A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [52]
Fortunately, the Baraka leg of the trip is cheap. Christine has called in favors so we can stay at the UNHCR guesthouse, which is only US$25 per day, including food. I’m happy to have the company.
One thing I’ve figured out thus far: Congo is safe—as long as everything goes according to plan. Still, when I quiz Congolese, they seem to confuse “I’ve never had a problem” with “It’s safe.” Half of the women sponsored by Run for Congo Women live in the small town of Baraka, eight hours south of Bukavu. That war-affected region has been flattened by conflict and is known for mass killings. Most of the locals abandoned it years ago for refugee camps in Tanzania. These days, most foreign militias have fled the region too and it is now a stronghold of the Congolese militia, the Mai Mai.
With the area stabilized in recent months, the UN and other aid organizations like Women for Women have established outposts in Baraka to serve the returning refugees. Though there’s been fighting this week in the mountains west of Baraka, Christine has spoken with the UN. They said we’ll be fine.
As we load up the Range Rover, I ask Hortense the question anyway. “What’s the security situation there?”
“The security is good,” she says. “No problem.”
“What about the Mai Mai?” I ask.
“I’ve had seven trips to Baraka with no problem,” she tells me. “The Mai Mai are very kind. We will see them on the way. The general is a good man, taking care of them properly. They do not bother people.”
The Mai Mai don’t bother people? They must have a stellar spin machine, because that’s not what I’ve heard in the conversations I’ve had with former child soldiers. Initially formed as a community-based defense force to fight foreign rebel groups, the Mai Mai are widely known for mass atrocities against the very people they claim to defend. As one Congolese told me in strict confidence, “The Mai Mai do everything any other militia does. But if you speak against them, they will come to your home at night and kill you and your family.”
At present, the Congolese government is attempting to engage the Mai Mai in what’s known as “brassage,” a process of demobilizing combatants and integrating them into the Congolese Army. But tensions are brewing as some among the militia’s leadership grow agitated at being left behind in Congo’s emerging post-election political scene.
The Mai Mai do have one unifying thread: their use of witchcraft. The translation of “Mai Mai” is literally “Water Water”; the name comes from their belief that if they douse themselves with an herb-infused potion prior to battle, no bullet can penetrate them. By magic, whatever they encounter in battle will pass through them like water. Codes of Mai Mai behavior are based on traditional beliefs and range from wearing lucky sink plugs, to maintaining abstinence or committing rape prior to battle, as a source of power.
The pro-Mai Mai sentiment strikes me as more of a cultural courtesy. I’ve noticed Congolese rarely criticize other Congolese.
Maurice and I slip away to the market to stock up on Marlboros and a case of beer—emergency love offerings. We divide the cigarettes between us and tuck them away in our bag so they’re ready in the event that we have to make quick friends.
Hortense sees the beer and shrugs. “I don’t understand why you think of problems.”
We hit the road about four hours late and cut over the border into Rwanda to borrow a good stretch of road. Meanwhile, Moses blasts Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie.” I can think of very few songs that are less Congo-appropriate. Thank God they don’t understand the English lyrics. When it’s over, he rewinds and plays it again. And again.
A couple of hours later, we cross back to Congo and a different landscape: miles of flat, wide-open plains covered in grass and shrubs, with cloud-capped blue-green mountains in the distance. Tiny children spot us and leap to their feet, delighted. They