One way or another we reached Gisenyi, debussed, then walked to the border. Here, bureaucracy remained subjective — the duty officer wanted some additional money. However, we were starting to get the lie of the land by now and were certainly not in the mood to hand out unnecessary bribes, and with the line “we are good friends of the Hassans” ringing in his ears, the official eventually gave up and let us through. Moments later and we were across the border, our friend Ali and Rwanda now behind us, and all before us the country formally known as the Kingdom of Kongo.
CHAPTER 5
KINGDOM OF KONGO
When the Portuguese first visited tropical Africa in the 15th century, they came across an assortment of tribes. Of these, the Kongo was by far the most widespread and dominant, and had set up a ruling state primarily named: The Kingdom of Kongo. Governed by their king, ‘the Manikongo’, economic muscle was achieved by dealing in ivory, hides and slaves — a rife domestic affair long before colonial involvement made things very much worse. Seizing the chance to increase wealth, trade was established between the two, and the next century saw The Kongo’s empire grow and prosper. But a crisis loomed. With the need for slave labour outweighing The Kongo’s capacity to supply, the Portuguese had long since started on their own method of raid–acquisition–extraction, a move that destabilized not only The Kongo’s economy but also their authority. They were not happy bunnies. War was declared, but the evolved weaponry of the Portuguese was far superior, and The Kingdom of Kongo went into rapid decline.
During later years, Kongo territory was colonised and expanded; it was also renamed several times, even after its 1960 independence. We were there during its ‘Republic of Zaire’ phase, as termed by infamous dictator Joseph Mobutu. Who else would alter their name to Mobutu Sésé Seko kuku Ngbendu Wa Za Banga, which loosely translated means ‘Mobutu, the all–powerful warrior who, because of his stamina and inflexible will to win, will go from conquest to conquest, leaving fire in his wake’? His plundering of the kingdom’s finances accentuated Mobutu’s despotism. A realm rich in resources, Zaire’s people should have been far wealthier, but Mobutu had stolen almost their entire fortune, leaving the nation dirt–poor. Oddly, it could be said that this poverty is what helped sustain Zaire as an explorer’s dream. Instead of half of the rainforest being destroyed by well–to–do citizens wanting to build monumental estates and endless infrastructures, it remained the mysterious domain whose remotest stretches were still essentially uncharted. The sultry climate, steamy jungles, huge mountains and prolific wildlife ensured that only those of Livingstone and Stanley’s ilk would ever dare to tread its dangerous, and definitely deadly, path.
Enter those two nuggets Walker and McCarthy.
Goma could have been described as one of those old time Wild West settlements. That is to say it had the dust–covered roads and veranda–fronted buildings one would link with a Spaghetti Western. Another apt description would be ‘somewhere you don’t want to be’, although that would depend upon your level of acceptance, the vibes you felt when entering the area, and also whether or not you thought you had been ripped off.
We did.
Of course I could have been wrong — some travellers I later spoke to idolized the place — but from the moment we arrived in Goma, I didn’t like it. I couldn’t explain why, I just sensed an evil atmosphere, and even the more laid back Shaggy voiced similar disquiet, which spoke volumes. It was also somewhat prophetic, as within a few short years Goma would provide the home for a mass Rwandan migration, which triggered an outbreak of cholera, closely followed by the start of the First and Second Congo Wars. Assuming we weren’t psychic, the only tangible thing we could come up with was that while the people seemed courteous enough, they also had an unsafe aspect about them; many looked as though they would just as happily beat you as greet you. Whatever the reasons for our consternation, they were very real. Now add this unease to our worry regarding the police, rumoured to be the meanest sidewinders this side of the OK Corral, and no, we weren’t cock–a–hoop. Accordingly, we decided to stay no longer than absolutely necessary, and the first person to do us what we considered a disservice was, of all people, a relation of Ali.
