DRC- Congo, Heart of Darkness

DRC

Right, so it’s now 03 Sept and we’re halfway across Nigeria and I’m trying to write journal entries by ever-fading memory and sparse notes so I think it best I make these entries a heck of a lot more succinct ... Maybe I’ll fill in the blanks later, but as I’m now 4.5 countries down and finding it annoyingly difficult to get free time to write after the long days we’re putting in you’ll have to forgive me for the Cole’s Notes versions that’ll have to suffice from here-on in ...

Into the Heart of Darkness we go; ground zero for Ebola and AIDS; site of Goma in the 90’s, the largest refugee camp ever required and one Dante could not have designed any more Hell’ish; the still-roaming bands of Intrahamwe, of Rwandan genocide infamy; of leopard-skin hatted (now ex) President Mobuto in the 70’s who lead a dictatorship so corrupt it coined the term “kleptocracy” and that, since his overthrow, has descended rapidly and without hesitation into a country almost mythical in being so incredibly ‘effed up’ and that has seen so little peace in the past 30 years it has gone back in time, one without roads, rails or rules. This will not be a transit to be treated lightly ...

The first thing we note on crossing is the border guards, who all look like they’ve been styled as the baddies for a Hollywood movie: tight pressed fatigues, berets at very cocky angles, mirrored sunglasses (despite it being 0800 on a cloudy morning ...) and a whole lot of att-i-tude. But it’s all for show it seems as they are all exceedingly friendly and the Immigration process and Duane stamping a breeze. But within 30 minutes we are at our first roadblock where 1) money; then 2) beer; then, finally (exacerbated by our refusals and crap French) cigarettes are demanded. We fear this will be the norm for the rest of the way across to Kinshasa but – while it is – we find none are ever anything more than just give-it-a-go’s and by the time we cross over the Congo to Brazzaville the dozens we have passed through have required nothing more in total than 4 stale ‘bought for just such a purpose’ cheapy cigarettes that have sat in the dash since SA. But, man, they are persistent ...

Another 30 minutes down the road from the border and we see our first dead body. Well, I do: Clare remains blissfully unaware though it’s a fairly obvious sight on the side of the road, gone rigid and halfway through the smashed windshield of a car that obviously lost a contest against something far larger going the other way. A stark reminder of just how insane driving these roads are, body-less crash sites having previously become so commonplace now they have barely raised a seconds’ glance on passing ...

The roads though are good, winding up through endless rounds of rolling hills and offering vistas across miles and miles of stunning, dense green. Kinshasa, however, arrives like a bomb’s gone off: a sudden descent into utter chaos, dirt and mayhem. Inching our way through the crazy gridlocked traffic we – quite by sheer blood luck/chance – find our destination, Residence Mutchimba, which has been reco’d on the blog of a couple who’ve passed through a few month’s previously (how the hell they ever found it originally defies understanding ...). Bit of a budget blower at $80 US per night but a nice break (hot water!!) and, also, certainly safe for the truck, closed-in behind high walls and a vigilant guard. Given high marks on the blog we meet a bit of an unexpected – and truly piss-me-off’ish issue after a days’ hard drive – issue with our anticipated service levels on arrival: the Manager seeming to not quite understand the difference between ‘having’ a restaurant (“Yes sir, we have a restaurant, it opens at 7 for dinner”) and having an ‘open’ restaurant (on seating at the required time for dinner after whiling/wasting away a few hours in our room, happy to have not had to sort out leaving: “No sir, this restaurant is not open, it has no food.”) but soon overcome - after a fairly strong response of “WTF!!??” by me and my rudimentary French - by the Manager back-stepping rapidly and – realizing he’d likely pressed his aloofness a step or 12 too far – quickly sorting us a taxi and escorting us there and back to a local resto which serves us fine ‘family resto’ food with terrific friendly service (so enjoyable, in fact, that though the menu is limited we return each of the 3 nights we’re in town and, in the end, have the “verrrrry Frayyynch” Maitre D’ insist we exchange email addy’s as “we must stay in touch” if we are not to return back to Kinshasa soon ...).

