Whenever I go to a country that Mama thinks is a little sketchy, she frets a little by bringing up the movie Midnight Express. Whenever I go camping or do something outdoorsy, she brings up the movie Deliverance. I had never seen these films, and only had vague ideas of what they were about. Turkish prison and rural man rape. While Mama has become incredibly relaxed for a parent of a traveler who likes to wade a bit into the hazardous, these vague warnings always seemed a bit alarmist to me.
So a few days before I went to eastern DRC, a place considered fairly dicey for independent travelers, with the intention of camping at least a night or two, I decided to watch both of my mother’s cautionary movies. I enjoyed both films, and was mildly amused by Mama’s concerns based on these movies. I would like to assure her that even though Congolese prison would most certainly be worse than Turkish prison, and my odds of going there for reasons out of my control are higher, it wouldn’t take me five years to escape or bribe my way out. As for Deliverance, well, I can’t really speak to that with authority. While eastern Congo is the rape capital of the world, I don’t know how often it afflicts outdoorsy gringo men.
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As this was my third time crossing the border from Rwanda to Congo, I was far more relaxed and casual about it. If my first blog about visiting Bukavu was over dramatic, it is because I was incredibly nervous. It didn’t take long, however, to realize that even though DRC remains war torn and corrupt, Bukavu is still a big city where business must carry on as usual despite hardships. I will not get robbed, shot, arrested or extorted just for setting foot on the Congolese side of the border.
I set straight for Place de l’Independence, a decent central point for transit out of the city. I hopped on the back of a moto after the driver offered me what seemed to be a fair price. We drove for a few minutes on a main road, then the driver started to veer off onto a dirt side road. He said the road ahead was blocked and he would take me on a shortcut. I was skeptical. To me, this seemed like the beginning of a story with a tumultuous ending. I saw that all the other vehicles were continuing on the main road, so I insisted that we continue as we were. He sighed and continued with little resistance. I was happy with myself for taking charge and avoiding what could have become a dangerous situation on a back road. We came around a bend and, to my surprise, hit a police barrier. An officer with a whistle was turning all vehicles back they way they came. Just beyond the barrier, I saw columns of hundreds of soldiers. If I’ve learned anything from all the reading I’ve done about traveling in DRC it was that soldiers are the greatest nuisance; the most important thing to avoid. It was a bit shocking at first, but of course this was nothing to worry about. The driver told me that the soldiers were doing a big demonstration for the upcoming Independence Day. I didn’t even realize that it was in two days. This would have a dramatic impact on my plans for this trip.
We pulled off onto a side road where we hit a wall of traffic. I regretted being so skeptical of the driver at first. However, taxi and moto drivers the world over had always been some of the most likely scammers or hassle-givers and I don’t feel like my insistence to stay on the main road had been an overly cautious move. Interestingly enough, my prejudice against both drivers and Rastafarians would be challenged on this trip.
I cheered on the driver as he weaved us through the stationary knot of taxis and SUVs. I called him “The Moto Expert” and he appreciated my encouragement, making bold moves, going up on muddy banks around cars, and squeezing through the most impossible gaps, almost taking out side view mirrors on the way. Pot-bellied affluent men in shiny cars yelled at us and our indiscretion. Sweaty NGO workers looked despondent in the passenger seats of their Land Cruisers.
When we finally emerged from the jam, it was into a nearly empty street. I told him I wanted to go to the buses going north, and he took me to a small taxi park near Place de l’Independence. I was utterly enthused by the performance of this driver and I felt remorseful for having such little trust for him at the beginning. I felt we had both shared a little adventure together, and I could tell he had had a good time. I did something I almost never do. I gave him a tip. Not only had he given me a fair fare to begin with ($1), he never gave the subtle complaints along the way that he wasn’t getting enough, or that this was too difficult. I gave him $1.50 and we exchanged phone numbers. It was a perfect start to a few days riddled with some of the best, most generous characters anywhere, accompanied by a heavy dusting of the most wretched, desperate beggars and hangers on I’ve ever seen.
At this point, I was still completely freestyling my few days in DRC. I wanted to visit an colonial era Chimpanzee research center, Idjwi Island, and possibly even go all the way to Goma. However, on the way to the taxi park, I had seen a banner advertising that Papa Wemba, one of DRC’s most famous musicians, would be performing in Bukavu on Independence Day. This became an immediate priorty, and I decided I couldn’t stray too far from Bukavu.
