Don't Eat the Meat!

Thick, heavy raindrops began slowly hitting the windshield. The sky seemed to be testing the ground before it decided to take its final plunge. I was thankful to be in the protection of the vehicle in case the sky decided the ground was ready for its fury.

“We don’t say this much anymore, but our grandparents used to say when the rain fell in big drops like this, it meant the famine would come,” Herbert, my friendly Ugandan taxi driver pointed out to me. I had just landed at the airport, and was making the 25 mile journey to the capital city, Kampala.

One of my tasks for Samaritan’s Purse is making sure supplies are purchased and sent to the project sites. Unfortunately, we can’t get everything we need where we live, so once about every month or two, I make the one hour flight from where I live to Kampala.

“Big raindrops like this don’t happen very often, so maybe there’s some truth to what our grandparents said,” Herbert continues to tell me. “And this year, it can be pouring hard right here, but up ahead 1 kilometer, it can be sunny!” Herbert adds with a chuckle. It doesn’t seem to matter what we talk about, Herbert has a smile on his face, whether it’s discussing increasing gas prices, government protests, or the weather.

The area of Congo where I live is separated from Uganda by the large Lake Albert, which, the Congolese proudly boast has more fish in it than any other lake in the world. While I try to be open-minded when I’m in new places, I can’t help but be a little skeptical about this—the Burundians said the same thing about Lake Tanganyika when I lived there. As long as I get to enjoy the fruits of this lake, though, it doesn’t really matter to me if Guinness has verified those claims or not.

A lull comfortably interrupts Herbert and my conversation, and my mind starts to think about the differences between the two countries. In the DRC, we receive some of the big raindrops Herbert is telling me about, but there doesn’t seem to be much more in common between the two countries. Immediately crossing into Uganda, from the airplane you notice the roads are covered with pavement, even in smaller towns and villages—giving the impression of healthy veins connecting the countries mountains and valleys to its heart, Kampala. Despite me living in a town of 300,000 people in Congo, the only pavement anywhere around is the tarmac at the airport, although the age spots potted all over it give it more of a nostalgic feel than the impression of being very useful.

In Uganda, the power supply is constant. Whenever our power comes on in Congo, we phone each other to let them know, “Charge your phones!”, or as my friend Zoum says excitedly, “We get to iron!” It doesn’t matter if we have power or not, ironing will never be exciting to me. It’s strange, you get in the mentality of always having to charge things when power comes that it’s hard for me to shake this when I’m in Uganda. As soon as I arrive at the hotel, I think to myself, “Ooooh, there’s power! I better charge my phone, iPod, Kindle, etc. before it goes out!” Then I think to myself, “You’re an idiot. You’re not in Congo anymore and can charge these things whenever you want!”

In addition to good electricity, the water supply is constant and clean. It’s nice being able to turn on the faucet and be able to drink what is coming out. In Congo, we have to boil or filter all of our water (sometimes both), as it can sometimes come out a color better reserved for going into the water supply than coming out. And that’s if it’s working. Ironically, when it rains, our water usually goes out.

Now I’ve never been to Kinshasa (DRC’s capital), which could very well have the luxuries of Kampala. DR Congo is the 12th largest country in the world. Where I live is on one side, and Kinshasa is on the other. Places like Nairobi, Kenya and Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, are actually closer and cheaper to get to than our own capital in Congo. But where I live in DR Congo isn’t such a bad place. In fact, I prefer it.

Because of the long civil war, and the sheer size of a country with a barely-functioning government, our area of Congo seems like a step back in time. The stunted development of the country has created a more relaxed and slower pace. And while I’m not a big fan of all the dust kicked up on the dirt roads, it’s better than all the smog and traffic jams in Kampala created by the availability of pavement. The culture is more laid-back and seem to enjoy hanging out more. And I can get Nutella and Quaker Oats anytime I need them in Congo—what more do you need in life really?

“You see, those cars headed our direction are completely wet, and it’s sunny here,” Herbert says, interrupting my train of thought. It seems we’ve left the cover of the big raindrop clouds and are now in the sun, which seems to enjoy its childish game of hide-and-seek.

I’ve known Herbert now for over 2 years. When I arrived in Uganda back in early 2009 with my good friend Tred to work with Samaritan’s Purse, he was the one who met us at the airport. He’s a rather short fellow with a flat top haircut, but what he lacks in height he makes up in girth. What’s so charming about his size is that he is perfectly round, as if he was simply born that way. Here in Uganda, as well as in most places in sub-Saharan Africa, being large is a good thing. It’s a sign of wealth—if you are large, you have a lot of money to buy food. It’s considered a compliment to say, “Wow, you’ve gotten fatter! You look great. What’s your secret?” To which an appropriate response would be, “Oh stop it, you’re just being nice,” accompanied with a sheepish smile and a slight blush.

Even though my job has now changed, it’s nice having Herbert always pick me up—something constant every time I come back to Uganda. And Herbert always has a story to tell with the notorious sing-songy Ugandan accent. Now that we’ve exhausted the subject of rain, he begins telling me how popular marriage counseling has become in Uganda.

“You know these new marriage counselors—they’re making a lot of money. They get these couples in a room together to talk out their problems. Anybody can do it really,” he begins explaining. “And couples figure it’s cheaper and easier than a divorce, so people are really buying into it.”

“Have you ever tried it?” I ask.

He gives me a strange look and then, with his trademark smile, begins to talk about the rain again, and then food in Congo.

It’s really interesting to me to see the rivalry between eastern DRC and Uganda. When I leave Congo to come to Uganda, my Congolese coworkers and friends tell me, “Be careful of the meat in Uganda, it’s probably monkey.”

After arriving in Uganda, the immigration woman stamping my passport says, “Coming from Congo huh? They didn’t make you eat monkey did they?”

And then when I get back to Congo, I know my friends at the airport will say, as they always do, “Hey, you’ve gotten fatter. Have you been eating monkey meat?”

While both Uganda and Congo have their highlights, they aren’t too terribly different after all. In fact, as I’m typing this, I just realized that the power in my hotel room here in Kampala just went out. I guess nowhere is perfect.