally replying to the personal replies I received from the last mass email I sent out this week to my contact list…my fingers are sore, my knuckles ache, but I’m feeling all warm and fuzzy inside! ‘Home’, its never ceases to amaze me how regularly I’m startled—pleasantly so—by where I find artifact of ‘home’. Something so small and seemingly insignificant as a couple-lined email from an old friend, can nearly bring you to tears, jog your memory, remind you that you exist in the world of someone nearly lost in the fog of memory…

Alright, enough philosophication, this week, I’ll keep it brief: a thought, two t-shirts and a sweater, and TWO new features…the word(s) of the week and the Darwin award. Ready?
The shirts this week are a little less sexually suggestive, but eye catching nonetheless
(in French) “I eat vegetables, look how strong I am…”—text above and below a smiling elephant. Courage, mes chere vegans, meme vous pouvez etre forte!
And
“Beware, I’m a Tottie »--not sure what that’s about, but I thought it noteworthy.
And
The Albanian flag, double headed eagle and all, knitted sweater, can only imagine who’s immigrant grandmother slaved away on this as a Christmas present for some ungrateful grandson who promptly gave it away to a charity that sold it to a wholesaler who shipped it to Kenya, and somehow wound up sold to some guy in kadutu market—mind you it has been cold here as of late.





The words of the week:
Motard—french, pronounced Moe—Tard, the guy who drives 125cc motorcycle-taxi, like a hysteric on methamphetamines. In an effort to be more sensitive and politically correct, I’m starting a public education campaign to change the term to developmentally disabled moto-taxi drivers…

Kiwelewele—keeping with the theme, this is the Swahili term for someone who is completely out of their gourd, perhaps someone who has succumbed to cerebral malaria. A very useful word given that, when used in the proper context, it carries with it a certain nuance of meaning…suggesting that the individual you are addressing as such, though perhaps not suffering from malaria, is still, nonetheless, totally useless, and locked up, under the watchful care of his grandmother…

Septicaemia—a particular category of desease, to which family, Cholera is a member. Children seem to like this word a lot and pick it up quickly during impromptu English language lessons near cholera treatment centers… la bas, il y a la cholera, attention, c’est un maladie septicaemic…en anglais… Setptecaemia, encore tous ensemble….septecaemia.

The thought of the week—“who needs donkey (or any other beast of burden) when we have women.” Apparently there’s a desease here that kills donkeys. They’ve never been successfully bread in the great lakes region…But no worries, women are more than capable of carrying ridiculously large burdens from here to there while men watch on, or carry ‘important’ papers.—I’ve been meaning to write about this phenom…les porteurs de papier et les porteuses des fardos…when I get some pics, I’ll write more, but for now, suffice it to say that I actually heard this thought uttered aloud by a man this week.



And finally the Darwin award—for those who demonstrate a resilience in the face of adversity and those who embody a total disregard for the will to live…
As this is the first instalment of this particular feature, we’ll keep it light hearted:
The Youth With A Mission (YWAM) get the award this week fort their boldness and ingenuity, for having solicited from us (their neighbors) a venue to host their whiskey sour (going away) party, which would not have been deemed acceptable among their fundamentalist handlers.
And the award for total disregard for personal safety goes to one of my favorite interns here in Bukavu, who will remain nameless, and who, after a lovely evening with a number of more experienced (and gainfully employed) colleagues, left our host’s home with just enough gas to put her vehicle square in front of the military barracks of the guard for the provincial HQ of the Forces Army DR Congo. The FARDC, for those of you who don’t know, is the national army, made up of elements of each of the noteworthy war lords’ of the region’s rapist, drug addled militia—here will call the process of integration “brassage”—sorry for the poor grammar—and at present, they—being the national army--are the single biggest violator of human rights in the country. We came to her rescue, saved the day so to speak, towed her car into town, found some fuel, and all got home safe and sound. The issue, however is that this is the 7th time this has happened. The 7th time the national NGO responsible for this intern and who allows her to drive their vehicle, has left the tank empty…AND it’s the 7th time that this licensed motor vehicle operator has failed to ensure that her vehicle has enough fuel to get her home at night…so remember folks, never ever let the tank get below half-empty.

Good night
C


The pics...
1. a repeat, but super nonetheless, Shikooroo and the smurf (sounds like a magna flick, no?)
2. some kid and his mad skills, breakin' it down on the dirty dance floor...kisaniola, salon la baute, hit it!
3. I've misplaced my camera, so one more super pic from Julie P....a women, from somewere around here... 

