Goma: coming back from the dead

I went to Goma about five years ago. A miserable Wild West town with terrible roads, a lot of dust, and quaint wooden scooters. Not the sort of place one would want to go back to.

It’s had more than its share of misfortune. In 2002 the nearby volcano erupted and sent a flow of lava up to one kilometre wide right into the town, destroying about 40% of it (see photo) and shortening the airports runway so much that normal planes could no longer use it.

To add to the risk, the beautiful lake on which Goma is located harbours methane gas and carbon dioxide. They are released as a result of volcanic activity. Wikipedia puts it this way:

Scientists hypothesize that sufficient volcanic interaction with the lake's bottom water that has high gas concentrations would heat water, force the methane out of the water, spark a methane explosion, and trigger a nearly simultaneous release of carbon dioxide. The carbon dioxide would then suffocate large numbers of people in the lake basin as the gases roll off the lake surface. It is also possible that the lake could spawn lake tsunamis as gas explodes out of it.

So there are even more disasters waiting in the wings. . .

It’s not just natural disasters. Goma’s had more than its share of manmade ones. In 2004 Hutu refugees from Rwanda following the genocide were streaming into the town at the rate of more than 10,000 per day, and had to be settled into massive refugee camps which later became hotbeds of resistance to President Kagame and generated militias that threatened the north east of the DRC for years.

One of these was M23 which captured Goma in 2012 and forced about 140,000 people to flee their homes. Although they only held the town for about three weeks, they successfully humiliated the Congolese national army and the UN peace-keeping force. (Following this the UN Security Council authorized the UN to shoot back – i.e. fight rebels – which previously they had not been allowed to do.)

The war has taken a terrible toll. We are working in a community about 120km from Goma: someone who works there said that there were 100 road blocks on the road, each one manned by a different militia or gang. Even allowing for exaggeration, that’s a pretty big turn-off. In the villages we will be working with there are about 1400 women whom a USAID health project is helping to recover from being raped by the combatants. In all, they are working with 30,000 women in the two Provinces of North and South Kivu.

Imagine my surprise, then, as I come back to the new Goma. Beautiful broad, tarred roads, with newly planted palm trees, set in flowerbeds and little lawns in the medians of the dual carriageways. And the shops: some seriously cool boutiques, a fancy French bakery/ patisserie, and some plush banks. Beautiful houses on the lake: houses that on Lake Como would go for millions.

It’s no secret, of course, that the money which sustains this prosperity comes from the international community’s responses to the on-going conflict. The UN is here in force, of course: the UN in all its guises – refugees, peace keeping, women’s matters, development, etc; and the big donors, USAID and the British UK Aid. Not to mention the charities, Oxfam, Save the Children, CARE, Médecins sans frontières etc. Little ones too – too many to mention, such as War Child, Age Concern. Walking around it is as if every other building holds one or other of them.

There’s a sort of pecking order in the donor community. At the top are those with serious massive four wheel drives, with air intakes above the windscreen so that they can drive through rivers. In front they have massive bull bars to which is attached a bendy long aerial for their radio communications. On the top of their aerial they have a flag stating who they are, which it is hoped will protect them from enemy actions. The men inside have that careworn, but confident tough guy mien that I suspect they share with long-term war correspondents.

Those lower down the ladder also have fancy 4 x 4s, but without the radio antenna and bull bars. Their logos are always proudly pasted on the sides. The occupants allow themselves to look more like social workers than soldiers, and like to demonstrate their links with the locality by employing local staff.

At the bottom of the chain are short-timers, like me, and who are being driven around in a local 4 x 4 taxi. They try to hide their nerves while marvelling at the chaos and poverty.

Goma's not just disaster: it's also famous for its wooden wheelbarrows/scooters. They're typically used by tough young men to carry huge bags of wood or maize, as well as a nice toy when going down hill. I tried to get photos of them, but failed to get anything decent. Imagine my surprise when I saw one in the foyer of our one-time hotel.

All in all an interesting place. Before coming I met someone who had recently moved here from Kinshasa.

“Much nicer than Kinshasa,” she said.

I blinked, but my efforts to hide my doubts were in vain.

“Wait and see,” she said.

Nicer than Kinshasa – not quite – but OK. I could live here. I’d get danger pay . . .