I just ordered a drink. It is 1 pm. And my shoes are losing their luster.

Outside the wrought iron gate I see the dusty streets rise up in protest of passing faces.  Not with vigor, rather a tired and insulting humidity that settles heavy upon their hope, calm and matter-of-fact.  Merchants and children load wooden bicycles well beyond their capacity and push through this sweaty cloud. They are long-faced, determined, silent.  And the wind crawls at their backs, gentle enough to remind of the day’s toil without providing any true refreshment. 

The streets here were once inspired, but now luxury and even modest livelihood are rare to be found.  Buckled-down beneath 50,000 men in tattered fatigues and badges of manufactured authority, the city of Goma is full of stolen opportunity.  The soldiers are everywhere.  More than a million residents and refugees struggle daily to gain a foothold on the ladder to economic stability, but insecurity in the region disables almost every outlet for progress.

Farmers flee from rural communities to protect their families.  They move into crowded refugee camps and soon find themselves destitute. Stuck.  Those who remain to brave the war-zone are subject to the whim of warring factions who heavily tax the fruits of their labor. 

Where is my drink?  I’ve been waiting for half an hour. The bottles and glasses are all in plain view, but I am stuck here alone in my words.  The man who took my money has disappeared into the crowded streets. 

Until you turn your back on it, time here has a tendency to stand frustratingly still.  I am annoyed, furrow my brow and try to understand it, but this is a journey that is not best taken alone.  The disparity of cultures can be overwhelming.  I am relieved to hear a Texas twang just outside the gate. Catching a glimpse of a plain t-shirt in animated negotiation with a moto driver, I know that Jonathan has arrived. He enters.

Nods affirm a mutual annoyance with the day as Jon takes his seat beside me.  Behind him is the waiter, who has finally arrived with my drink.  His name is Peter. And he is slow.  Beside me Jon is ordering a pizza. I am conscious of the fact that this is a bad idea, but too tired to mention it.  Time constraints are an inevitable burden on the tired at heart.  Jon again points to the menu, an avocado with salmon filling for me. 

Outside, the merchants and children continue to push the heavy-laden bikes uphill. I wonder if they are porters. Or is this simply the fairest face of their work?  All too often children crawl through the smallest cracks into the earth, armed with a chisel and hammer, praying for mine supports to not collapse.  They dodge bullets in the fields.  And encounter innumerable atrocities committed against their families.

Throughout the town and countryside, the scene is painted with the powder-blue hats of the largest peacekeeping force in the world, MONUC.  Since 2000, the United Nations has grown its presence in DR Congo to more than 17,000 homesick soldiers.  Most come from cash-strapped countries themselves, primarily India and Pakistan. They are sent away from their families into one of the most naturally rich and conflict-filled regions on earth. 

I do not envy their lot in life.  They sit and wait and watch until fired upon.  The weak MONUC mandate often leaves them as sitting ducks. In a few short days I already encountered several stories of civilians who watched their friends and families killed as UN soldiers sat idly by - Unable to make a move. Unable to help. Ineffective.  A watchful eye as the people suffer.

About an hour ago I found myself standing among them…

One of our first stops in Goma was a visit to the MONUC Press Office.  It was there that we first met a man named William.  He asked if we would like special passes to the Press Conference.  We said “sure. That sounds great. What is the press conference? No, we are not joking. Seriously, tell us what it is?” William is loud. He has no filter.

It turns out that the Secretary General of the United Nations is coming to town. Ban ki-Moon.

This morning, few press were allowed and the etiquette was unfamiliar.  I was there, hot and standing, waiting outside an airport gate until the final passes were issued under an unusually cloudy sky and in the midst of several UN peacekeepers with automatic weapons.  My pores were nervous and clogged. Uncomfortable. 

Just outside the gate a UN commander approached me in search of a listening ear. He has been in Goma for a year and has three months remaining in his deployment.  This is his marathon.  With two young children at home, he asked if I am married as well. 

