This is Congo. There
are few paved roads. It rains, a
lot. Getting stuck in the mud here is a
right of passage that equals your first infraction with the roadside police or
navigating the tricky process of getting your visa renewed, etc. It signifies that you live here and you learn
to deal with it.
After church last Sunday, my truck was loaded with around 20
men, women, and children as we headed out.
On the way to my house, they each got off at a number of different
stops. Except for the last family, which
had three small children. They live just
down the road from us, so I decided to take them all the way to their door. Only, I never arrived. Thirty feet from their house, I got myself
stuck in the mud. This was not your run
of the mill, casual, stuck for a few minutes kind of deal. We were down all the way to the axels and the
fuel tank was resting on the ground.
Upon seeing our grave situation, I suggested that we jacked the truck up
and put boards under each wheel. This
idea was quickly rejected by the growing crowd of spectators, which was multiplying by the minute.  |
| Pre-mud phase |
A spectacle like this is a rare occasion; a white guy
dressed in his Sunday best, covered in mud while his two kids play in the street
nearby and his wife converses with the neighbors is surly an event they will likely never witness again. Each man who arrived instantly became the
expert. He would take one of the
shovels, look around for a while, and give some new commands. Finally, after three hours with no success
and everyone tired from digging us out, I gave my advice again. The current new guy – boss – liked it and
gave orders again to the crowd. Fifteen
minutes later, we were out of the mud.
However, I was less excited than I had anticipated.
This is because, this is Congo and this was not my first
“rodeo.” What followed next was a
discussion about how much each individual should get paid for his work. Don’t get me wrong, it was money well
deserved but the negotiations can be hectic and started off rocky when a man
shouted, “50 dollars each!” I was in a
hurry to speak to a church in the US on Skype and so I ended negotiations
quickly with 50 dollars for the 12 or so to split between them. They were happy enough and so was I.
The five-minute drive home gave me time to reflect about the
experience and other times in which I am asked for money. Just a few days before, I was scolded by a
group of men who didn’t like me cutting my own grass in the field next to my
house. Twice in the same week, the same
man was astonished that I drove myself around and didn’t want to engage him as
my chauffer (a common practice here).
Perhaps Americans just like the idea of being independent and able to do
things on our own. Perhaps the Congolese
just like the idea of providing stable income for others if they are able. We have two people who work part time in our
home, mostly because people seemed upset and confused when we would do things
for ourselves.
Unfortunately, most outsiders see local people as greedy
when they insist that you pay them for work you can easily do for yourself or
work that might seem like a neighborly favor.
However, this is Congo. Many
people don’t work and those who are able are obliged to help others whenever
possible. If cultures will clash for only
a few reasons, the flow and distribution of money will surly be among
them. My hope and prayer is that we will
fall somewhere in between as we seek to value hard work and personal
achievement; while also generosity and improving the stability of others.
Perhaps the economics of the Kingdom call for such a
stance. After all, what landowner would
foolishly continue to search for laborers when the work is almost done, and
then have the audacity to pay them all the same at the end of the day? (As in the parable of the workers in the vineyard,
Matthew 20:1-16).
