On My Way to the Church I Passed a Mosque

INCEF’s offices, and the residence where I am staying, are located in a neighborhood at the top of a hill in Brazzaville. There is a spot just down the road where one can have an unbroken view all the way down to the Congo River and across to Kinshasa. (Bit of trivia: Brazzaville and Kinshasa are the only two national capitals that are within eyesight of one another. Or at least, this is what I have been told.)

Yesterday I decided to go for a walk. My destination was an enormous church, the Basilica of St. Anne, which was visible in the distance at the bottom of the hill. The basilica stands out because of its beautiful green roof. It is a color like malachite, and shines with a similar polish. My route also took me through the neighborhood of Poto Poto, where I had not walked before. I took my camera, although I am still very shy about asking people if I may take their picture. Architecture is easier for me to capture, as long as it is not a government building (forbidden by law, which is tough since every other building I pass seems to be a government building).

At the very beginning I was reminded of an interesting phenomenon here in Brazzaville, and perhaps elsewhere: foreigners (non-Africans) are sometimes generically classified as “chinois” or “Chinese.” As I walked along with my camera, a little boy with his mother pointed at me and said, “chinois.” In my head, I could not help thinking, with a chuckle, “I guess foreigners do all look alike.” It is not unusual for a non-African to be called “chinois” here, especially by children, whatever one’s ethnic background. To be fair to the small child, we were on a street just behind the Chinese embassy. Having my own ethnic identity become a matter for questioning and explaining is, in fact, part of this experience. Blonde hair and blue eyes just make me “foreign” in some cases, “French” in others, and “Chinese” for most small children.

Heading down the hill towards the green-roofed church, I found myself walking through a neighborhood of small shops and restaurants, thinking, why haven’t I been here before? Looking down a side street, I saw another large building, green and white with four tall narrow towers, that I had also seen from the top of the hill. I detoured down the side street, and found Brazzaville’s mosque under construction. According to some gentlemen I spoke with outside, the Muslim community in Congo is made up of immigrants from other African countries such as Senegal, as well as some local converts. They were planning to celebrate the 100^th anniversary of the Muslim community in Brazzaville in 2014. They had raised funds to construct the new mosque, and it would be complete in time for the celebrations.

Back on the main road, I could still see the green roof of the basilica ahead of me, so I continued along the street, hopping over the drainage canals that cut through the sidewalk (where there is a sidewalk). The rain gutters on the side of the road are all two or three feet deep, and there are uncovered side channels that cross the sidewalks everywhere, ready to catch unwary or less-than-nimble pedestrians.

Finally, I reached the basilica, which looks like a gigantic space ship that somehow landed in the middle of the city, but is poised to lift off again at any moment. The doors are particularly beautiful, with their hammered copper friezes, as are the green tiles that give it an almost reptilian look, like a gorgeous salamander. I am not sure my photos do it justice, but it is spectacular. Stained glass does not feature prominently – in fact, most of the windows have no glass. Air flow is more important than decorative glass, I think.