No. I am not. Typically, I am the chief architect of my own heartbreak.  I don’t need a war or economic circumstance to dictate this for me.  And, looking around, suddenly this does not seem so bad.  I wonder how readily these troops would swap places and stand in my shoes?

There have been reports of UN soldiers who secretly trade weapons for minerals here, equipping the lethal and the desperate.  Am I staring them square in the eye?  All I see are men, longing for home, missing their families in the midst of lengthy deployments. 

Is it really their fault? Maybe. But maybe these crimes are also grounded in the systems we use to deal with our worlds greatest problems. We must set them up for success better. We must discover a new paradigm for diplomacy. For reconciliation. For peacemaking.

Shaking hands and trying to examine the thoughts behind their guarded eyes, I found no answers before bidding the troops adieu and hiking to the highway.  Now I sit with Jon.  His pizza looks amazing. My avocado, not so much; rather, it comes as a bed of lettuce, thick with mayonnaise and slivers of salmon mixed sparingly within. Dammit. This is disgusting.

Dan calls. The SG has arrived in Goma.  Maybe he holds the answers to my most pressing queries. I leave my meal behind.  Here begins the BKM Experience.

My shoes stand firm. They are shiny and black. They are executive..I am Executive. There was a bailout and, though things got bad, my convictions were unwavering. I stood firm in my character and earned your trust. That is why I bought these shoes. It was a collaboration, really. You and I, the American people, we made this happen together. And now, here in this place, I smile smugly from the corner of my mouth to think about it. You trusted me with billions of dollars and I would not let you down. No, I would not.

And these shoes, they embody my moral fortitude: Diligence. Mercy. Tact. And Honour, the kind that requires an additional vowel because, otherwise, it would remain utterly impossible to articulate.

At the moment my patience is wearing thin, but my feet remain steady, planted in a firm foundation. These are my Congo shoes. They grip the hillside with incredible traction.

A truck is passing through the border checkpoint below. And beyond that, Lake Kivu stretches out into infinity. This imaginary line between countries has been the bane of our existence for two days now. I stand and scoff at it from my lofty perch. Frustrated. It is difficult to offend something that does not exist.

The truck parks, leaving a light tread in its wake. In the dust. Opening the passenger door is an American, who lowers himself from the front seat to the road. His hair is a regal white. It rests with ease on the shoulders of a khaki shirt. His walk is less than comfortable, not agitated though, but calculated, full of purpose. From 70 yards it is clear that his shoes were once shiny too; still sturdy, but bearing the mark of experience and weathered ideals. Jonathan approaches him. I am out of earshot, so I mind my own business.

I wonder how long he lived in Goma before they began to fade. The shoes. The idealism. And on what day did his demeanor became oversaturated with a sense of annoyed obligation. His walk. After three months? 30 years?

Dear Congo Shoes, please don’t fade with time.

Admittedly, multi-tasking is not my strongsuit, and amidst all of this thinking and watching my arms have forgotten to sweat. I feel them now. Cool, dry, dehydrated. I hope we move soon. Each member of our team has abandoned his luggage, and I am the centerpiece. Watching and waiting. Patagonia bags everywhere. On guard.

Twenty children are schmoozing suspiciously. They stand only a few feet away and their gestures suggest that our luggage is the hot topic of conversation. I do not understand their French, so I just glare incredulously back at them, an act of intimidation. They are oblivious. The over-sized sunglasses that cover my face steal away the sting of facial expression. Hidden behind them, my eyes take inventory and then shoot back to the Congo shoes. I am relieved by their retentive shine. Yesterday they were buried among one hundred other pairs on a street vendor’s rack in Gisenyi market. At $7, they were cock of the walk.

Through the schoolchildren march two men. There is Kenneth, a local prodigy of sorts. He graduated secondary school ranked second, academically, in his country. For this achievement he was awarded a scholarship to Makere University in Uganda as a student of economics. And upon his return quickly built an initiative to reconcile cultural divisions in Rwanda through use of a common language. He offers free programs to children, teaching them English. Jon loves the idea and is working with him to fulfill modest budget requests until NGO money is available. A personal project. Kenneth pushes through the crowd of children with a walk that exudes firm commitment, kindness, and grace. He is first to greet me.

