Aquaculture in Africa Journal Letters from a Zaire Peace Corps Volunteer

Doug and Carrie Melvin of Boise, Idaho have both committed their time and considerable efforts working on African fish farming and harvesting efforts. Doug Melvin was in Zaire for Special Forces and Carrie (that’s me!) worked as a Peace Corps volunteer in Africa.

This is the fourth in a series of letters I wrote describing working and traveling in Africa. This letter had so much detail, I’m splitting it into two blogs. In this first blog, I talk about our visit to Kadutu, learning more about cultural differences in Africa and more about the many wonderful people I met on my trip.

Letter #4
10 January 1989

I am writing from the luxury of my “room with a view”. Taking a sick day off from French class. French is still going very well. It now consists of hours and hours of conversation about every topic under the sun. (Literally, since the classes all take place in little open grass gazebos outside). I am learning a lot about Zairean history and politics (not to be discussed outside the Center!) as well as philosophy and, believe it or not, California history! One of my Zairean teachers has studied in depth the formation and progression of the Carmelite nuns and their spread through northern California. Amazing the distances we travel to learn out heritage.

The nice thing about Bukavu is that while it is a very comfortable and easy lifestyle, it is also very exciting and “African” in those things that happen and things I come across day to day are so different.

One day a group of trainees went on a field trip to Kadutu, a village about a 30 minute walk from Bukavu, but a world away from Bukavu’s wealth. There is a dense population of people living in tiny houses blanketing the mucky, muddy hillsides. We picked our way through the ‘streets’ and alleys being greeted by happy mamas, skipping over sewage ditches, and stopping every ten feet to shake hands with hundreds of smiling, laughing kids shouting “Muzungu! Muzungu!” to let others know that white people were in town. In their best English, even the tiny ones greeted us with “How are you” and “good morning” (though the afternoon sun was already slipping).

We reached our destination, the cluttered, colorful, noisy, sprawling outdoor market which PC trainees are urged to visit weekly to “get into the culture”. This first time we were accompanied by the trainers, to show us around and help us feel safe from the touted dangers of pickpockets. We spent hours wandering through the mamas selling produce and kids selling cigarettes and vendors selling everything from plastic shoes to donuts to Salvation Army clothing to K-mart quality jewelry. The smells and the sights and the noises were all so different and exciting I felt like I was walking around in a surrealist painting. There were women selling pagnes – the beautiful cloth they use for skirts and other things – and rows of tailors with foot-pedal sewing machines ready to make anything requested on the spot.

Then there was the rather grisly “meat department” which truly must make even the most devout vegetarian respect Safeway packaging and that blue seal of inspection. ANY part of a cow, chicken, goat, or sheep was available and on full display for sale to anyone who dared whisk the flies away and take their parcel home. Goat heads with nerve cords sticking out, unidentifiable organs, intact intestinal tracts, you name it. Perhaps the most fun part of the trip was the enjoyment the butchers and shoppers alike got out of seeing our slightly green faces as we tried to maintain composure. With flashing white teeth they would point to their wares, going into gales of laughter at our weak “tolerance and cultural sensitivity” smiles. Too funny!!

We ate in a great little picnic-tabled, religious-paintings-on-the-wall restaurant called, in English, “Restaurant Soup.” We ate delicious beans and rice and peas and bread, all with tons of the local hot pepper called pili-pili. Yum! We didn’t even let the pouring rain spoil our fun, though I was wearing flimsy flip-flops and slid and slipped around getting mucky market mud covering my feet and had to stop to put my shoes back together every few feet! We returned to the Center exhausted and filthy – but happy. I have since returned on a much mellower mode – a few of us went over on New Year’s eve day and watched people getting ready for their celebrations. Lots of goats, chickens and the ubiquitous Primus beer changing hands.

On this trip we were accompanied by an 11 year old boy who began following us in Bukavu when he started asking me for American dollars. As is typically the case with the very common occurrence of us being asked for things, this boy didn’t seem distressed or bothered when I said no, explaining that we didn’t have any dollars or Zaires with us. He sort of said “Oh” contentedly, and kept following us, where he proceeded to be a great help in the market haggling for us and showing us around. We bought him lunch at “Restaurant Soup” which was quite an ordeal. We just ordered some plates of food and had them in the middle of the table, and though he had just said he was hungry, he wouldn’t eat. Finally, an onlooker explained that he was scared to eat with us because 1) we were white, 2) all women, and 3) kids don’t usually eat with adults around here. Finally, we got him a separate plate, and put food right in front of him. He happily devoured it and downed a Fanta orange before we went back to enjoy the day.

To Be Continued!