Romanticism (Part IV)

So I know that I’ve complained about the potholes and I wish that I hadn’t been so dramatic before because as we left Uganda, they became even worse. This time my head was actually bumping up against the roof of the truck. I was even holding onto the inside door handle of the car; you know, that handle that serves no purpose other than a temporary waste deposit of Kleenex, chewed gum and fast food straw wrappers? Yes, I was actually clinging to that.

At the same time, though I would never tell Sister (whose name I will omit here) that I don’t believe maneuvering around potholes is her talent. It almost felt as if she was aiming for them. Maybe, it was an act of acceptance? Could she have driven this road too many times and is not only too tired to avoid them, but rather seeks them out just to get it over with? However, had I been driving I would have attempted the impossible: a totally thought-out, successful pothole free journey to the border….oh the DRC border.

Border Control

We approached several people gathered around trees alongside the road. There were a few small and rundown square structures that turned out to be the Border Security and Health offices. Keeping in mind these offices had maybe one window and a curtain for a door. One of the men sitting outside followed me inside, slowly reviewed my passport and then copied my information into what appeared to be a spiral notebook from the early 1970s; it was really old. I assumed it listed everyone coming in and out of the country, which now that I think about it, Congo isn’t on that many people’s lists of places to visit, so it does make sense that the notebook they used decades ago is still in use with room for many future tourists, volunteers, etc…

After being questioned and my information properly recorded, I moved into the next building for a review of my World Health Organization card listing all my vaccinations. I also needed to have a photo of myself to paste on a record sheet for the DRC police, which I didn’t have with me. But no worries, the Congolese officer knows of the Canossians and where we are located in Aru, he surprisingly followed up two days later (working on a Saturday). I owed him $10 which he collected that day as well.

Just to give you a reminder: all of these transactions were completed in French. Looking back, it was nothing compared to the next two weeks. As we finally arrived to our destination in Aru, I shared a late lunch with the Sisters and met Maria, one of the seven volunteers. She is from north Italy (obviously speaks fluent Italian) and is learning French, but she speaks no English. I don’t speak Italian and barely speak French. This is also when I learned that all the other volunteers had left for a two-week vacation. There are only two Canossian Sisters in Aru that speak English. In the coming weeks, I had maybe one-hour of English conversation.

Welcome to the Congo!!!