Prior to leaving Rwanda, Ali had told us of a relative living here, and wrote a note saying that Shaggy and I were friends and needed to exchange money with him, on the black market. Ali reckoned this would be the best way to avoid being conned. Oh yeah? Upon finding the address, we must have spent all of two minutes with his relative, who didn’t do a very good job of concealing that he couldn’t get rid of us fast enough, and gave us some right tatty old bills, the amount being rather less than Ali had suggested. To underscore our naivety, instead of asking someone else for directions to a pleasant but cheap place for the night, we stuck with the relative, who hurriedly pointed us towards what was most likely the first place of any kind that caught his eye, the nearby hotel Mount Goma.
Although suspicious, unaccustomed to the cost of living in Zaire we went with his recommendation and ended up with a room that transpired to be neither pleasant nor inexpensive, although the lizard nestling in the corner had no complaints — unlike a certain friend of mine.
“Cheap place, my arse. If you have to stay in a cesspit, you should at least be expected to pay cesspit prices,” he moaned.
To qualify Shaggy’s position, neither the lizard nor the state of the dwelling troubled us: we had of course anticipated more than modest accommodation in this region of Africa. Moreover, when it came to sleeping rough neither of us were spoiled brats — we had just done seven evenings on a concrete floor and been grateful for it. Likewise, fields and toilets, even an industrial bin once; I’d slept rough many a night. What did concern us was whether acquired services/products reflected the price, and for a handsome ten pounds (for this locale, a substantial sum) we had expected something with a little more, albeit rustic, charm. I guess the proprietor must have misinterpreted “with toilet, please” as “with lizard, please”. To rub salt in the wound, when we ventured out that night, although not for long, we soon discovered that our scepticism was warranted — there were far better places for less than half the price. Thank you, Ali’s relative.
Far in advance of our Goma arrival, we had already decided to hitchhike the several hundred miles to our Congo starting point. But there was an alternative. A doorway to and from Rwanda, Goma was also flanked by two tourist attractions, the active volcano Nyiragongo and the colossal Lake Kivu. The combination made it a town of particular significance, in that it had an airport and we could therefore catch a flight to Kisangani. Now that’s a good idea, I reckoned, so put it to Shaggy, stressing we would have plenty of time for thrills and spills once on the Congo, and if it was adventure we genuinely wanted then shouldn’t we include all forms of it? That meant incorporating a local flight. Of course the very notion of Air Zaire gave me cold shivers, but that was counterbalanced by what would doubtless be an equivalent amount of trepidation when passing through more Spaghetti Western communities. The tipping point was that the latter may well take four weeks, which on the back of all that hanging around in Kigali only intensified my impatience. Like a child waking up on Christmas Day, I wanted my toys sooner rather than later. But Shaggy wasn’t so hurried and, stating he didn’t want to miss out on what promised to be a go–getting leg of our adventure, attempted to avoid any comebacks by going straight for my jugular.
“Bet the jungle is littered with crashed planes.”
But I was two steps ahead, and slotted home the coup de grâce.
“Bet flying is cheaper.”
“Hmm.”
I further emphasised that taking such a trip would be on the cards only if we proved able to acquire something low–cost, and preferably the following day. As I said, neither of us wished to linger in Goma. With understandable reservations, Shaggy agreed to at least check out the tour operator.
The next morning we departed the hotel and arrived at Air Zaire’s booking office fifteen mi
nutes ahead of its listed 9am opening, to find it already had. In the window was a sign that said they dealt with flights to two locations only — Kinshasa, the capital, and our destination, Kisangani. We entered and I attempted to talk with the assistant in French.
“It is okay, I speak English,” she replied.
“Great. Is there a Kisangani flight that we can get on today?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if there are any spare seats?”
“I don’t know if there’s a flight.”
“Oh, right. But there is a plane that goes to Kisangani?”
“Yes.”
“You just don’t know if there is one that we can take today?”
“No.”
“Don’t you have a timetable?”
“Not until nine o’clock.”
Ah, the mystery unravelled.
We waited for half an hour, but nothing seemed to materialise, so I attempted to speak to her again.
“Any update with the timetable?”
