Update 7:

For some reason, one that as of yet still isn’t clear to me, I was required to show up at Entebbe International 2 hours and 45 minutes prior to the departure of the Congolese pond-hopper. Literally we hopped over the big pond, Lac Albert, which separates Uganda and the Uturi province in the Congo. Apparently my luggage was 10kgs overweight, but the nice gentleman behind the counter, after a serious argument, only made me pay 5 USD. My guilt for arguing over such a small amount of money was soon exponentiated when, while waiting on board the plane I witnessed the pilot telling a passenger that we would be overweight if he boarded the plane. Nice start Daniel.

I did not witness the previously relayed accounts of pilots praying and crossing themselves prior to flight, likely because it was an American pilot. This provided me with more confidence, not him being American but more so that he didn’t feel that he had to pray. The flight over Uganda was largely uneventful, and I can easily say I have flown over much more remote regions in Canada. Leaving Uganda airspace over Lac Albert I quickly got my first really good glimpse of the Congo. I say really good because the plane was scarcely higher than the peaks of the mountains we flew through.

Customs were hot and sweaty, with 10 people crammed into a locker sized room in high humidity and temperature. The process was smooth enough, another 20USD on top of the 300USD visa. The Toyota LandCruiser that symbolises MSF transport looked funny with pink paint in contrast to it’s usual white. I found out soon that due to the heavy concentration of the United Nations here, we apparently do not want to be confused with them. Alors, Pink.

The first two or three days were a tad worrisome. I didn’t understand a single word that anyone said. Everyone spoke at once, or incredibly fast. The Congolese French can be hard to interpret, and still is, but I can pretty much get through it now. I have now been here for two weeks. I turned 27 on my second day in the Congo. There wasn’t any fan fare. I didn’t know how to call home, and didn’t really feel the urge, sorry. I was likely the most alone I have ever been on a birthday, but strangely, I felt not an ounce of loneliness. As such, my birthday came and went like any other day. It was a good day.

I have 13 chauffeurs under my direct supervision. But in essence I have no real responsibility. I am here to learn as much as I can. I am pushing to be involved in emergency and exploratory missions, but not too hard until I feel more comfortable with my French. The hospital is big, in total there are around 350 people who are employed in order to maintain it and it’s services. The sky and clouds are beautiful, it’s the rainy season, and though it only rains once every few days, when it does, it comes down in sheets likely at a rate of 4 or 5 inches per hour, but only for about 15 minutes. Everything is soaked, and then instantaneously the sun comes out and dries it all up in about an hour leaving no trace of the torrentuous tempest that was there moments before.

On a weekend trip to Lac Albert, the first pleasure trip in 8 months for other expats (first for me in 4 days), we got to see a portion of the countryside. We saw only one baboon, a handful of waterfalls, overloaded trucks and motorbikes, cows with massive horns and a few very curious Congolese. That night I was welcomed into Africa traditional style with a fever, diarrhoea and an upset stomach. Two days later I felt much better, but my derrier was so sore from all the toilet paper that I could barely sit down. A week later and it is almost all healed up.

The UN presence is crazy. Every 3 out of 4 vehicles are white with the big black or blue letters of UN on it. There are many posts with heavily armed sentries, patrol units, armoured all terrain vehicles. So far I have seen Aussies, Pakistanis, Moroccans, Uruguayans, and probably others all kitted in their camo fatigues and blue helmets.

There is little socialization between NGO camps and the military, and is quite frowned on upon. Although on big soccer nights members of all the NGO’s put that aside and join together at the MONUC house (UN social house), to watch the games on the big screen. I have no doubt that during the Olympics; I will spend a fair amount of time there. They also have a gym there that I tend to use as frequently as possible.

Since this past Thursday was a jour ferier (bank holiday), on Wednesday night I went out with a couple of the doctors. I had no intention of going, but soon found myself as the only white guy in a bar called Manhattan. I could not have stood out anymore than I did. An MSF shirt with the sleeves cut off, red board shorts, and a whitey (muzungu in Swahili) in the midst of many watu weusi (black dudes and chicas).

Planning to be there for only one beer I chilled on the milk crate (supposed to be a chair, and with my bum in such a state, I found it rather uncomfortable). Every time that I moved to get up they would order another round. 5 or 6 rounds later, at 750mL a pop, I had made a trip to the bathroom, turned the MSF shirt inside out, ripped off the tag, and found myself on the dance floor dancing to the Congolese beat. Luckily for me I can dance well enough that I didn’t look like the typical giant white dude in a floor packed with not so whites.

That was my first week or more.