The 600 plus "orphans" are another story. The Goma-based conservationist who runs the program said in a taped interview that they "go home at night." The follow up question was: "If they are orphans, how can they go home?" The man replied that they went "home to relatives."
367 plus university students (I did not see that many) have 20 computers with only 7 connected to the Internet when there is power. There is never enough fuel for the generator. A small library has outdated books, one of which is on North American timber wolves. There were a few current field guides to flora and fauna, but not enough to call the curriculum that of a University. In early January, a Freedom of Information request about curriculum and salaries was submitted to USAID, but per the FOIA process, there has been no OIG or USAID response so far.
There is a serious question about whether the buildings have been constructed from wood harvested from the preserve. Inferior Eucalyptus provided the material for the unfinished "orphanage." Possible timber harvesting should be verified or disproved. Photos show extensive logging on both roads that lead to the preserve.
What exists at Mbingi is worth a human rights investigation, and is a fitting end to a journey into the real heart of darkness. The children live in the devil's workhouse. The kids in Dickens' Oliver Twist had it good. At least they could ask for more. Twenty plus stunted, malnourished children, hair falling out in patches, ringworm covering their scalps, garbed in dirty green "uniforms" that could pass for prison garb, with the initials for the gorilla preserve emblazoned over the right breast pocket, rushed out to greet the Mzunga. Both the director and the teacher spoke only French. The man who would later steal the video-taped record of the exchange was also the translator. It was obvious at this point that the translation was flawed. The situation was reminiscent of the old joke about the translator who provides a one-word answer to a five-minute speech. The director finally revealed the "cupboard,"-the room where food is stored. A couple of sacks of half-empty meal for porridge slumped open on the dirty floor. "Who provides the food?" The teacher and the local director gave the name of the conservationist/henchman who runs the program.
"Feeding time"---it cannot be called it a meal-was next. Each child was given a cup the size of a medium coffee mug and marched up to a dirty green plastic pail that held a pasty looking gruel. Each cup was filled three-quarters full and the children returned to their dirty benches, armed crossed, waiting for the last child to be served. A signal was given, and the video recorded slurping sounds reminiscent of a barn full of cattle. Not another sound. "Slurp, Slurp, Slurp."
What anyone can or wants to do with this account is anyone's guess. Sadly, it represents only a tiny fraction of what goes on in the name of foreign aid and conservation. The eyes of the Congolese people are on us. So far, they don't like what they see. We have more than one mess on our hands, Congressman Murtha. Please send me back. I am still not afraid of the Congolese—I am afraid of the conservationists.
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