(Here is a reposting from last year. It's still important.) 

I’ve come to an interesting conclusion. If helping your fellow man is like buying a car, you have two basic options: purchasing the sexy late model edition that makes heads turn, or going with the clunky used car that few notice and even fewer covet.

Without judging this trio’s motives, Barack, Brad, and Bono belong to the first category whether they want to or not. So do the high school kids who fatten up their fancy college apps with obligatory volunteerism and the pro athletes who, through “giving back,” score twice as many endorsement deals as the ones who don’t. You could also include entire political campaigns, blood drives that get you out of work early, and your sister-in-law who uses the Thanksgiving meal at the homeless shelter merely as a photo-op for her family scrapbook.

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As we approached Kinshasa International Airport, I looked out the window at the city of 10-12 million and thought about the last time I flew into LAX at night. I believe we flew over the city lights for roughly half an hour. As we flew into Kinshasa we landed in pitch black dark. This city, approximately the size of New York, has less streets with permanent lights than I have fingers on my hand.

As we step off the plane three things are immediately noticeable: 1) It’s still dark, even on the runway, 2) The 95% humidity and 84 degree heat is a blow even at nighttime, and 3) The smell of burning wood, for cooking and light, is heavy in the air.

Kinshasa is a tough place and not everyone is happy I’m there. On our first morning, we toured a work site that looked like it was from a movie set. Hundreds of men, women and children, were using sledgehammers to break down large rocks into gravel. I asked my Congolese companions if I could take a picture. They said sure and as I pulled the camera to my eye, the men started to go crazy. They were yelling at me.

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