The Manager also organizes a great, non-touristy city tour for us for the next morning which – though hindered somewhat by both he and the driver speaking only French and us both still staggering unfamiliarly along with high school skills and tin ear only – offers us a great insight into the city, including Mobuto’s former house (never since lived in yet still heavily guarded to – I would guess - avoid it becoming any sort of memorial for a President whose legacy internally seems to remain somewhat confused still ... To the Manager and driver during the tour: “Are there any monuments to President Mobuto in the city here?” “No, no, no for Mobuto, no.” “Why does nobody live in his house?” “In his house there? No, no, nobody must live in his house, no.”) and the riverfront, where we set up for a beer in a restaurant straight out of a Scarface-style 80’s, all mermaid fountains and pastel colours with stupid-priced cocktails only the local Big Men would not balk at, overlooking a stunning vista of the second set of cataracts below Stanley Pools (and a large gathering of poor below, breaking rocks on the shoreline who, when I take a photo of the river, react angrily would they be included in it and quickly has a local heavy at my side, intimidating me to delete my file card as “this is not a good thing here and people do not like it.” Fair enough, but – for whatever reason there be for their toil - there are piles of broken rocks being sold street side all over the city so surely the locals do know where they come from, how and by whom ... And I am in no position, and have no interest, in passing any judgement one way or the other ...).

They also take us past the ferry terminal – “The Beach” – for a pre-departure recce which proves very beneficial the next day when we rock up to head over to Brazzaville as everyone, from security guard to police to Customs & Immigration, recall us from the day before and are all smiles and welcomes. It also prepares us for the utter chaos that is the terminal area.

So on arrival next day I am told at the ticket wicket there is no “big boat” today, and that I must speak to “The Chief.” Up to Chief of Police I am escorted to introduce myself, then to Chief of Customs, then Chief of Immigration (“I am Chief of The Beach”); apparently the word is correct: the big boat is broken and is not available today. We must return tomorrow at 1000 and I must present myself to The Chief at that time. So, somewhat dejectedly, we head back for another night in Kinshasa, choosing though to pinch pennies for the night and stay at the Baptist Mission close by The Beach. A convenient choice, and one with a fascinating story as they run a series of hospitals for Aids orphans and are very pleased to give us a tour of their HQ and, later, the medical clinic – all a very impressive operation and run by a very dedicated team who seem quite overwhelmed that we have taken such an interest in their activities. The site, however, as a place to camp for the night, really is a complete shit-pit with cows, goats and chickens wandering about and shared toilets in a house on the grounds a local family are living in that truly defy imagination and are beyond anything I have ever tried to use before (though for Clare, apparently still nowhere near as bad as her ‘Hell Toilets Of India With Midget Attendant’ she will be happy to expand upon given anyone’s further interest in the tale ...).

Back the next morning and I sit for 90 minutes awaiting The Chief’s arrival, still not sure what the purpose of our meeting will be. When he finally rocks up at the office on spotting me he sets his arm around my shoulders and we are off together to get the boarding requirements sorted. The Duane is duly stamped for 100 USD, quickly pocketed by the sweaty Agent-in-Charge, but we are then directed by The Chief – still my closest personal friend for no apparent reason (and for no associated ‘fee’ either) - to seat ourselves in the VIP trailer and wait out the Big Boat. At noon we are directed back to the truck, at 2:00 we are still there, first in line for a boat that has yet to dock (though it does still keep arriving, look at The Beach, and then depart out of sight on the river, only to return again an hour later to repeat the same odd game ...). At 3:00 The Chief comes over to announce, quite apologetically, that the Big Boat is broken and will not be operating; and when it may be is very much an unknown.

Shhyit!! We have nowhere else to go, no possible alternate route north, and this is NOT good news. The driver next to us is very unimpressed and begins to press his case en Francaise. Seems he is the Namibian Ambassador to DRC’s driver, and he must be in Brazzaville for the next day to pick up said Ambassador, who will be in country for the 50th Anniversary of the Independence celebrations. Much deliberation (argument/arm-waving/bowing to the Big Man) ensues amongst all required Chiefs. Finally – and for whatever reason – it is decided that, yes, there will be a Big Boat today, at 5:00, but no others for the foreseeable future.

It docks – finally not just sniffing at the port as it has all the day so far – and all of 2 trucks, ours and the Namibian Ambassador’s, along with 4 walk-on passengers who I think have simply nothing better to do and are along for the ride only, load a boat designed for 400 pers and 22 vehicles and we’re off – finally - across the mighty Congo River.