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)