Congo, Part One

When I read this portion of The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, my whole perspective on Africa changed. In this portion of the book, Leah, an American woman who has fallen in love with a Congolese man, relates the story he tells her frequently about the history of his people:

Usually we start with five hundred years ago, when the Portuguese came poking the nose of their little wooden ship into the mouth of the Congo River. Anatole peers from side to side, pantomiming Portuguese astonishment.

“What did they see?” I always ask, though I already know. They saw Africans. Men and women black as night, strolling in bright sunlight along the riverbanks. But not naked—just the opposite! They had hats, soft boots, and more layers of exotic skirts and tunics than would seem bearable in the climate. This is the truth. I’ve seen the drawings published by those first adventurers after they hurried back home to Europe. They reported that the Africans lived like kings, even wearing fabrics of royalty: velvet, damask, and brocade. Their report was only off by a hair; the Kongo people made remarkable textiles by beating the fibrous bark of certain trees, or weaving thread from the raffia palm. From mahogany and ebony they made sculpture and furnished their homes. They smelted and forged iron ore into weapons, plowshares, flutes, and delicate jewelry. The Portuguese marveled at how efficiently the Kingdom of Kongo collected taxes and assembled its court and ministries. There was no written language, but an oral tradition so ardent that when the Catholic fathers fixed letters to the words of Kikongo, its poetry and stories poured into print with the force of a flood. The priests were dismayed to learn the Kongo already had their own Bible. They’d known it by heart for hundreds of years.

I found this quite shocking. I had some strong images of Africa: distended bellies, sad hungry faces, and the occasional destitute village with brightly colored clothing and very little other worldy posessions. I had never been presented with an image of an Africa this... well, rich.

But here's the kicker:

Impressed as they were with the Kingdom of Kongo, the Europeans were dismayed to find no commodity agriculture here. All food was consumed very near to where it was grown. And so no cities, no giant plantations, and no roads necessary for transporting produce from the one to the other. The kingdom was held together by thousands of miles of footpaths crossing the forest, with suspension bridges of woven vines swinging quietly over the rivers. I picture it as Anatole describes it: men and women in tiers of velvet skirts, walking noiselessly on a forest path.

The Europeans were dismayed. Dismayed. At this scene that to me looks so rich and life affirming. Dismayed because there was "no commodity agriculture," in other words, dismayed because the Africans didn't look or live enough like them. And thus began the incredible process of Europeans pillaging the continent of its rich natural resources (including humans in the slave trade) and attempting to Westernize it in the name of "progress."

Part Two coming soon.