She began sifting through some papers that had been in front of her the whole time, eventually casting her eye over what may or may not have been a timetable.
“Yes, it has just come,” she replied.
I shot Shaggy a look that served as a gasp, then turned back to the assistant.
“So is there a plane going to Kisangani today?”
“No.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“There is one on Saturday.”
“So definitely not tomorrow?”
“I don’t think so.”
“And nothing on Friday?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure?”
“No.”
I gave up. My formal “Thank you” was soon joined by a whispered “We look forward to your next sentence with much zeal” aside, as we made our way out.
And so the decision between air and land was made for us, for unless we wanted to wait three days for Saturday’s flight (no thanks) the only way was obvious. We had to walk, and try to hitch.
As per our map there were three possible routes west to Kisangani. The first option was to travel eighty miles southwards towards the city of Bukavu, where an adjoining road would lead us straight to our target. The problem here lay within our mooch the preceding night, which had taken us into a nearby pub — I should say ‘saloon’, given the Wild West verandas and mean–looking hombres we had moseyed past. Along the way, we had bumped into an English couple, who in their own words had told us that there were “bandits” operating on the southerly route. To underline this, once at the bar a brief powwow with a local (gunslinger) drew only the same guidance: going thataway was bad medicine. As this was occurring just outside of Goma, when coupling it with our sense of alarm, and the rootin’ shootin’ police’s bad rep, dagnabbit if ya’all don’t dig why’s we lily–livered city slickers drank up and vamoosed back to our doggone cotton–pickin’ room.
Of the remaining two choices, the least dicey seemed to be to head in the opposite direction of the bandits, along a passageway that went north, then west, in a kind of loop. This, we figured, should secure us some form of lift. The other overland possibility was that we head straight to Kisangani, for our map indicated there was a westbound route that at some point joined the Bukavu to Kisangani road. The problem with this option was that, while the markings implied there was a thoroughfare, half of it appeared to be either disused or under construction — almost certainly scenario one, for it was no secret that Zaire’s infrastructure had severely deteriorated since independence. What had, thirty years earlier, added up to 90,000 miles of passable highway was now only a sixth of that.
Whatever the facts about the westbound road, the upshot was that it seemed to peter out long before its destination, so may have meant traversing miles and miles of near–impenetrable jungle. Then again, psychologically speaking, ‘as the crow flies’ was clearly appealing. Now add the fact that we would be right in the thick of the rainforest, and you have a very attractive option to two fledgling trailblazers. Mulling over the preferences, we reckoned that, although the looped way was almost twice as long, it would in all probability prove to be faster, and no doubt less hazardous. Prudence triumphed: we plumped for the lengthy hike.
I must admit that I sometimes ruminate on how the direct route might have transformed my tale, but don’t let me kid you, our chosen course promised one hell of an adventure. A journey that would take us over 600 miles of the worst kind of road, through archetypal places that included Nia Nia, Avakubi, Epulu, Mambasa, Apawanza, Komanda, Beni, Butembo, Rutshuru, Rumangabo, and past several of the most beautiful sights in Zaire. Chief amongst them was the Virunga National Park — two million acres of protected splendour, where the large wildlife roamed. By our calculations, this passage could take us anywhere from four days to four weeks, depending on the traffic, the weather, our conviction and will to survive. And, of course, good old–fashioned luck. But anything would be better than plane–waiting in Goma, so come 9:30am Shaggy and I were off down the beaten track, on the road to Kisangani.
The first part of that hike was instantly liberating. Once away from the city the soundtrack of engines and people was now usurped by birdsong and chattering monkeys. Better yet, the bad vibes vanished, replaced by a feeling of optimism, even though we had never before fully entered the African countryside. In this locality, that meant that we were close to the middle of the Albertine Rift, an ecosystem that spanned five countries and whose illustrious diversity of animals was eclipsed only by its visual finery — framed by a backdrop of various mountain ranges, its vast forestry of trees, vines, fungi and flowers was interspersed by verdant savannahs. And though blue monkeys, orange weaver birds and African violets all added colour to the occasion, the primary aspect was nevertheless green, the miles of leafy forest beyond climbing effortlessly towards wooded hills and mountains. This vision of Africa was soon rubberstamped when, nestling among sumptuous undergrowth and encircled by lolling palms, we stumbled upon our first Zairian mud hut, so stopped to take a photograph. At least that’s the excuse we gave each other, for while we had been happy to soak up the scenery, the longer we went without gaining a lift, the ever–dusty, once–firm dirt road increasingly rutted, like the Apollo XIII astronauts some nineteen years beforehand, we soon found we had a problem.