I found a matatu (minivan bus) heading north and scored the front passenger seat. While I waited, I bought the supplies I thought I might need: a SIM card, some bread, a sausage and a few boiled eggs. I knew the next few days would include some places off the beaten path where I might not find much food.
Although the road out of Bukavu was chaotic compared to Rwanda, it was in good condition for a while. It hugged Lake Kivu longer than any road did in Rwanda. While the city of Bukavu is reminiscent of nothing in Rwanda, the tri-maran fishing boats on the shore were identical. Outside of town we passed one of the UN (MONUSCO) bases. Dozens, if not hundreds, of shipping containers sat stacked between SUVs, tanks and even a few boats. I later realized that this was the source of a string of lights I had always noticed at night from Kamembe that looked strangely uniform and far from the city.
After an hour, the paved highway gave way to a pot-holed dirt road. We approached a police checkpoint where a few officers controlled a bamboo gate. The one that spoke to the driver looked shocked by my presence. There are no shortage of foreigners in this region. NGO workers, Chinese construction workers, mineral traders and UN soldiers from all over the world are all over eastern Congo. None of these people, however, will be seen in public transportation on rural roads. The officer gave me a genuine look of concern and said, “It’s a little dangerous out here.” I said, “Yes, I know,” because I didn’t know how else to respond. I mean, it is a little dangerous out there, but the security situation in these parts had been decent lately, it was daylight and plenty of Congolese seemed willing to take the trip, so I deemed it safe enough.
I stopped the driver when I saw an ancient sign indicating the road to Lwiro and the old Chimpanzee sanctuary and research center. I hopped out and greeted the group of young men resting in the shade at the junction.
As I started hiking up the road, I heard the unfamiliar noises of gas-powered machines. I eventually came upon some loggers with long saws, machetes and a couple of chainsaws. Although machetes are common in Rwanda, saws are rare and chainsaws unheard of. There just aren’t any trees left to log.
Although the language of this area was Mashi, I used Kiswahili greetings, since most people know it, and I don’t know any Mashi. The children boldly spoke to me in Kiswahili, usually to ask me for money or gifts, or to ask where I was going.
The road I walked on was less peopled than most in Rwanda, but I was almost never alone. After 45 minutes, I got closer to the research center. I saw a home off the road that, although new looking, could not have been built by Congolese. It had large, floor-to-ceiling windows. Well, perhaps it could have been built for Congolese people, but this house could never have existed in Rwanda. Floor-to-ceiling windows would simply be displaying too much of the oh-so-private indoor home life. Windows are for ventilation, not natural light.
When I got to the old stone arch and iron gates of the research center, I saw a sign that cleared up my questions about access and cost. A three-hour tour cost $25 for foreigners, $5 for MONuSCO soldiers, and $1 for Congolese. I had seen a truckload of Uruguayan soldiers leaving the center when I arrived. My chances of seeing the Chimpanzee sanctuary were dashed by the steep price, but all was not lost. I was more interested in the history of the place, rather than the nature and conservation.
I wandered along a dirt path between long, brick buildings that were definitely from the colonial era. I didn’t know what these buildings were, but it was fun to imagine, and try to take myself back in time and imagine what it was like here 60 years earlier. I arrived at what was once a little Belgian neighborhood. It was a settlement of about ten identical brick houses. I wandered in, wondering how people would react to me. It looked empty from afar, but these houses were most certainly occupied. People peeked out the windows and the occasional child ran by. A few people were cooking over charcoal fires outside the houses or lounging and styling each other’s hair. I wish I could see a comparison between what the Belgians looked like inside these homes compared to the Congolese. I’m sure it would be a stark contrast. I also wondered who these people were and why they got to live in these solid brick homes. Everyone else in the area lived in homes made of mud and sticks. These people were not privileged either. Their lifestyle looked the same as everyone else, except that they wouldn’t have to rebuild their house every few years.
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When I left, I considered taking a moto back to the main road to save time. I was still trying to decide what to do with my time in DRC. My options were take buses north to Goma, or perhaps a smaller town along the way, or go back to Bukavu and take a boat to Idjwi Island. I decided to go with the latter. I didn’t know the boat schedules, but knew that I should move quickly to ensure arriving on Idjwi at a decent hour. I encountered a man standing next to a moto and asked how much to take me to the main road. He said he wasn’t a moto driver. We chatted for a couple minutes, and when I was about to walk away, he asked what I would give him. I didn’t understand.
He said, “How much will you give me for this discussion.”
