Kinshasa, 2007. The sprawling, chaotic jumble of streets, shacks, cars, people, animals; the ever-present odour of burning garbage in the humid air; the litany of security restrictions. After working for a month with Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) in Kinshasa, I confess that I jumped at an unexpected opportunity to transfer to Lubumbashi, D. R. Congo’s second largest city. “Lubum”, as the locals called it, had largely avoided the many wars that plagued the rest of the country and had retained vestiges of its colonial architecture and infrastructure. It was cleaner, safer, and my new job as manager of the MSF base there would be much more interesting.
With the air pollution, security constraints, and long hours of work in Kinshasa, I had found it difficult to motivate myself to exercise. I’d been allowed to run laps around a single block where MSF had several rental houses for lodging expats, the bored security guards watching me from their gates and calling “Courage!” every time I passed. As there was no gym available in Kinshasa, I had resorted to doing chin ups on a low branch of the mango tree in the back yard and bicep curls with a small wooden stool carved in the shape of a woman, her breasts and butt jutting out in defiance of gravity. Though there didn’t seem to be a gym in Lubumbashi either, I was looking forward to being able to roam a little more freely on my runs.
Shortly after arriving in Lubum, I noticed runners doing laps around a wide, grassy median on a boulevard extending for many blocks not far from where we were living. It had an inviting, park-like atmosphere. People gathered around the play structures and benches in their spare time. However, when I started running there, I discovered that the other runners were almost all male, and that the men standing around in the park made a sport of catcalling and hissing at any female runners. I started wearing earbuds: it persuaded them that I couldn’t hear their hissing and made them less persistent. A young female basketball player later told me that the Congolese girls only ever ran inside the compound at their school.
One beautiful, crisp, Sunday morning, I arrived early to find the area deserted except for a group of people chatting near one end of the median. They were dressed up, perhaps on their way to or from church. As I ran past, they shouted something to me. It wasn’t the usual catcalls, but I didn’t understand, so I just waved and kept going. As I came back toward the group on the other side of the boulevard, three of the women were waiting on the road. They wore typical Congolese garb: long, colourful, wrap-around skirts and matching head-scarves. They had flip-flops on their feet and big, slightly shy smiles on their faces. Two of them were very pregnant.
I smiled back as I approached them, having no clue what they were up to. I was about to simply keep running when I realized that they were collecting their skirts and preparing to start running with me! I slowed down a little and they joined me, giggling like school girls, flip-flops flapping. I was more than a little concerned about the two that were pregnant—I didn’t want to be the cause of premature labour. They ran with me for a couple blocks, first giggling and chattering away, then, one-by-one, dropping off to walk. However, by the time I lapped around to the other side of the boulevard, they’d crossed the median, caught their breath, and were waiting to run with me again.
I didn’t speak Swahili and they didn’t speak French, so I have no idea whether they were making fun of me or just having fun, but we all laughed together for a while and it made me feel a little less like a stranger in a place where my whiteness branded me an outsider. I wish I could have thanked them for their courageous and unexpected gift, but I never saw them again. Asante sana, ladies!
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