An Examined Life

With the end of November comes the inevitable – twenty four days to Christmas. For me it means dealing with all the apprehensions and anxieties that accompany the pending season.

I fear Christmas as a time of exaggerated expectation and fabricated obligation. As a culture we have assigned these next few weeks as happy times, joyous parties, groaning dinner tables, bountiful gifts, when everything is supposed to be ‘just right’. Personally, I am a big fan of Boxing Day.

I met a friend at a Pub last week. Uncharacteristically, on the table in front of him was merely a half pint of Guinness. He explained that even that was an indulgent compromise. He is a recent adherent to the Orthodox Christian tradition and they consider these weeks leading up to Christmas as a time of restraint, much like Lent. I see the logic if one’s intent is to avoid those little cocktail sausage rolls, or too much egg nog – but it seems counter intuitive to the traditional ‘spirit’ of the season.

I have to say, I am attracted to his newly chosen ritual. There is a stripping away of the superficial– the intent being to provide focus and energy to the idea that this is also the season when God chose to join his human creation as one of us.

All that commercial stuff is simply an interpretation of the real desire – a desire to know joy, to know relationship, and to create a sense of mystery in the midst of this dark season when the ground lays fallow.

I have no intention of giving up red wine, or even shortbread, this season, but I’d happily trade my expectation for reflection and my sense of obligation for that of wonder.

As I think about my successes and failures they all have the same root – risk. I kick myself around the block for my failures when in fact it was that exact same M.O. that brought me success at other times. I can’t have one without the other.

The problem with failure, I find, is it’s increasingly paralyzing. Once I have screwed up, blown it. lost whatever I invested, I tend not to want to jump back in that ring again. This is truer the older I get. I can’t shrug things off as easily. It all seems to matter now, even though it really doesn’t.

I’ve had a number of situations lately – personal, financial, and practical – where I have failed. The ensuing self-flagellation has woken me up at night – not with thinking about what I might do different next time – but how I am so pissed off with myself for screwing up in the first place. Who the hell do I think I am? It happens, it’s over, learn from it and move on – sheesh!

At 5am this morning I came to the conclusion that I am more afraid of not risking, than I am of failures that may or may not ensue.

Risk is relative. I am not an extreme person, but I do know I need to step out away from what I know, and what is comfortable for me, in order that I can grow, learn, and even succeed.

I remember the feeling I had when I put my rented 4X4 into gear and followed the guy in front of me into the deep sand last spring as we headed towards the dunes before sunrise. I had no idea how to drive in sand, or what might happen if I got stuck and couldn’t move. I almost did, many times. I was scared and anxious. But, after about 10km I reached firm ground and was rewarded with one of the most spectacular nature experiences of my life. What if I had played it safe and decided not to go?

Every time I return from Africa I notice something different. I remember the first time it was the fact that I let the faucet run while I was brushing my teeth – in parts of Africa that is the wasteful equivalent of starting a fire with a twenty dollar bill. What has struck me this time is how smooth the road was as I rolled my suitcase along to my house.

In order for an economy to run goods must be able to be transported from one place to another – farm to market or factory to store. The first link in any transportation chain is the road. In Congo, a country the size of Western Europe, only 2% of the roads are paved – truthfully that should be written ‘paved’.

The bright side is there are some guys who make their living by filling a few of the billion potholes, then they stand at the side of the road with buckets collecting change from appreciative drivers. The not so bright side is that it is extremely difficult to move goods around in Congo, thus markets have little chance to grow.

However, recently, a deal has been struck with the Chinese Government whereby in exchange for mineral rights, they’ll invest $9 Billion dollars in infrastructure. This is a good thing. Normally mineral rights are exchanged for lucrative deals that only benefit those in power – at least this way, the benefit has a better chance of making it’s way to the people.

Without a real taxation system, the government rarely pays its traffic cops, let alone investing money in its own infrastructure. We keep thinking the problem is a population that doesn’t know how to get itself out of poverty. Yet, I am believing more and more, that if they are given the tools, like driveable roads, they are more than capable of producing goods that others will pay for and thus enabling them to build their own independence.