“The discussion?” I responded, confused.
“Yes, you must pay me for our discourse.”
I laughed. “How much?”
“$10.”
“You’re crazy. Talking does not cost money.”
“Ok, I will accept $5.”
I walked away, shocked. That’s how it was in DRC, though. Like in Rwanda, people constantly asked for things, but here it was on a different level. At the same, though, the giving and begging seemed to go in both directions. More often than in Rwanda did people want to give genuine hospitality and have real conversations as friends.
A few minutes later the man next to the moto pulled up next to me on the moto. He was no a moto driver. I can’t explain why he wasn’t a moto driver before, but he was now. Perhaps he figured he could make money off me without using any effort or gas. He offered a ride to the road for an inflated price, and I refused.
Just before I arrived at the road, a big truck with a cargo of small boulders arrived from behind me and I waved it down. They said they would take me to the next town for $.50. I never paid for rides in Rwanda, but this wasn’t a bad deal and would certainly save time, so I hopped in.
In the next town I quickly found a van that was going to Bukavu. Unfortunately it wasn’t very full so we drove up and down the road of the town looking for passengers. The town was chaotic, with pedestrians and vendors clogging the narrow road, battling rushing cars for space. Suddenly our van jolted as the screeching scrape of metal on metal rang in my ears. We had sideswiped a car going in the other direction. For some reason my immediate reaction was to yell at the driver, “just go! Keep going!” I held my tongue at the last moment. I think I was getting caught up in the spirit of the crazy lawlessness of the DRC, without realizing that this man probably plies this route several times a day and maybe even lives in this town. It would be a perfect situation for me to pull a reckless escape, but not him.
A shouting match ensued between the driver and some people that appeared out of his window. A few moments later, we drove off slowly. Then we were stopped by a small mob. A portly man started screaming into the driver’s window. The driver remained calm and tried to edge forward. The portly man took action. He grabbed the side view mirror and tried to rip it off. It didn’t budge and the man started to look foolish. He slid his fingers in the gap between the mirror and the part that holds the mirror. He tried to rip the mirror from within, but it still didn’t budge. He gave up and came to my window (I was in the front passenger seat) and continued to scream. The driver turned the car off, and the other two passengers go out. I followed. A random guy tried to direct me to a different van, and as he pulled me into the street he came within about an inch of getting hit by a car moving at no less than 45 mph. Before we found a new van, the first one pulled up and called me in. We picked up a few passengers and headed to Bukavu. I wondered if my instinct to flee the scene of the accident might have been the best move.
I arrived at Bukavu’s port to investigate my options for getting to Idjwi. Unlike Rwanda, where there is only one passenger boat that plies Lake Kivu, there are several options in Bukavu. I stopped at a ticket office in a shipping container and explained to the man that I wanted to go to Idjwi. He worked for the fancy “canot rapide” boat company that travels between Bukavu and Goma via giant vessels that look like cruise ships and carry vehicles. It turns the usual 13-hour journey into a 3-hour journey. In style. These boats, however, do not stop on the island. The employee, for whatever reason, took up my cause. He told someone to watch the office for him and we started boat hunting. I bought a couple of sugary juice drinks in plastic bags from a child and tried to offer one to this man. He refused. We asked around at other boats, and the only one going to the island that day would leave at 5:30 PM and arrive at 11:00 PM. This wasn’t ideal, but I had a couple hours to weigh my options. I thanked the man profusely, but he thought nothing of it. I quickly warmed to the fact that DRC the people could range from the most dastardly opportunistic beggars to the casually selfless.
I climbed up through the market, dirt paths and garbage creeks to a high rise building and found a restaurant. It was upscale, but all I wanted was a beer to think things over. The restaurant was attached to a cheap (by local standards) hotel and had a balcony overlooking the filthy port. Upscale in these parts could only go so far as I found the bathroom didn’t even have running water, and it couldn’t escape the smell of the port.
I would arrive at this island at a terrible hour if I took the boat, but I couldn’t think of a better option. Almost certainly I wouldn’t be able to get a hotel room, but at the same time, no hotel room on a rural island might be better than wasting an afternoon and paying through the nose for a room in Bukavu. Otherwise, what? Go back to Rwanda? Hell. No.
So I bought my ticket for the cheapest section of the boat, put down something to mark my seat and went out to buy some water and snacks.
