Naughty or nice

I know I know, everybody wants to hear about Christmas here.

It's different. I noticed already in early December that the Christmas tree placed in the middle of the roundabout feels odd to me. Later on I noticed that something was about to happen because the road to the airport was flooded with a mass of people even thicker than the usual. I didn't think that was possible. Normally it's two lanes' worth of space filled with three lanes' worth of cars, tsukudus, motorbikes, buses, surrounded with pedestrians. Now it's the pedestrians taking up about two lanes' space, and the vehicles struggling in the rest.

By the third week of December the place started to look empty, one could dance tango in the cafeteria (except one never does tango alone, so let's say two couples could easily tango in the cafet), and those staying here founnd each other in the vast emptiness and started planning their „holiday” activities. It isn't really much of a holiday, 24 December is supposedly a normal working day, with 25 being a day off and 26 a working day again. There were rumours of an „everybody get out of here at 2” email on the 24, but I never receieved it, and spent most of my afternoon in the bank (where the simplest transaction of cash withdrawal takes 8 minutes per client, but that's another story).

So Wednesday evening we met at somebody's place, basically to not be alone and to discuss the details of the „real” Christmas party the next day.

Thursday, the 25, found me dancing in the kitchen at half past nine. Then later on, in other people's kitchens. An apron tour, Goma-style. We were supposed to arrive to the party's secret and charming location by 2 the afternoon, but the host called at quarter past asking us to pick up some tabasco on the way, and to tell that in case we had some potatos, we may as well bring them...

Once arrived to the Lake House, I managed to put on a show worthy of Modern Family, while working the pizza dough dressed up to the nines, and shouting to the people from the kitchen that they should finish that garlic bread already. Apart from this, I think I behaved in a rather acceptable way, I only had to kick off my shoes to go to the oven in the garden, and commissioning somebody to steal the wannabe Christmas decoration red tie from the wannabe Christmas tree bush happened a lot later.

There was some gift exchange as well, my household now has some wine glasses as result.

I only tell this for jealousy's/bragging's sake, but the party was originally planned to be a swimsuit lake party, but that day the weather was a bit chilly (we celebrated the three days of Christmas with cold showers, because it was overcast with no sunshine and those times there is no hot water in the house), and we convinced the boys to dress up decently so we could wear our red dresses.

The next day we all had lefotver lunch together at somebody else's, and somehow the pizza dough kept growing, so we managed to feed a few people off it even on the evening of the 26.

Then came Saturday, quiet, at home, but Sunday found us all together again, for lunch, for movies, for snacks. And Monday came way to suddenly (see also Melanie C on this topic), and I was rather happy to have another weekend before the New Year's haze so I can get some rest, but then after signing and dating many papers I had to accept that there is two days left of this year.

I have a strange relationship with time in general. After the three days of cold showers the weather became sunny, warm, shiny. This, combined wiht random days off in the middle of the week, and me having spent the last two weeks with the same ten people, always in somebody else's kitchen, resulted in my brain going to the playa, and my body really wanting to follow it. I have difficulties accepting this whole end of the year business when I feel that I should be in the Heikkilas' (dark and cool) living room, wathcing terrible music videos from the '90s. I had a (couple of) G&Ts to help this feeling, but honestly, I'm convinced it's summer.

Increasingly

So the first week of December (and the ones before that) were busy and headless chicken crazy for several reasons, mainly work-related.

The below conversation was delivered (can you deliver a conversation?) on the Friday of that week, after I got a mild sunburn on the right side of my neck. Other events of the day have not made the cut of my selective memory.

It was a reception kinda thing, by the lakeside, fingerfood and dangerously open bar. Somehow exhaustion and dehydration and stress remove my last existing filters and so I talk freely about whatever crosses my mind.

Somebody asked me the very cliché yet very relevant question: „So Kata, how do you like it here?”

To which I replied, after due consideration: „Increasingly”.

This extremely fascinating story could as well end here, for it says almost all that needs to be said on this topic. But it's important to mention, in case somebody doesn't remember, that on my second day here somebody told me that I wasn't going to last half a year. He probably meant no harm and was having a genuine conversation, but it was defining my actions and attitude for a long time. I wanted to prove him wrong more than I wanted to feel right where I am, and I also wanted to prove wrong everybody else I know was doubting me.

It is also important to state, in case somebody didn't get it, that the expression „increasingly” is accurate. And I was really happy that I found it in that moment. It is no secret that it wasn't and it still isn't always easy, and even I didn't expect it to be so. BUT! I ended up liking what I do and where I live and, most importantly, really liking who I am. And yes, I know, I sound like some tacky self-help book, but whatever. I still have no idea how I got here and what exactly I'm doing here, but I've been winging it all my life, and this time around I quite enjoy it.

Which also means, a big thanks to everybody who was on the supportive side. I knew many of you were worried for me, and not only for the obvious safety reasons (which remain, let's be real), but because you probably also thought I wouldn't last half a year. I wasn't exactly sure myself :). But here we are, me under the mosquito net, and you envying me because I can go to a Christmas party wearing a short sleeve shirt.

