Out and about

firewood and cassava

At seven in the morning things are buzzing on the outskirts of Bunia: throngs of school children smartly dressed in white and navy, cyclists straining valiantly to push bikes uphill, overburdened with sacks of potatoes, charcoal and containers of petrol strapped high, women balancing long bundles of firewood on their heads, others with wares for market, huge banana stems, cabbages, beans. Hundreds are going about the morning’s activities on foot, many walking dozens of kilometres to make a meagre living, or to find what they need for the arduous business of survival. I’m in the privileged position of riding pillion behind my colleague, K, and we’re both wearing helmets, a curious sight here, which attracts the gaze of onlookers. Or maybe the stares are simply because I’m a mzungu, a white person, a major curiosity, especially on the back of a motorbike. We swing from side to side, dodging ruts and holes, and trying to beat the bus in front of us which is waking the dust in clouds which cover us and set us coughing. In the distance, hazy blue hills, and in the wide valley between, lush grasses and fields of cassava. As so often, my heart hurts at the contrast between the serene morning landscape and the grinding poverty of the people I pass, hardship etched on their faces. When will the lavish natural riches of this country become prosperity for its people?