I left him at the border, or I guess, technically, he left me. Once I had cleared immigration to leave Congo, Sam, my 20 year old son, gave me a hug, jumped in the truck and drove back into town.

I won’t see Sam again until the end of April. It’s hard to describe the feelings I had as I was walking in one direction, looking back, as my first born was driving in the other. On the one hand, I couldn’t be more proud. Here was he, confident, independent, and taking on the world. On the other hand, here was my son, my friend, making his own way in the world – a part from me.

I remember when I was in Grade 12 and my dog Teddy was getting way on in years. I told my mum that he was really suffering and maybe we should have him put down. “Good idea. You take him to the vet, so you have an idea of how these things end up when you have your own kids and they want a dog”. Wise words. So, I know what to do when a dog gets old. However, she didn’t have any neat little exercise to prepare me for when my kids themselves grow up.

It’s not the first time I’ve said goodbye to Sam as he’s head out for months away from home – be it to sail, to work at summer camp, or go to University on the other side of the country. But this time feels different. He’s not a teenager anymore, and Goma’s not summer camp.

Right from when they are born we work as parents to have our kids become increasingly independent – boob to bottle, bottle to cup, diaper to toilet, home to school, allowance to job, chauffer to driver’s license. Then, at some point the sum total of all of that happens – they are done. They go.

I have no idea how much it costs for me to go to the doctor. I have never even seen a bill for any medical service I’ve had, besides the prescription drugs. This may be stating the obvious, but in Congo they don’t have medical insurance. It’s all fee for service.

I spent time in the neonatal ICU at Heal Africa’s hospital in Goma, DR Congo. I was observing the rounds being done in the morning. All the babies in there were very sick and needed much care. There were tests required and medicine needed to help these kids – but first the mums had to be asked if they could afford to pay for the necessary procedures.

I remember years ago when our son Patrick was two weeks old and contracted pneumonia. He was in hospital for nine days. He had all the care and attention one could ask for. There were many tests and procedures done, the staff was attentive, the environment clean and sterile. Once he was well enough to go home, we just packed up and left – no one was chasing us with an invoice.

Of course the Heal Africa hospital does have a ‘mercy fund’ to assist those who can’t afford their own care – but it’s not nearly adequate given the need. The latex gloves, the bandages, the sutures, the IV drips, the needles, the drugs, the x-rays, the ultra sounds, the nurses and doctors – all cost money, lots of money. In the end someone, somehow, has to pay for it.

The issues are compounded once you leave the urban centres of the Congo. 90% of the country’s population live in the rural areas and are served by only 10% of the nation’s physicians – most of whom are fresh from medical school without any time in residency.

I am not sure I’ll mind so much next time I have to wait an extra hour in Emergency

On the streets of Goma there are all manner of ways people work to achieve their own sense of usefulness. There are many hairdressers, moto taxis (motorcycles), soft drink sellers, and phone card hawkers. There are the furniture builders, metal box makers, and the music shops with their speakers blaring unintelligible tunes. But one there is one group that stands out for me - the Chukuduboys.

A Chukudu is a large wooden scooter that seems to have been designed by Fred Flintstone. The wooden wheels are wrapped in pieces of rubber tires, and there is an ingenious suspension system on the front wheel to cope with incredibly rough lava based roads. The handlebars are a single piece of carved wood in the shape of a large bull’s horns. The function of a Chukudu is as a freight carrier – huge bags of charcoal, stacks of lumber, the odd dead cow or goat – are all transported around town on these trusty vehicles.

The Chukudu boys are the antithesis of lazy. They range in age from young boys to middle age guys. Each morning they come from the rural parts into the city. They are an important part of the fabric of Goma – the equivalent of bike couriers in our world – only a whole lot tougher.

I like these independent entrepreneurs because of their ingenuity, their incredible work ethic, and because they tend to have a bit of a bad boy reputation around town.

It’s easy to develop a vision of Africa that has nothing but the starving and dispossessed holding out their hand for help. The Chukudu boys represent that other Africa – that of those working damn hard to take care of themselves and eke out a living the best as they can.