Shortlisted

Non-exhaustive list of things I miss:

• music
• in the car
• from the radio
• concerts
• Jason
• funky stockings
• short skirts
• men who smell good
• bridges over troubled water rivers

and of things I don't miss:

• driving when snow falls
• parking in Brussels

Random bits

Since I live a bit further and drive more (and drink my morning coffee in front of the window, watching the traffic), I've noticed that there is public transport here as well. And not only the crazy motorbikers, but minivans like the ones I've seen in Kigali. Two major giveaways made me realize that they are more or less regular buses. One is that there is always a guy hanging out of the middle door, shouting the names of the stops. The other one is that they always stop at the same spots. Mainly in the middle of the roundabouts.

I also noticed, while standing in the window wiht my morning coffee, that it isn't only the suuuper slow cars always right in front of me that have the steering wheels on the wrong side (i.e on the right), but basically all of them without the big UN sign. Including the buses stopping in the middle of the roundabouts. Which is funny if you consider that the traffic follows the continental European pattern, driving on the right. Apparently it's because most of them are ordered from Japan.

Another thing worth mentioning is that the weather doesn't really change much here, and therefore it's quite difficult to follow how time passes. I think we skipped a small dry season, so it's been raining almost every day since the end of August, and some days are cooler than others (right now I'm sitting in the living room in shorts and knee high socks, it's half past seven the evening, but the boys run around the house without t-shirts most of the time. I don't think it's weather specific though, they believe that their personal contribution to improving the quality of life should be that they don't deprive the public (me) from the sight of their magnificent torso. Today's socks can be explained by the fact that I got to bed at 6 the morning and am having a rather destroyed Sunday.), but in general we have 22-24 degrees, and that hasn't changed much since June. This makes it a bit difficult to believe that we've entered the advent period, and the fruits the market offers (pineapple, papaya, strawberries, passion fruit) don't help either.

The lakeside party yesterday and its aftermath resulted in me sitting on the living room floor at 4 in the morning, trying to convince the flatmate also known as „the kid” that for sleeping purposes his own bed is much more comfortable than the living room floor. Somehow this lead to the whiskey bottle making its way out of the fridge, and my polka dot shoes making their way out of my room, and soon I was taking salsa lessons. Which is perfectly fine. But when we stopped between two dances and looked out the window, we were stunned to see that at half past four, in the dark, masses of teenagers jog down the street. First I only saw a group of about twenty, but they kept coming, and when I went to bed at six, they were still circling. It's important to note that we live on a boulevard (asphalt and all that jazz), and if I really orced myself, I could see why they were training there, and why that hour, but on a Sunday??

Nyiragongo

The whole thing started when I came back from leave, and I was a little confused, it was 5 degrees at home, and 25 here, because it's always 25 degrees here, and the rainy season didn't end as it was expected, and I was on the road for ever, and then Monday evening the boys told me, in a very matter-of fact tone, between two episodes of Game of Thrones, that we are climbing the volcano the weekend. I think they waited, on purpose, until I wasn't in a mental state to argue with them. I only asked them why they didn't tell me before, so I could pack my walking poles right next to the Túró Rudis.

So I spent the week running after sweaters, gloves, walking poles and sleeping bags to borrow, food for two days, and time and again I was a little worried if this was a good idea at all. For this „we climb the volcano” story goes as follows: you drive about 20 minutes to get to the entrance of the Virunga National Park, there you get a briefing (always say on the trail, these three armed men are the rangers, they will lead the way, up there you will find huts, we will make three stops, etc), you have your slapping sleeping bag, extra set of dry clothes, spare water and food in a separate backpack, because it will be carried by porters (yes, I know, it sounds awfully colonial. I felt quite bad about it, but after about 5 minutes I understood that it will be an achievement to drag myself up there, let alone the extra 15 kilos), and off you go, 8 kms distance and 1500 ms difference in altitude, Those knowing me from high school or hiking times may remember my loving relationship with altitude as a whole, the others should consider that I grew up in Hungary, and have only lived in Belgium, Luxembourg, and the middle (flat) part of France.

But what would life be without challenges? And, more importantly, what would I tell to my grandchildren, if not that I have climbed the largest active volcano in Africa?

Because the Nyiragongo is active, it flooded about a quarter of Goma in 2002, the remaining volcanic stones are used in newly built houses. This part of the national park was closed in 2012 because the rebels were a little too close, and they only re-opened a couple of weeks ago, we were the 9^th team to go up. So the climb was only a side effect to it, the main goal was to see a real crater, with a real lava lake. And so we did! I thought the crater would be smaller and the lava closer, but I was wrong, the crater is huuuuge, and the lava lake is quite far down. And it's rather surreal, it looks like it does in geography books and Nationa Geographic documentaries, dark gray gooey doey liquidy stuff, with bright red lines in it, and suplhury smoke. Later, when it would get dark and the sky got clearer, we could also see that bubbles emerge from the gray lake, and when the burst, they are burning red. A smaller Mordor.

