This Side of the Congo

A few weeks ago, Katie, Miriam, Fiona, Johnnie, and I took a weekend trip to Gisenyi. It is a three hour trip from Shyira and the route goes something like this. To begin, we loaded up backpacks early Friday morning, and walked down the trail from Shyira to Vunga. There had been lots of rain recently and rocks had become steep slides and there was mud where there had previously been sand. (Because of the frequent afternoon showers here, the path changes appearance from one walk to the next. Unfortunately, the roads we drive on are even more affected by weather and travel.) My booksack and gravity teamed up on me, and I slipped several times on the walk down.

Once we arrived in Vunga, we saw the bus to Ruhengheri was about to leave. We ran up to it, and realized that it was full. Let me further explain what I mean by full. Yes, the seats were completely taken. In addition, there were already approximately 25 people standing in the aisle. They told us we could come up, too. We thought there was no possible way we could squeeze in for this hour ride, but we decided to try. We all climbed through the door located right in the middle of the bus on the passenger side. Katie and I stood right in front of the door, which never closes. Although, at first the open door concerned me a little, as we rode on, it was a fresh air luxury. A few things happened on the bus, worth noting. 1. Every time we saw someone at a stop, we picked them up. I would estimate about 20 more people joined us. One man was hanging out the door for the trip. The term “personal space” has absolutely no credibility in this situation. 2. A creepy guy stood behind Katie and me, and would occasionally lean his head in between our shoulders, and whisper “Ooh La La.” Until, finally, he touched my shoulder and I said “Don’t do that again.” 3. To top off this, Katie and I hear Miriam, who had been pushed about five people behind us, say, “I will punch you in the face. I’m serious- I will beat you up.” Apparently, some guys had asked if a poor girl like her needed protection in a country like this, that they would be her intimate protection. (I don’t know if I’ve mentioned before the two sides of Miri- Side a. “Mama Miri”- if anything happens to you or you need comfort, this is who you want. Side b. “Headmistress Miri”- if someone is forward with you in a bus packed like sardines, you know she will accomplish every warning she makes about punching someone in the face.) Katie and I looked at each other and started laughing. The funny thing is she did not remember saying it. Katie and I asked her about it, and she didn’t remember. Miri knows how to take care of business, but she doesn’t take it home with her.

We switched buses in Ruhengheri and travelled two hours to Gisenyi. This bus was more like an enlarged mini-van and it was actually a comparably nice ride. I sat by a guy who spoke very good English and he informed me of the history of the towns we passed through. He pointed out the schools, different vegetables growing, a tea company, and the army camps. We arrived around one and checked into the Presbyterian Guest House in Gisenyi, which was really nice and only 3,000 francs a night! Our room was right by an outdoor cafeteria that served great food. That afternoon, we went down to a nice hotel right on Lake Kivu that looks across to the volcanoes in the Congo. It was beautiful, and we went swimming (despite a few warnings against methane in the water and possible parasites.) It was wonderful! The mountains were gorgeous, and the water felt so refreshing. I haven’t been completely submerged in water for too long. It needed to happen. Also, I convinced Katie to waterski. She’s a pro. Afterwards, we went to a restaurant, which we hadn’t done in months. Although, everything was amazing, it felt uncomfortable. The waiter at the hotel told us George Clooney liked to come there, but I was staring at the jungles of the Congo just across this lake.

That night, we came back home, exhausted and went to sleep….sort of. I had trouble falling asleep because of all the talking in the canteen outside our door. Finally, it began to die down, and there were a few scattered voices, and I drifted off until “The Thong Song” began blaring. I lost it, completely. Katie’s bed was right beside mine, and I said, “Katie, are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“Do you hear ‘The Thong Song?’”

“Yes.”

“I can’t take this anymore.” And I climbed out of my bed, threw on something decent, and walked out the door around midnight, to set straight whoever had woken me from my sleep in the Presbyterian Guest House, in the middle of Africa with “The Thong Song!” However, when I shut my bedroom door behind me, I found three men staring up at me, watching the Sisco music video on a phone, and realized, “It’s midnight, in the middle of Africa, and I’m about to lecture three grown men?” So, instead I said, “Excuse me, sir. I’m trying to sleep. Could you please turn your music down?” Embarrassed, they politely apologized, and I quickly excused myself. It is may be the most ridiculous part of my whole trip here.
The next day, it was really rainy. There was a river of mud running down the right side of the main road, and people had to use little bridges to cross into stores. We went to the market, and explored Gisenyi. That afternoon we went out to this little hotel on the water, and we had dinner, and came back to the restaurant at our hotel, ordered coffee, and played a German board game Johnnie and Fiona brought. It was so fun.

However, that night, I couldn’t go to sleep. It was one of the most miserable nights I’ve had in my life. I prayed, I kicked my sheets off, and pulled them back on, I listened to hymns on my ipod. I couldn’t get the DRC out of my head. It was too close. The weight of it found me in my bed. I couldn’t piece together this place. My mind found no consolation in logic or reason. I felt like a person that stares at the sun until they are blind. It was such an exhaustion of heart and mind that it rejected sleep. I stayed in bed wrestling with thoughts of, “Why not me over there?” “Can things like this really happen, if I can’t fathom them?” “Where is the justice and protection in this world?” “When will suffering stop?”

Finally, my mind came to one relief. Sometimes, the only consolation in this world, is Christ himself. Sometimes, that is absolutely it. I cannot imagine what is going on over there, or the evil that is pouring through the veins of some people over there, and the pain pouring through others. The problem is I cannot understand their suffering. My heart has been introduced to heartbreaking things, but this physical suffering- what do I know of it? It is in this crippling concern that the promise of Christ is so illuminated and worthy. That in this world we will have troubles, but he has overcome the world. My heart breaking for the women being repeatedly raped in the Congo, for the awful murders and abuses, for the appalling violence unimaginable to me- it doesn’t stop it. What’s more my conception of what kind of healing must occur under the skin and in the minds of these people is minute. However, my comfort for them and for my own mind in this situation is this: Christ knows. He knows their pain, and he has known the pain of vicious death and abandonment and forsakenness. He is a full of sympathy, and absolutely does not leave us where we are. I don’t understand so many things about suffering on this earth, but I know God hates evil. I know every time someone is hurt, the pain shoots through him in a way I can’t conceive.

That night, the thought of heaven felt like the weight of the good Lord’s hand on my long-winded heart, and it stilled me, and I slept. My rest was found in his love for others. I think these people understand something of the glory of heaven that we usually have only after we get there. A longing that is in our own souls, but too usually too overshadowed by sexy pastimes, finds its relief in Christ’s heaven. Things will be made whole. Every wound will be sought out and healed. I want to bear the burden of others in such a way that makes me further seek out and trust a sufficient burden bearer for all the needs I cannot meet in and of myself.