The Mzungu in Mutshatsha (Moo-cha-cha)

Mzungu: The Bantu language term used in the African Great Lakes region to refer to people of European descent. Literally translated it meant "someone who roams around aimlessly" or "aimless wanderer."

There’s always that time on these journeys when development ceases to be. It may end for a day, a couple of days, sometimes an entire month or longer. You would be surprised. I don’t find it too difficult to acclimate. Give me two weeks and I won’t remember that I used to shower every day, wash my clothes, have Internet service, have toilet paper, hop in my car to drive down a smooth paved road to find whatever I want within a 10-mile radius. I might fantasize about having some nice cheese and red wine, but I won’t find it strange that I can’t drink what comes out of the tap or that I eat only starch and sugar (because I still can’t bring myself to eat meat). But that first taste, it is always a shock.

That shock for me today came about 20 minutes outside of Kolwezi on our journey to a place called Mutshatsa (pronounced Moo-cha-cha). The paved road abruptly disappeared. For 180 kilometers and 4 hours we were whipped, whacked, bumped, and tumbled up a red dirt road. I would arguably say it was the worst road I have ever traveled on: worse than Niger where it was sand instead of rock, worse than Ethiopia where it was paved but drivers meandered from their side of the road to ours, and way worse than the back route in Swaziland I took with a car full of naïve young women, just like me, when I was 21 years old.

We dodged and tackled 3’ deep ditches in the road filling with water, and we drove almost off into the bush to allow the dated mac trucks, with the many men, kids, and minerals piled high to pass without crushing us. I was grabbing the “oh shit” handle almost the entire way. The one time I did let go, I whacked my head on the top of the window—such a mzungu. When I looked around the car, all Congolaise and one Nigerian, I was the only one who had a hold on that handle.

Let me put this in perspective. These are the roads that must be used by Congolaise to get to the nearest health center and by the health system to deliver essential supplies and commodities. Our community-based distributors use bikes when they need to visit households beyond a walking distance—and our supervisors ride motorbikes. Two of three motorbikes are in disrepair. About three hours into the journey, my body felt in disrepair.

We saw few other cars, especially when we got more than 50 km from Kolwezi. We did see the occasional mac truck, but it was mostly desolate. In the beginning, where the big mines are, you see the men with their bikes stacked high, with 6, 7, 8 large bags of rocks, meandering along these potholed “roads” (if you can call those gaping ditches potholes and if you can call those rocky paths roads). You see women, sometimes with wood or water stacked on their heads, but they too, soon disappear. When it becomes more rural, you occasionally pass through a village where whole families are bathing in the river together, laying their clothes to dry in the tall grass nearby.

The trees along the way stand tall and proud. They are many shapes, but all of them are large like their country and strong like their people, especially their women. Even the areas where mining has likely polluted the water table below, the trees don’t fall. They’ve survived brutal wars, like many natural wonders of the Congo, but I worry for their future.

Le Chinois, the Americans, they are taking our copper, our gold, and now our trees, I have been told by a few Congolaise.

As we got closer to Mutshatsta, the road just kept getting worse. About 20 kilometers out the road was merely 3 deep crevices running parallel to one another. Like I said, I acclimate. By hour 4, I was ready to get out of the car, but I had also gotten used to it.

That rocky-rock-and-roll ride was all worth it. We rode up and throngs of young Congolese were waiting at the entrance to the health zone to usher us in. They sang in Swahili, so I don’t know what they were saying, but there was a lot of cheer. I did hear our project acronym, and I thought, wow, okay so we are making difference, even out here. In front of the zonal health office, a group of them broke into a dance and, believe me, there was such spirit, I had to stop myself from going out there to shake it with them. While I was watching, two young girls handed me bouquets of fake flowers, a magenta bunch and a fluorescent orange bunch. I’ve heard most of them have never seen a mzunga before, so I am sure that is why I was getting all that attention, but, regardless, it was a warm welcome. Instead of balking at the stranger, the different one, they were welcoming me. We can all learn a lesson from that.

We came to Mutshasta to see another community event, where people can learn about contraception and pick up a contraceptive method of their choice for free. I spoke with a young, unmarried woman with two children who now has pills. I spoke with a young man who advocates with other young men to use condoms. Before our project became involved, no one I talked to had known about contraception. I spoke with one 33 year old woman who has 7 children, but can now stop giving birth. I watched another young woman, 31 with 5 children, receive an implant in a small, thatched roof hut, with the door propped open so that the nurse would have light.

I’ve heard many times on my trip: “Why now? Where was your project before?,” and I heard it again today.  

The small children, the large groups of them who represent the large families of the Congolese, followed me around, as any brave child would if they saw something they had never seen before. I snapped photos of them and then they snapped photos of each other and me. As is habitual for me, I loved them all and could have stayed there with them forever. But I was pulled away (as I always am).

We are staying in a guest house owned by the government. The roof is rusting, we just got power after hours without, and the bathroom, well, it is not what I had in Kolwezi. I was glad I had an extra set of clean sheets. The infamous photo of President Kabila watches over the living room, where there is oversized leopard print furniture. There was a single piece of cooked pasta hanging off a hook in my room and a little white lizard traipsed around by the window. By most Americans standards, this place would be pretty abhorrent, but, here, this place is for the rich, like me.

As has been the case throughout the week, the Congolese I travel with skip lunch and have a huge dinner. I am usually shy about announcing my mzungu Western preference for maintaining a vegetarian diet, but when I was offered goat on the first night, I couldn’t lie. Since then, they have gone out of their way to make sure there are fish or beans to eat along with the foufou. Even, here, tonight, I know they added that extra fish dish for me, and I couldn’t eat it. My stomach turned when I saw it. It was black fish skin mixed in with every other part of the fish, I mean EVERY PART, and the smell bothered me. I ate my foufou and tried to hide my dislike, but I was caught in action—the mzungu stomach. Yes, I do admit.

Dr. Jacquie turned to me: “You, humanitarian, you need an international stomach!”

Yeah, I am still working on that one.

I don’t feel hungry now. In fact, I feel very full, knowing that our project is doing good work, and I can be a part of it. I feel so lucky that I’ve had the honor to meet these people, who, despite their customs, and their isolation, are open to change. They just want the power to make their lives better like we all do. I hope they can give themselves that over time and we can continue to help them along the way.