Make a wish

Picture this. Throngs of people lining the streets, leaning out of windows, balancing precariously on scaffolding, all dressed in lively, sunny colours, waving flags, dancing, chanting, clapping, and generally making a lot of cheerful noise. Literally thousands of them, a remarkably disciplined mass of humanity, tightly pressed together, not a single one spilling out onto the street despite the absence of metal barriers such as we would have at similar events. Further afield, a parade with people dressed in flamboyant tribal costume, hopping forward with legs wide apart to the beat of a deep drum, pumping their stomachs in and out vigorously in the way of the tribal dance. But the drumbeat is all but drowned by the loud chanting coming from my right – a group of fun-loving youths, swaying down the main avenue, swinging dreadlocks from side to side and brandishing a yellow flag with the mention “Association des Rastas du Congo” on it. (Note: I was since informed that my fun-loving youths were not quite as innocent or peaceful as I had assumed. In my ignorance, I suspend all judgement until further research.)

This was the scene upon my arrival in Bukavu, a provincial capital on the other side of lovely Lake Kivu from Goma. I could be forgiven for thinking that it was carnival time in Bukavu, similar as the atmosphere was to the Notting Hills and Santiagos of this world. The reality, however, was even more exciting; I had unwittingly timed my arrival to coincide exactly with that of President Kabila – his first visit to Bukavu since 1997, I am told. What a welcome he received! All afternoon the town resonated with cheering and applause, and by the evening, when ministers (but not Kabila) poured into my otherwise discreet and quiet hotel, they were literally glowing with excitement.

Meanwhile, I had been having a very peaceful day with my laptop by the lake – all the more enjoyable that it was completely unexpected; clearly, with the president in town, my interlocutors tended to be otherwise engaged. As a result, I was able to witness, from 11am when I arrived to 4pm when he closed shop, a day in the life of a Bukavu fisherman. It went something like this:

11am to 2.30pm









2.30pm to 2.45pm









2.45pm to 4pm










As I sat there in the sun, watching this young man tirelessly fishing from his little wooden pirogue, utterly immobile for hours on end except for the regular recasting of his rugged piece of pink, plastic string, to all intents and purposes completely oblivious to the cheers that could be heard from the other side of the hill, I wondered what he made of all this referendum palaver. And yet, I would be willing to bet that he voted yesterday.

It’s hard to express from afar the strange mix of excitement and apprehension everyone feels here, myself included. There is so much at stake. And as I learn to appreciate this country and its gentle, kind-hearted people more and more every day, I find myself wanting desperately for everything to work out. I feel something akin to the powerless spectator watching a nail-biting thriller unfold, heart racing as he waits to see if his beloved heroine makes it or not. Fingers crossed.