Dancing with the Kimbanguist Church Band
It’s a lazy Sunday in Kananga, the temperature is a very manageable 26º C, I am sitting out on the veranda at the back of the residence, with my parrots. Nearly all the generators are shut down for a Sunday siesta. Tony parrot is very animated, not very pleased that I am ignoring him for some grey book like thing on my lap; he’s got lots to talk about. Cherrie on the other hand is hiding out in the rafters of the parrot house. I feel sorry that urban life in Kananga must be far less attractive than life in the rainforests of Muetsche. I am admiring the papayas, coconuts and a cornucopia of vegetation that I can not name (I think of that wonderful expression in Under Milk Wood: ‘the vegetables are making love.’). I am remembering my roots, listening to the Chieftains in honour of St Patrick’s Day, which was yesterday. Tony Parrot likes good Celtic music.
It’s been a few weeks I since I wrote, and its not for a lack of stories to tell. Things are limbering up here to be busy, I have to contended with a constant flow of visitors to Kananga and have had the pleasure of making a trip to Kinshasa to sample the delights of the private healthcare system – not that I was sick – I needed a Hepatitis booster. I quickly deduced that the safest and most effective way of getting vaccinated was to avoid the Kinshasa health system altogether, to purchase the vaccine in a chemist’s shop and to administer the jab myself…. Don’t try it at home, but honestly intra-muscular jabs are not a very complicated thing.
During this visit to Kinshasa, I managed to stay over the weekend, do some serious ‘Pagne’ shopping, dance rather a lot, learn how to play the tom tom with a bunch of street kids and, best of all to catch up with one of my oldest and closest friends who is working on a short assignment in Kinshasa. A real privilege.
I seem to have spent many days out of the office in the past weeks, thank God, as the old adage goes: you can take the boy out of the desert, but you can’t take the desert out of the boy! Kananga and its hinterland seem to be cursed with some of the worst infrastructure anywhere in the world, and so I have been travelling to villages on scrambler bikes, on foot even by dug out canoe! One of our projects is to provide training and meds to very remote communities in order to provide free treatment for 0-5 year olds. We completed the training in January of about 150 community health workers; and now we are facing the challenges of delivering the essential meds packages to these villages.
I wanted to write about my experiences of dancing in this post; and the story of setting up these remote healthcare ‘sites’ ties in nicely with a dancing theme.
In one of the health zones we travelled with the Administrateur du Territoire, and lots of other important senior men bearing fly whisks and natty, but ill-fitting suits. At the end of a treacherous dirt track we arrived in the village of Tshibambula; I would compare our reception to that of Christ’s arrival in Jerusalem, all the way down to the palm fronds waving exuberantly in the air. Jubilate indeed! Awaiting us at the entrance of the village was the local church band, banging out a rhythmic anarchic Congolese-Irish reel that only got faster. The band comprised of ten drummers with home mad drums of varying sizes and about seven whistle players. Just when I though I could pick up a tune it changed again. The entire child and female population of the village appeared to be dancing with the band. Of course as the representative of an NGO at this ceremony I had to observe the protocols of such an occasion. I dutifully sat through a few hours’ speeches, mostly in Tshiluba. I tried to stay awake as best I could; finally however I could no longer resist, I broke protocol and joined the hot and steamy mass of women and children who pretty quickly taught me the dance moves and we spent a joyous sweaty hour whilst the men of the village looked on disdainfully. Getting down with the Kimbanguist church band!
I have to stop here; Tony Parrot is removing my glasses and is fed up of me typing. Stay tuned for more tales of dancing the DRC.
It’s been a few weeks I since I wrote, and its not for a lack of stories to tell. Things are limbering up here to be busy, I have to contended with a constant flow of visitors to Kananga and have had the pleasure of making a trip to Kinshasa to sample the delights of the private healthcare system – not that I was sick – I needed a Hepatitis booster. I quickly deduced that the safest and most effective way of getting vaccinated was to avoid the Kinshasa health system altogether, to purchase the vaccine in a chemist’s shop and to administer the jab myself…. Don’t try it at home, but honestly intra-muscular jabs are not a very complicated thing.
During this visit to Kinshasa, I managed to stay over the weekend, do some serious ‘Pagne’ shopping, dance rather a lot, learn how to play the tom tom with a bunch of street kids and, best of all to catch up with one of my oldest and closest friends who is working on a short assignment in Kinshasa. A real privilege.
I seem to have spent many days out of the office in the past weeks, thank God, as the old adage goes: you can take the boy out of the desert, but you can’t take the desert out of the boy! Kananga and its hinterland seem to be cursed with some of the worst infrastructure anywhere in the world, and so I have been travelling to villages on scrambler bikes, on foot even by dug out canoe! One of our projects is to provide training and meds to very remote communities in order to provide free treatment for 0-5 year olds. We completed the training in January of about 150 community health workers; and now we are facing the challenges of delivering the essential meds packages to these villages.
I wanted to write about my experiences of dancing in this post; and the story of setting up these remote healthcare ‘sites’ ties in nicely with a dancing theme.
In one of the health zones we travelled with the Administrateur du Territoire, and lots of other important senior men bearing fly whisks and natty, but ill-fitting suits. At the end of a treacherous dirt track we arrived in the village of Tshibambula; I would compare our reception to that of Christ’s arrival in Jerusalem, all the way down to the palm fronds waving exuberantly in the air. Jubilate indeed! Awaiting us at the entrance of the village was the local church band, banging out a rhythmic anarchic Congolese-Irish reel that only got faster. The band comprised of ten drummers with home mad drums of varying sizes and about seven whistle players. Just when I though I could pick up a tune it changed again. The entire child and female population of the village appeared to be dancing with the band. Of course as the representative of an NGO at this ceremony I had to observe the protocols of such an occasion. I dutifully sat through a few hours’ speeches, mostly in Tshiluba. I tried to stay awake as best I could; finally however I could no longer resist, I broke protocol and joined the hot and steamy mass of women and children who pretty quickly taught me the dance moves and we spent a joyous sweaty hour whilst the men of the village looked on disdainfully. Getting down with the Kimbanguist church band!
I have to stop here; Tony Parrot is removing my glasses and is fed up of me typing. Stay tuned for more tales of dancing the DRC.
posted by Gabriello Princip at 8:22 AM
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