Escaping

Last weekend we went on a trip to Zongo Falls with five other people – the country rep. couple, a short-term MCC couple, and Serge, who drove one of the vehicles we used to get there. It was a rather strange experience.

Zongo Falls is a 65-metre spectacle of foam and mist. The guide informs us that it comes from Angola, but volunteers no more information. Like most of the other staff working at the “resort” (for lack of a better term) he looks bored and expressionless. We spend a lot of the day sitting in our assigned gazebo by the river, sleeping, eating or walking. We watch about 30 workers carrying pails of dirt and stones for the ongoing construction of other gazebos. One woman has a small baby with her and repeatedly asks Suzanne for money for the baby’s health care, food, etc.

I can’t restrain myself from thinking of a list of improvements for our cabin. A screen on the window. A garbage can. A bathroom tap mounted ½ inch higher so that water goes into the sink instead of leaking onto the counter. A board to close the gaping hole into the attic. Thinking up lists like this inevitably makes me more uptight. I feel like we are all playing an uncomfortable charade without really wanting to. I don’t want to be the white person demanding luxury, yet I can’t help wondering if people know that making these cabins over from pretend luxury to real luxury would only require an expenditure of a few dollars – just a fraction of the money already spent on white tiles, fresh paint and plaster, brand new bathroom fixtures, matching bedside tables and lamps, paintings on the walls… I know that wanting this place to cater to my cultural tastes is a recipe for frustration.

We stay in small square huts, all in a straight line at the edge of a large, flat clearing. On the other side are gazebos/eating huts next to a roaring river. Construction is proceeding fast, though the river drowns out most of the noise from skill saws and welders. It is hard not to feel perturbed about having spent five hours, three over barely passable roads that took years off the life of our 4WD vehicles, getting here in order to spend 48 hours sitting around in a semi-construction zone being asked for money. Wow, I sound pretty cranky, don’t I? Lest I give the wrong impression, the waterfall really is beautiful. The bottom line for me is that I would rather be learning to relax with Congolese people in ways that they find natural, rather than digging the gap between us so much wider by paying hundreds of dollars for a “getaway” and then feeling guilty about my frustration that it doesn’t meet my cultural expectations.

That said, I really enjoy the occasional getaway. For example, a swim in the pool near our house (which most people can’t afford), a meal in a nice restaurant, or a croissant and coffee at a nearby bakery are all refreshing and enjoyable experiences that don’t cripple me with guilt, though maybe they should. Where would you draw the line?

–Anicka