The second man is carried by a peculiar demeanor, somehow timid, as if he does not wish to ruffle any feathers. He passes politely through the small crowd of youth and introduces himself as Fantasy, extending a youthful hand. After days on the border, I am thankful for any help in negotiating our entry into Congo. We shake.

Fantasy has already been briefed on our dilemma: How each morning we forward our letter of invitation to a Yahoo account for the Congolese immigration office. It is never received. Once at the border we presented a print copy, but were told that only an electronic document is valid. The authority hypothesizes that print copies are more easily forged. We bare the lecture and try again. So we try again. And again. No luck, the documents are never received.

After a brief conversation, Fantasy gathers our information, turns about face, as if in a hurry, but then sloths back across the border. We watch him go with staring and small talk. The government, the market, the weather.

I wonder what is really on Kenneth’s mind. I ask. He informs me that I am dressed to kill. But I already know this. My shirt looks amazing and white. Fresh. Pristine. Pressed. This is my Congo shirt. We are not busy, so I think about these things often. Red and Dan join us.

Together we stand in a circle and pray for rain. But only for rain that falls in another place. On someone else. Someone who isn’t so keenly dressed. Someone who will collect the rain, filter it of microbials, and adjust pH before placing it in a designer bottle that we will buy. Yes, we are the ones who drink bottled rain. We are high society. We are also dehydrated. And the sun is caking us with burn.

I turn. Fantasy stands beside me again. He humors our curiosity. Word from the immigration office is that they still have not received our emailed letter of invitation. Time is money, and we are stealing from them. They are too busy to look; however, they do suggest that an additional $50 might help them discover more time to look for the document. Somehow this translates as fair.

We groan, but realize we must comply, unless we want to spend the next week in Rwanda. Time is of the essence. We divvy up. Fantasy turns and sloths slowly again into Congo. His arms swim when he walks.

I think more about my shirt. My sweet sweet shirt. That I would never wear in America. It would not be conducive to domestic commerce or self-esteem. It is not the proper uniform.

Fantasy, our fixer, returns. Time is money.

This is the crossing, and it is costly. Rwandan immigration stamps an exit on my passport for the third time and I roll my suitcase, dignified, through no man’s land and into Congo.

The portly chief, the one with women’s heels from a previous blog, is at the Congolese guard shack again. He nods. We sign and pass. I am surprised when they smile to greet us. We are pissed.

Two women customs agents try to bribe us for our bags. We ignore them until they compliment our teeth. They are very nice looking, our teeth, mine and Sean’s. We smalltalk and flirt and I scheme evil retorts beneath my breath. Their uniforms look like lampshades. They are unqualified and corrupt.

And these are my first minutes in Congo. We load into a taxi to drive to our accommodations. I sit in the wonder of my window seat, taking it all in. The lampshade ladies behind us, still fishing for bribes. UN Peacekeepers across the lane, poised in the powder blue of a mandate for inaction.  A journalist walks by, his shirt unbuttoned one too many. He lights a cigarette and steps beneath the thatched roof of a local establishment for mid-morning whiskey and writing. And rags cling to street children who skirt along its lava rock outer wall. Everyone is in uniform. They all play their part.

I look down at my own cover, pondering how difficult accomplishments might prove to be for a green idealist. How strenuous will it be to operate within these channels. And will I wear the same optimism when we leave?

I am already frustrated by the underfunded structures govern this land, but decide quietly that it is fruitless to demonize the corruption. The men I despise are only trying to feed their families.  Soon I will learn that the provential governments have not recieved funds in 8 months. Their power is the only tool many have to survive. We will mitigate against it. Lessons learned.

Welcome to Congo.

~~~~

There’s nothing you could do that can’t be done,
Nothing if we sing that can’t be sung
Nothing you could do except to learn how to be you in time.
It’s easy…all you need is love.
-John Lennon

Photography by Dan Johnson (http://www.danielnjohnson.com)