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.