After a short four days, I was regretfully leaving Lubumbashi, a city that had easily and quickly enchanted me. The Hotel Everybody created an atmosphere reminiscent of Guinee in so many ways and I felt just as awful leaving here as I did on my way to Gbessia.
I slept in Paris. All of the rooms were named after locations around the world (everything from Texas to Tokyo.) The 'deluxe' room included a large bed, small round table and its own toilet and shower. Of course, there wasn't actually any running water but at least I could bathe from my bucket in private. There was also the additional option of a TV, which I found unecessary, especially as there was no electricity except at night when the they ran the generator.
The generator was necessary because Hotel Everybody was also a hopping night spot. Just before dusk, they brought out the round plastic tables imprinted with the blue Primus logo and unstacked the chairs. The courtyard turned into an outdoor lounge and dance floor. A large speaker amplified the music playing in the disco room. People jumped up at their tables or filled in the walkway as the music moved them. And it did.
Every night seemed to bring a different crowd. Saturday, two futbol teams came in, drinking and dancing together. I smiled bemusedly as I tried to imagine American football players holding hands and dancing with each other in such a seductive way. Congolese dance is all about rotating the pelvis and low bent knees bouncing in and out. The sheer joy was evident as young boys sang and gestured trying to outdo each other's moves.
Sunday night was the most popular evening it seemed. Beautiful people in bright whites streamed into the disco room, which seemed to magically expand in order to accomodate them all. It was impossibly full. Walking in there was like stepping out of Africa. Black light flickered as a central disco ball spun a rainbow of fireworks splashing around the room. The music was intensely loud, prohibiting conversation. A smoke horn penetrated the noise every so often with a loud wailing siren as fog sprayed into the room. It was completely surreal.
I found a more enjoyable spot in the dining room where we generally ate our meals. It afforded a view of the stunning young Congolese as they came out of the darkness into the light. Often they paused for a last dance step just outside the doorway or a laugh with their friends. Many were drenched and dripping sweat. All were tall, proud and joyous.
Hotel Everybody had a different story by day, which was just as engaging to me. I spent the mornings walking in the marketplace, drawing and talking with those working nearby. I talked with Mama Louise in the outdoor kitchen and we prepared a few meals together. I made my first dish with the small iron cookstove used for cooking outside in Africa. I found it difficult to regulate the heat but Mama Louise indulged me by adjusting the charcoal as I needed.
I spent an entire day talking to Kazadi- who sold crates of beer and soda from a small cement depot in front of the hotel. I first met Kazadi when he took us to the Lubumbashi zoo- a trip fraught with laughter as we searched 'empty' cages for signs of animal life. One area held a small crocodile which appeared either plastic or dead. Kazadi insisted it was neither and threw a small stone at the animal. Nothing happened at all which only reinforced the point. Kazadi had a gentle manner and beautiful smile. I wanted to hear his story.
Kazadi tells me he doesn't know the story of his father, as he died when Kazadi was only an infant. He thinks his father was a diabetic. "My mom, I know the story of my mom, " he says. "She collapsed in front of me." He was in sixth grade when his mom died. Someone took him in long enough to get through school and then sent him on his own to find work. He's done everything from selling shoes to stealing before finding the job at the depot.
Kazadi smiled frequently and seemed to have a joy for life that simply amazed me. He said he was only in Lubumbashi for 2 months and dreamed of a better life, studying at university. In some ways, the story of Kazadi is not a terrible one. He is employed, he sleeps inside- out of the rain and the dust, and he eats a daily meal with others. But the sight of his foam mattress rolled up behind the tin door is an image that stays with me.
Upon arrival to my own home, I felt completely overwhelmed by my possessions. I have an entire room dedicated to hanging my wet laundry and this boy is sleeping admist crates of beer. Its not the first time I've encountered someone with nothing more than a bundle of clothes, but I admit to becoming complacent, to forgetting. I look around at the few things I have, blankets, bags, photographs, a calendar on the wall, and I compare this to the very nothing that Kazadi has...and so many like him who, impossibly, have even less.
I remember the friendly smiles I was greeted with, the warmth as people held my hand while we talked and the ready conversation all around. I remember shared plates of food, the energy passing between dancers and the way passers-by would stop in a moment of joy for a quick dance step or to sing a refrain that everyone seemed to know. I remember these things from my quiet, solitary house and wonder who really has less. I know it is only me if I don't do something. And there is plenty that I can do.....