Mordor also because those who didn't have supporting tools, completed the last 30 minutes in the style of Gollum. On four, that is. And also, because the climbing takes so much energy and requires so much concentration, that the only goal you can remember is to get there. And destroy the Ring.

And also, because when the mission is completed, and after the night spent in a tent inside the leaking hut, four people under two sleeping bags, in damp clothes, eating damp sandwiches and vegan chocolate cookies, the fellow fighters show up again, and it's 6 am, and there are no clouds yet, and you can see all the way to Goma, to the lake, and in theory beyond that to Burundi, the sun is shining and the air, lacking oxygen, is so cold that you need gloves, then you feel a bit that Middle Earth has just been saved. And there will be a song to sing to the grandchildren.  

On the road

I've been meaning to give a brief description of my travels.

First of all, my journeys are long. Very long. But this is not their most important feature.

Absurdities start when I leave the office. Or even before, the morning of that day, because I usually work the day and then leave after. This means that in the morning I drag the suitcase/backpack to the car in my very serious and professional outfit, and face conversations where the guard asks me if I'm going home, to Turkey.

Then at around half past four I find somebody to drive me to the border (it would be an 8 minute walk, see map below). There I stand in line for passport control, and start worrying that I will be told that this is not a country/passport. The Hungarian passport's front cover says the following: Európai Unió, Magyarország, Útlevél. I know that everybody is Hungarian or would like to be, but honestly. Imagine the Congolese border officers and try to guess how often they see a similar text. (I'm training them with my average monthly crossing, soon every shift have seen it at least once). The latest one was rather inventive, he tried to read it out loud and figured it must have meant Madagascar.

After this discussion, he opens his big blue book, takes his pen and writes in the next empty line my name, my passport number, the date, and that I am from Madagascar Hungary. I say again: with his pen, to his big blue workbook.

Then I walk over no man's land, depending on the Ebola situation this may include a quick check of my body temperature, and then, after showing my passport, I am kindly invited to the little booth for checking the contents of my luggage. This usually starts as a serious and thorough procedure, until the find my jewelry or make up, then give me an understanding smile and let me go. I haven't tried throwing baby clothes on top of everything, but it may be a good idea.

Upon arrival to Rwanda starts the immigration procedure. It's gotten a bit better since I've requested and received the 90 day visa, but before that I always had to buy the one time entry and that made the whole thing one round longer. So, I get in line on the other side, fill in the arrival form, and wonder what on Earth can take so long, because the line doesn't seem to be moving at all. This is a common habit of lines here, that they don't seem to move. Eventually it becomes my turn though, and I can hand in my passport, the form, and my visa approval, which I printed, because for Rwanda I can apply for a visa online! Then the immigration officer asks me what country this is (oh yeah, I keep worrying that they too will question if we exist), then finds me in the system on the computer, puts a note „VISA OK” on my form, and sends me to the payment line. There I can stand around some more, answer the what country is this question, listen to the very original „Hungary? Hungry?” joke (depending on English skills and sense of humour), pay my 30 USD and go back to the first line. There I can wonder again why the line doesn't move. But once it's my turn, I get my passport back, with the entry stamp in it. That altogether takes about half an hour and by the end sweat is dripping down my back every time. Now that I have a multi entry visa, I don't have to pay every time, but it wasn't easy either. After all the standing in line and paying business, I had to wait for the visa to be printed and glued to my passport. I'm not a complete beginner any more, so I suspected it won't be quick, when the guy told me I would have to wait 3 minutes. This alone is never good news: it goes without saying that you always have to wait for everything, so if they specify it... well. I think it lasted 15 minutes at the end, but maybe they have a slow printer. Which, together with the electronic visa approval system, is worlds away from the big blue book.

And there are paved roads! This is important because the airport is a good 3 – 3 and half hour drive from the border; we usually take a taxi for that, and the first time I was in Rwanda, I was really worried that if the roads are like here in DRC, my head will fall off and everything inside me will be shaken, not stirred. I was happy to see that all roads are asphalt, and although everybody thinks (or says) that they learnt everything from the Belgians during colonial times, the roads are often in better shape than in Belgium. The country however is a lot more hilly billy, and driving style is odd at best, so my stomach is always a bit disturbed by the end of the 3 hours, but in exchange, the landscape is beautiful.

Other important piece of information is that my flight usually leaves Kigali past midnight, but the border closes at six, so even with the three hours ride I have quite some time to kill, because the airport is so tiny that they only let you in 2 hours before your flight departs. The remaining time can be spent in the neighbouring café or in the closest wannabe Italian restaurant.

After I'm finally done with check-in and security and border control, I spend about 12 hours in planes or airports. This is actually not an awfully lot of time, a lot of it is spent by listening to the emergency exit vs life vest monologues in three languages, then I wait for the food, then food arrives, I wathc a movie, we land, another airport, passport control, another gate, take off, food, etc. I'm still pretty messed up when I finally arrive, as by then I have most probably spent about 30 hours awake and 20 on the road. Not to mention that it's always summer where I start, but it isn't always summer where I arrive.  

Where the streets have no name

A very accurate and witty map of the city I live in.

from the website Living in Goma, by Anne-France White.