A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [63]
“I wish you could see what I see when I look at you,” I say. “I see one of the most beautiful souls I’ve ever met.”
Her face lights up with a toothy smile.
THE NEXT MORNING, Kelly and I watch Mai Mai cut trees for firewood. They hack down branches and drag them along the dusty Baraka back road where we are stalled, waiting, passing the time as many do. We complain. Hortense is running late again. We were both packed and ready to go at eight o’clock sharp, as instructed. Hortense has left us in the car for close to an hour while she takes care of one last piece of business before we hit the road on the eight-hour return trip to Bukavu. Kelly leaves tomorrow and she’s stressed about getting ready for an early boat to Goma, where she will catch a flight back to Kinshasa.
Hortense finally emerges. Smiling as always, she announces her triumph. “A participant’s baby is sick. We have secured treatment!”
I sink with embarrassment at the ugly muzungu routine. While we’ve been sitting in the car griping, Hortense was saving a baby’s life.
I stop complaining.
Kelly mutters, “Just hope we make it.” Hortense doesn’t catch it, or at least pretends she doesn’t.
We hit the road, cruising up the long, flat stretch of road running next to Lake Tanganyika, and I’m cramped in the back of the SUV between Hortense and Maurice. As always, they are cheery.
The car slows and stops on a muddy patch. A UN jeep is tipped sideways, entrenched in road mud, blocking traffic. The road is quickly backing up with vehicles from every imaginable NGO operating in Congo: War Child, UNHCR, Caritas, The Red Cross, Save the Children, and more. Hortense laughs. “Forget Run for Congo Women! You need to Run for Congo Roads!”
We are stalled for a long time as crowds of men try to rig the car to a truck while dodging the deep pools that fill the road. Kelly is wound up. If she misses the border, she misses the boat, and if she misses the boat, she misses the plane . . . and no one wants to be stuck in Congo. I get that. Anyone would be tense about missing the boat. I want to make it back quickly too. It’s just that we are tagging along on Hortense’s business trip. She’s not getting paid extra to have us along. She owes us what, exactly? I shrug off Kelly’s complaints.
Finally the road clears. We continue on to Uvira, where Hortense rushes off to take care of more business. Meanwhile, we grab a lunch of french fries and Coke at a dive with plastic tables, laminated tablecloths, and a caged monkey for entertainment. Kelly continues griping about how Hortense is wasting time. I try to comfort her with a worst-case-scenario analysis. “Even if we get back late, even if the border does close and we were stuck in Rwanda for the night, you’ll still make your boat in the morning.”
Kelly protests. “I don’t know what time the seamstress’s shop closes. I need to pick up my dress.”
Is that what the grumbling is about? Welcome to my limit, Miss Kumbaya. I lean across the plastic table and snap, “A dress? We’re late because Hortense was saving a child’s life.”
Kelly’s face turns pulsing, patchy red (and mine might be looking that way too). “I don’t understand how you’re all of a sudden so high and mighty,” she says. “You’ve been complaining too.”
She’s right. But people change. I had my epiphany hours ago.
I’m sure an international border is open twenty-four hours and to prove my point, I turn to Maurice and ask, “Does the border ever close?”
Maurice stares at the tablecloth. He doesn’t seem to appreciate being dragged into the middle of a muzungu girl-fight. He answers, “Six o’clock sharp.”
Whoops. I’m wrong and embarrassed for the unfair lashing. It’s 2:15 PM and we are four hours from the border. If we gun it, there is a slight chance we could make it. We abandon our lunch, find Hortense, and hit the road.
Kelly and I don’t say much for the rest of the ride.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Orchid Safari