Travelling in a far–off land can have its effects on a person. Most notably when the persons in question were bullish enough to assume that, since they had been in Africa eleven days now, and since they had already undertaken a few rambles with no ensuing complications, once the real journey kicked in, their one flask each of water would be enough to stand them in good stead until they reached a village, waterhole or stream. And even if this took them a while, they believed that any subsequent thirst would be easily coped with. Sure, they’d ‘be okay’.
What a pair of categorically brainless dickheads.
In next to no time our every ounce of water had been polished off and, parched in the extreme, we both ended up looking like a right pair of sad losers — not least your author. While at one point Shaggy was trying to lick an annoying sweat droplet from his cheek, I decided to lighten our pickle by telling him that he resembled a robber’s dog chewing a wasp, only my mouth was so dry it came out, “Oou ook ike a obber’s og uhewing a aasp.”
“Says Sloth from The Goonies,” he croaked back, his similarly frazzled throat making him sound like he had chain–smoked from birth.
The harsh reality of our situation wasn’t so much that we hadn’t grown used to the climate, or that we hadn’t realised our heavy loads would make a physical difference. Rather it was our inability to grasp that the combination of these factors would have such an emphatic biological impact. And with nature taking its course we continued to dehydrate quite badly, although any belief that this was as tragic as it got was soon put to bed. Far off down what could only be described as the most diabolically uneven road I had ever w
alked, a group of kids began trailing us, each of them determined that their “Muzungu! Muzungu!” would out–scream the ear–piercing ‘fingernails down the blackboard’ cherubs of Kigali.
Although we just about managed to cope with the ‘let’s perforate Johnny Foreigner’s eardrums’ competition, how long could we suffer the intensity of the broiling sun and our ever–worsening dehydration, particularly when in conjunction with our heavy bags, the straps of which cut deeply into our shoulders? As wearisome was a real sonofabitch incline, which seemed to last forever. Consequently, our turns to carry the weighty tent got slashed from fifteen–minute intervals to five. Yet on we strove, despite our other rising problem — physical effort’s partner, mental exertion — and very soon things big and small started to play on my mind.
‘Why am I lugging two bags? Why didn’t I bring more water? Why didn’t I wear my shorts? Why do I have extra footwear? Why did a polymath like Aristotle formulate Aristotelian syllogism and galvanise observational and theoretical zoology, yet never once explicate his nonage with Nicomachus and Phaestis? Hmm.’
Using grey matter I thought would prove futile under this burning bright sun, I soon sorted out one of my banes. Striking up a form of sign language with the children, I got one boy to carry my holdall — a ploy quickly reproduced by Shaggy with another. For his kindness, I gave my youngster one of the books I had with me, instinctively the only (heavier) hardback — even though it belonged to my local library.
Just as we were at long last reaching the crest of the hill, a great monstrous wreck of a truck stopped and we were offered a free ride. Considering people usually paid for lifts in Zaire, the freebie was an unexpected blessing, although I did wish that he had picked us up at the bottom of the rise. Thanking the children who had aided us, we reclaimed our spare bags and leapt on to the back. Then off we went, which, owing to the undulating road, meant bouncing up and down, and round and round. A bit chaotic perhaps, but it was fun, so when we looked across from our high vantage point at the multi–layered greens of the forest silhouetted against the dramatic blue of the sky, is it any wonder that Shaggy felt compelled to punch the air?
SEAN OF THE CONGO Page 7
