Makes a change

We’d planned the trip before, and twice had had to cancel it. Third time lucky?

We arrived in Goma full of hope, and ready to jump, the next day, into the tiny plane that would take us to our rather remote destination.

“I’m sorry,” our host said – the manager of a new mine that we were working with – “there’s been a problem. There’s no flying today, because the Governor has closed the airstrip, but hopefully it will be resolved tomorrow.”

That gave us a day of reflection. We manage to manufacture a couple of meetings and have a two hour lunch with an old colleague, but by the end the day were feeling rather frustrated.

“The trip’s on,” said our host, phoning from Kinshasa. “There’s just one problem. The normal air strip is still closed, but you will be able to fly to another one. From there to your destination will be a drive of about five hours. See you at the airport.”

We meet at the airport as planned, he just back from Kinshasa, and us about to depart.

“Tell us more about the drive,” we ask.

“Well . .   its through Simba country,” he said, “but we’re sure it will be fine.”

Simba is a notorious gang of bandits who have held that part of the country to ransom for years.

“Don’t worry about them,” he said, “now they have been redeployed as park rangers to guard the huge new game park to the West.”

“Anyway,” he added, “we will have police to escort you, and you’ll be in a convoy.”

His assurances were not quite positive enough to convince us that nothing could happen. It was two weeks ago that two Britons had been kidnapped in the same province by a nameless gang – maybe it was the very same Simba?? To reinforce our unease, I was reading in the Economist about kidnap insurance which is apparently big in Latin America and Nigeria. Maybe we have overlooked something.

The flight started out in a novel way. When taking off, we were half way down the runway when the pilot slammed on his brakes. I’ve never been in a plane that did that before. It was a real jolt. Then he quickly turned round and went onto a taxiway. Apparently a Congo Airlines flight was landing and the air traffic control had said nothing – or our pilot hadn’t bothered to ask . . Anyway, the other plan landed (it was much much bigger than ours, so we would have come off much worse) and we took off feeling slightly chastened. Within the hour we were landing on a fine gravel air strip. Waiting to meet us were three Toyota Land Cruisers and quite a lot of police. Each car was assigned two policemen.

So we drove and drove. The road was amazingly good, tarred most of the way, running through virgin forest with little villages dotted along it at regular intervals. We reach a huge river which is the boundary between Maniema and North Kivu Provinces. There is a border post here, even though we are still in the Congo. So our passports had to be carefully scrutinised, and the details written laboriously in a Dickensian ledger.

Our trip continues for a total of 280km. In that distance there is not a single cross road, and until we reach our destination town we see only one building with glass windows. Everything looks desperately poor. But in spite of that the school children are all smartly dressed in blue and white uniforms.

Along the road there are lots of billboards. In fact, multiple copies of two billboards. The first has pictures of gorillas on it and urges the population not to kill, eat or trade in them as they are “our heritage”. The second is targeted at people who eat wild animals, and features a market stall with bits of crocodile, monkey and other less identifiable stuff. The stall is being looked at in disgust by a woman who says “bush meat is dangerous, you can get diseases from it”. (Unstated, but obvious, Ebola).

We arrive at about 7.30 at the mission where we shall be staying. Our guide says he stayed there for more than a year. My room has a very simple bed, two shelving units with rusty nails from which one can hang stuff, a toilet bowl plonked unceremoniously in the middle of the room, and a shower. “Sorry,” says the caretaker, “no water.” But there is a plastic jerry can you can use for washing or flushing the loo. The wall had been white many years ago, and was pitted with holes and smears of I don’t know what. One couldn’t help thinking that they should put some of their income into making the rooms more inviting.

Supper is a communal affair with the priest sitting at one end and leading us in grace.

We’re asked what we would like to drink. The boss, being very tentative, and seeing nothing else, says “water”. I decide to rely on Catholic tolerance of alcohol and ask for beer. “Of course” they said and the boss quickly changed his mind. They asked what type we liked, and about twenty minutes later it was there – they had gone into town to buy it for us.

The food was served in pans along the centre of the table, and very nice home cooking it was too. The priest, a jolly friar tuck type, enjoyed a good political discussion and the evening went quickly.

Breakfast was a bit simple – no coffee, but we had English Breakfast Tea from India “For United Nations Use Only: Not for Resale” said the packet, and there were fresh rolls and margarine so at least we had something.

That morning we got to discussing the geography of our destination. It is 230 kilometres from Goma, but the road is very very bad. It could have been repaired, at least to the extent that you could get four-wheel drive vehicles through, but another set of bandits make the route too dangerous to even contemplate.

“How did you get these cars here?” we asked.

“They had to drive through Kisangani. It was 3000km. That’s the only road.”

We visit the local government representatives and several charitable projects. Wherever we are, whether at the mission, on the road, or at meetings, the two police are there, quietly guarding us. They both have AK 47s slung around their shoulder, but jump up as soon as we appear and are very keen to help with carrying bags. They say nothing. Ever. The mission staff take the food out to them after we have eaten, and they sit in a gazebo while they eat.

That night we go to the mine camp where we will sleep in tents. There must be about 50 of them, in clusters of four, with a roof of plastic sheeting to protect them and keep them cool. The atmosphere is very much all-male, rough and ready, and we get baked beans and bacon for breakfast. This is unheard of in the Congo outside smart hotels. The caterers are South African, so that explains it . . .

The next day we have the same journey back to the airstrip. Two planes arrive, carrying cargo for the mine. But they have kept a few seats, and in addition to our team of three and a mine representative there are our two policemen. Their job is done, but guarding us has its perks.