So, it was a big week for the town of Goma. They got their very first traffic light. Frankly I am not sure of the logic of this choice. In the days since the switch was turned on traffic in the morning and the afternoon has become almost unbearable. What part of red means stop, green means go don’t they understand?

Prior to the light there was a traffic cop. He was able to use his experience and intuition to keep things moving– and his authority to punish those who didn’t follow his rule.

The light is too objective. It is entirely insensitive to its context. I predict it won’t be long before people realize it doesn’t care – and they’ll ignore it.

I am as guilty as the next baby-hugging-want-to-do-good-er for coming to conclusions and carrying strong convictions based on my experiences here. I believe I am applying objective principles that make perfect sense to me – even if they are void of full context or sensitivity to circumstance, culture and/or history.

Fact is, objectivity seems to have little use here. Due to the myriad of challenges the developing world faces on a moment by moment basis – the best answer to most questions is ‘it depends’.

There is great sport in the world of economics to decide what is best for Africa. On the one hand you have Dambiza Moyo suggesting no more international money be spent in Africa, then on the other you have Jeffery Sachs suggesting all it will take is another $60 Billion. Who’s right? It depends.

This trip I have tried to spend much more time listening, observing, and questioning. I have restrained myself from quickly formulating the answers ( or at least from saying them out loud).

I am being reminded that it’s not so much about the red and green, as it is about the grey.

Goma is a maddening, confusing, contradiction. We spend our days out amongst some of the most vulnerable people on earth, then we return home to our residence perched on the side of the lake. In the evenings we watch and listen as fishermen paddle their boats, and sing their songs, practising a trade they have been at for centuries – but at times this scene is obscured by jet skis racing across in front of our view.

Stores in town cater to folks like us selling everything from Guinness beer to cheese croissants – meanwhile even the cemetary’s are cultivated squeezing all possible sustenance from the ground to inadequately feed members the town’s ever expanding population.

It seems there is a linear progression to life here with the Internally Displaced at one end, and the jet ski riders at the other. I watch those watercraft with a certain indignation, but who am I to talk? I live much closer to those jet ski riders than I like to admit. Not only that, I prefer it that way. I like my comfort and convenience (I am writing this from a coffee shop with relatively good internet and good coffee).

In the midst of this place it is easy to fall into a paradigm believing what is needed is: equality and sympathy delivered with ‘first world’ intellect and intelligence. In fact there are dozens of agencies here in Goma doing just that.

Yet, I think, the bigger challenge, in fact my primary responsibility, is to seek justice and live with a sense of compassion from a position of humility. While there may be this great disparity of how life is lived in this place – and in our world – the common denominator, the common identification, is we are all human – jet skiers and refugees alike.

It seemed like the harder it rained the louder they sang.

Germaine Mukendi, 40 year old mother of four succumbed to Aids on Friday evening. She was significant for us as she had been the head housekeeper for Maji, the residence of Heal Africa, for the last six years.

We attended the Funeral. The service began at the church, filled inside and with as many more sitting outside around the open doors and windows. At the end everyone filed past the coffin getting their last look and connection with Germaine.

The burial site was in a cemetery outside of town, in a place off the lava flow where a grave could be dug. After the vehicle procession through town, a circle of many people gathered around the grave. A few of the women family members were inconsolable, sobbing loudly and being supported by those next to them.

I was standing among the hundreds of mourners, in the pouring rain, as they sang, and even danced It was clear that Germaine’s life really mattered. But it was also yet another a reminder that life is fragile here in the Eastern Congo. Here, each day requires running the gauntlet of violence, disease or famine.

I can easily take my life for granted. My access to food and health care are givens that I never worry about. Safety and security are considered rights for me. The high wire act of being a citizen in Congo is always conducted without a safety net.

Those attending Germaine’s funeral are all too familiar with its rituals and ceremony. Once the family and close friends had thrown the dirt on her casket, and people began to leave for the reception, the young men, who had been hired for the purpose, took over to efficiently shovel the rest of the earth into the grave.

Once filled it would look just like the hundreds and hundreds of others in that cemetery, defined only by the small wooden cross with Mukeni Germaine, 1969 R.I.P., written in black felt pen. In Peace, indeed.