The boat was pleasant. It wasn’t huge, but it was bigger than the passenger boat in Rwanda. A fellow PCV had put me in touch with an expat in Bukavu and we had exchanged some emails about the region. She had warned me about the boats, and said to only take the “canot rapide”, since the other boats sink sometimes. This one wasn’t too overloaded though and I knew there was nothing to worry about. I wondered, though, what does it look like when one of these things sinks? Does it spring a leak? Does it take a turn too hard and tip over? Does it just slowly descend under the weight?
Thirty minutes into the ride I noticed people standing up in their seats to look at something ahead. I stood up and saw water pouring onto the floor from a door at the front of the cabin. It took a moment to realize it was coming from the bathroom, and that there was a plumbing problem, and not a boat-sinking problem. A disgusting problem, but not a lethal problem.
A young man named Janvier struck up a conversation with me and I eventually asked him to sit down. He told me he runs an organization to help victims of sexual violence and their children in Goma. He was coming from Uvira, a town a few hours south of Bukavu, where he was at a conference for human rights. I was surprised to hear that, as the founder of an NGO, he was taking all of the cheapest modes of transportation. Even local aid workers in Africa hold themselves to a higher standard of living than the average person. His humble nature was inspiring and refreshing. He told me all about the troubles of Eastern Congo (rape capital of the world) and the kind of work his organization did. As this was all in French, my head started spinning after 45 minutes of his non-stop talking. I really liked the guy, but I had to excuse myself after a while to get some air outside.
As I leaned against the railing a man approached me and started talking about Congolese troubles. His woes were more about corruption and business. He started to speak more figuratively, talking about the challenges of doing business with family. Money and blood don’t mix seemed to be a problem familiar in DRC too. After a ten-minute spiel, I started to catch on that he was not making idle chit-chat. He was looking for a partner. He said he had access to gold, but he only needed the right partner to do profitable business. I was that partner. It wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last that someone propositioned me for involvement in the mineral trade. While I never considered it seriously, I can tell you that it is a lot easier to chastise those involved with the bloody mineral trade, and swear you would never involve yourself in it, if you never actually come across the opportunity for quick money. I mean, I still loathe the greed that causes immeasurable suffering in Africa, but a lot can change with a little bit of clever logic to tell you that SOMEBODY is going to make money off this, so why not you? Not getting involved isn’t going to create peace, so maybe I’ll just get a little bit rich. Yeah, I can’t say these thoughts haven’t entered my head on occasion since then.
Back in the boat Janvier talked my ear off for a couple more hours. I didn’t catch a lot of what he said, but I was really interested in his work, and promised I would come to Goma at least for a visit some day, and perhaps try to do some photo work about his organization.
We arrived at the port on central Idjwi at about 11:30 PM. I didn’t expect much, but it looked surprisingly desolate. A small crowd stood on the dock to board the boat or welcome the few disembarking passengers. I pushed my way through and found darkness punctuated by a few battery or kerosene powered lamps. I didn’t have a specific game plan, but I felt pretty confident that things would be ok.
A tall man standing on the side of the path greeted me. I asked him if he knew of a place to sleep nearby. He paused. I told him I had a tent and only needed a small place to put it that would be reasonably safe. His first idea was to take me to the crusty port bar where I saw vagues silhouettes of old man, beard and bottles. I was open to this, though I anticipated a possibly annoying night. He discussed with the man in charge. He said it was ok, but my new guide said it might not be safe. He would take me to his office. I’m not clear what the office was, but it wasn’t far. I think it was a small, local government post. The security guard was absent and we therefore could not enter.
We moved on to the hospital. I’m not sure, but I think it was the only hospital for the entire island, the second biggest inland island in Africa. He knocked on a door and after a few minutes a bleary-eyed doctor appeared. They discussed in their language, Kiyavu, and the doctor casually agreed and found a mattress. He seemed completely nonchalant about a foreigner arriving in the middle of the night looking for a place to stay. I said I could sleep in my tent on the grass area out front. In fact I would have preferred this since I knew I wouldn’t be a bother that way. They said it would not be safe. I think they overestimated the treachery of their neighbors, but I went along with them. Within 15 minutes I was in my mattress on the floor with clean sheets and the doctor went back into his room. In reality, I could not have hoped for a better outcome for this night. I was mostly happy because I felt that I was back in my rough, vagabondy style of travel that I had been entirely absent from in Rwanda. I find so much beauty in this kind of seat-of-your-pants, frugal, sleep-where-you-can kind of travel. It feels right. I went to sleep feeling that my first day in DRC was a complete success.
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