February Fun Tims

Well, I’ve been here for 2 days short of 8 months, have conceded the fact that I am a terrible at posting regular updates on the blog, and frankly, I’m not going to feel bad about it anymore…I suspect that my target audience is just as bad at reading these irregular postings!
Nevertheless, a few thoughts, a few stories, and a few pictures

The Highlights:
1.the curious incident of the drunk guard, the bloddied DGM, and the night the presidential guard wrecked our party.
2.two accidents, two lanes, and two things that make Congolese impatient
3.How I nearly got beat up in the homosexual quarter of Paris
4.Michel Dupont, his bloated colon, and a similiarly curious event in Paris
6.The single biggest reason Vivaldy is no longer welcome at my house

T-Shirts of the week:
I’ll tell you what jimmy says—strange, somewhat non-sequitur (arent’ they all?)
FBI (Female Body Inspector)—spotted on a slightly more than rotund Bulgarian pilot at the UN restaurant/club
My Govenor can beat up your governor—spotted in town, not sure if it was reffering to the cross-eyed, fence straddling, republican/democrat Guvenator of California or Jesse “the Body” Ventura (Rep-Wis?)

Sound track—rocking out to wolf parade and ladyhawk—and CBC radio three podcast #62—summer roadtrip mix tap.

See below for all the wild and wonderful vignettes mentioned above.
No time, no problem…. Stay safe, stay engaged, and be sure to remain gainfully employed
Those of you who may be heading to Central African Republic, Chechnya, or Kashmir in the next month or so---may see you there.
More later

Peace
C

1. So ACTED threw a party, not that unusual, but they failed to ensure that those drinking beer weren’t responsible for bouncing at the gate. Lots of people, lots of booze, a little emotion—M. and B. were leaving for ever—and no shortage of large, road blocking white land cruisers…So, mr. Big—somehow connected or in charge of a big gov’t agency—decided that he wanted to take his family home, and to his surprise, the gate to his compound was blocked by at least one of these big trucks…patience reigned in the instance, and the guards of the ACTED house went 3 times to sort out the situation…BUT failed to realize that they should’ve found the boss, had him turn off the music, identify the double parker, and move on…instead, the guy and his family waited for an hour, during which time his patience wained, and eventually, he walked into the compound and found himself in confrontation with a less-than-sober guard. In the space of 2 minutes, Mr Big—and patient—wound up smashed in the face with the empty beer bottle the guard happened to be carrying (not a little Canadian ‘stubby’ but a big nasty 750ml Primus bottle)…more over, the poor sop, bloddied from the bludgeoning, was carried out an tossed onto one of the white trucks blocking his gate…Ironic, no? Little surprise, then, that Mr. Big decided to solicite the assistance of his friends presidential guard. Guns drawn, Mr. Big’s friend, the Big Mr, Big’s big buddies came into the compound, black fatigues and pink barrets and dragged out the (now sorry) guard that had been so stupid as to think that smashing someone in the face with a beer bottle was a great way to resolve a dispute…this week’s Darwin award goes to...

2. The rains in Congo eat roads, bore giant potholes in the most durable surfaces (even bitumen)…this rainy season, one of the main roads—a boulevard, two broad lanes separated by grass-covered partition—has been chewed up so bad that the dubai-special taxis can no longer manage to navigate the potholes…but this is only on one side of the boulevard. For whatever reason the other half of the road is in great condition. So, every suicidal taxi-driver, truck driver, and mo-tard (French for motorcyclist) have taken to driving on the nice side of the street, on coming traffic or no… this week alone, I’ve witness two accidents, and a third near-miss…it reminded me of what an old hand had once told me—Congolese are only in a rush when in line, or behind the wheel of a car!
The curiosity in all this is that the traffic cops—who’s sole purpose in life/profession is to collect taxes on the road—have failed to realize the revenue potential of this restriction in movement…I keep telling them to move their check point/tax collection racket to the other side of the street, but they wont listen…

3. Paris—I would recommend that the next time you happen to be in paris that you keep you eyes wide open for any indication that you’ve passed from one neighborhood to another as simply crossing a street can put you in the middle of a totally different community. I found myself in the gay district of paris, freezing to death, sporting a kaffya to ward off the wind, crossed a street and was smack dab in the middle of the jewish quarter…Gay district, jewish quarter, what was certain was that I was confronted by not one but 3 or 4, 500 pound gorillas concerned about my choice of scarf… Lesson—don’t stare at your feet whilst walking in paris, be sure to know who’s neighborhood your cruising, and do your best not to offend the cultural sensitivities of the local security guards.

4. Paris (also)—I stepped out of the metro station at Les Halles…and walked in to Michel Dupont, my old financial controller here in congo, now stationed with his wife in tchad…he’d just been evacuated from wherever he was, underwent emergency surgery for what I understood to be a problem of relating to an overly giant colon (he’s quebequois)…Congo, Tchad, Paris…the world is truly not as big and scary as some might still believe

5. Vivaldi, our handcapped, love-starved, overwhelmingly vocal, scardy-cat is about to find himself a new home. He and his sister stanlette have been kicked to the curb, or rather, to the new WarChild residence. I haven’t shed a tear, I have no second thoughts…the little monster sprayed my shoes with his cat funk. It took me nearly two weeks to figure out just why my office smelt of cat urine, but I figured it out….and now vivaldy has a new home.

Wolai tabarack fee,
Next week—a new feature, the Darwin award…tributes to those who demonstrate unrivaled resilience and ingenuity in their struggle for survival out here in the jungle…and those who demonstrate a remarkable disregard for those instincts that shore up our conscious inability to foresee a menace to our continued existence…