Going for Bread Shortly After Dark (by Jennings)

There's a shop on the corner, about a 5-minute walk from our house, that sells fresh bread. We often go by at the end of the day to get a baguette or a small loaf to have with dinner and for breakfast the next day.

Generally, we try not to walk outside the compound after dark. But the bread shop is close by, on a busy street, and I'm starting to feel enough a part of the neighborhood that I don't worry too much. It's become something of a small social outing, greeting people along the way: strangers hurrying home before dark, and people doing various jobs.

A typical night's walk:

At the gate to our compound, I meet our neighbor, Daniel*, who lives in the other side of our house with his son, two dogs and four puppies. We talk about the puppies (which ones are thriving, which are not, which ones he'll give to friends, which one he'll keep); the current measles and polio vaccine program that his employer is holding in conjunction with other NGOs throughout Congo; the helicopters flying overhead, part of a military offensive against a local militia leader (not in Bunia, outside of town).

By now it is quite dark. Daniel wonders if it's a good idea for me to go out, and I say I know everyone between the house and the store, so I'll be fine. He laughs, "You're at home."

First on the path is the kiosk owned by Joe, a sweet-faced young man who always has a friendly greeting for us. We've gotten into the habit of "keeping each other's debts" - he'll let me take some oranges without paying, then when I pay he'll give me back all but 200 francs which he gives me the next time I stop by, etc. This is part of building relationships here: you help me, I help you. Trust is built.

Next, the stylish young ladies from Kinshasa who run a beauty-supply store / bar. They are always friendly, and they wonder why I feel the need to wear a skirt all the time (Congo modesty). I'm a little envious... their capris look comfy.

Then I pass the gates to a UN compound and to the local electric company. I try to always greet the night guards... they can be highly valuable friends in a time of need. ("Bon soir." "Bon soir, mama.")

Then more small kiosks, including Mama Josephine, who owns The People's Fishmongers'. She is in a choir with a good friend of mine, and we usually talk about whether or not this friend is traveling or in town.

Then the money changers, 5 or 6 of them sitting around two tables with beach umbrellas, eating fruit and drinking beer, with stacks of francs on the table and dollars hidden underneath. They're a bit of an intimidating group, but friendly. I imagine their job is not the safest, so I try to be kind. I stop to change a large US note into small notes and some Congolese francs, and we chat a bit. 

One points at my left hand: "Say, mama, why do you have two rings?" 
"One is for engagement, one is for marriage." 
"Ah."

Then a row of motorcycle taxis. I only know one of them, Jimmy (I picked him out early on because he wore a helmet, which somehow made me think he would be a safer driver, and he is), but I try to greet them all in a general way so that no one feels snubbed. Some return greetings in French, some in Lingala, some in Swahili.

Finally, I get to the bread store. One of the ladies there knows me pretty well. She'll get out a baguette for me when I walk in, and we make a little small talk. ("Mama, you really sweat a lot, don't you?") But tonight it's a different girl, and when I ask, in French, "Baguette?" She shakes her head and says "Swahili." So I make my best guess at the Swahili equivalent: "Uh... bageti?" None tonight, so I get a sliced loaf instead.

As I leave, the money changers stop me. They need more information about the two rings. Here goes: "In our culture, the man doesn't give a gift to the family of the woman he wants to marry. Instead, he gives a beautiful ring directly to the woman. Then when they marry, they give each other another another ring." 
"Ah, okay."


In front of Joe's kiosk, there are now several motorcycles and a group of men. One of them says, "Bon soir, muzungu." I still bristle a bit when people call me that, rather than "mama" or "madame", which seem more culturally appropriate. So I pretend I don't hear him. I think later what I could have said: "Bon soir, papa" (to show him that I know how to speak respectfully), or "Bon soir, Congolais" to be funny (probably unwise).

Still so much to learn. But it is deeply satisfying to feel that, at least in some ways, I know this little corner of Congo, and it knows me.

*all names are pseudonyms