Rumble In The Jungle

Nebbi (Uganda) --> Mahagi --> Bunia --> Kisangani --> Beni --> Butembo --> Goma --> Bukavu --> Cyangugu (Rwanda)

First the obvious: why head to DRC? Quite by coincidence I mete here, at Backpackers Kampala a couple of guys who had done just that. One, Zak from the USA, had spent three months cycling through Congo from Kinshasa to Uganda and a second, Brett, an Australian miner, had visited with a view to doing some mining and prospecting there. I picked up a whole lot of important details and learned that yes, it was quite safe one the whole, despite the British FCO recommendation to 'do not visit eastern and north-eastern Congo'. It's just a recommendation, right?

First step, getting the visa. This is very simple and the visa is delivered next day by the embassy in Kampala. There was, however, a small hitch: the price of the visa listed on the price list was less that what the lady wanted to charge me. 'I know Australia and New Zealand are not in Europe,' she noted, as Europe pay more than 'Rest of the World' and the US and Canada pay the most, 'however we charge them the same price as Europe.' Even though the price list doesn't say this. After a short discussion I was told to take it or leave it, so I took it. I mentioned this to a fellow traveller at Backpackers, Temoris from Mexico, a journalist. When he went to get his visa (to visit Goma) he had to repeatedly explain that he wasn't really from the USA and still found that, damn it, he had been given the payment form for the USA to take to the bank anyway (he got it changed). Coincidence? I dunno.

Getting to Congo is likewise remarkably easy: there are about four or five border crossings with Uganda alone, and another two with Rwanda. I chose to go through at Mahagi, across the border from Nebbi. There's no public transport for the final few kilometres to the border so I hired a motorcycle taxi to get me there. Waiting to get stamped out a UN truck with a load of UN soldiers from somewhere around India is going the other way. Bizarrely, the Congo side of the border is not a few hundred yards away, but more like ten kilometres away. I hired another motorcycle taxi and am taken to the Congo immigration post.

A simple procedure, getting a stamp in a passport, took a while. Aside from the fact that there were about five officers sitting around with nothing to do, and hence keen to chat, they also required me to fill in a form called a 'Fiche de Renseignement', listing the usual (name, number, etc) for Congolese security. And, for the pleasure of completing the form I have to pay $20. Really? Just at the border, they say, nowhere else. After a lot of discussion it's apparent that I won't get stamped in otherwise and have to stump up. Next stop: the health office to register my vaccination certificate details.

The lady doing the vaccination certificate registration is proof for me that nepotism is a way of life in Congo: there is no way that she got the job due to her wits and intelligence alone. I enter her shack and show her my certificate: registration costs 5000 Ugandan shillings, she notes. (Ugandan shillings are the preferred currency in this part of Congo). Then 5000 Shillings ($2.50) becomes $5, silly her, what a mistake to make. Naturally I don't believe her but she starts to look through my yellow fever vaccination details. Looking at the date of vaccination - 13 mai 2008 - she notes that 13 months (13 mois, which looks similar to 13 mai) has already passed! I explain that she's looking at the date of vaccination, not its expiration. Ah, reacts health officer, you're vaccinated until 2018, how good. She fills in her exercise book and then asks for her $5 whereas I take my vaccination certificate and passport and leave: now I'm registered, why pay?

I get my stamp, customs confirm that they don't care about me and I go the final few kilometres to Mahagi and find, just at the entrance to town a makeshift roadblock: a thin piece of rope tied from the central roundabout to the side of the road. There's a large tyre, the sort that you'd normally find on a big digger, by the roundabout, burning with great heat and lots of smoke. One of the guys manning the roadblock comes up to me and explains that they're all students and they'd wouldn't mind a voluntary, discretionary donation before letting me pass. I'm pondering what to do when a man in a big new 4x4 drives up and hands what looks like 5000 shillings ($2.50) and is immediately let through. I give the same, the student's delighted and wants me to go through and enjoy my stay. I'm in Mahagi.

Mahagi is typical small border town and quite pleasant. There's enough going on to hold someone's interest for a while so I had enough to keep me going for a while. First, look for transport to Bunia, my first planned stop. Just finding the 'bus station' was a little more difficult than I expected, simply because it's a small dusty parking lot with no buses or taxis in it. Looking around a local soldier, Commander Pem he calls himself (although his real name is a lot longer), shows me to the local bus office. Sorry, no buses until Sunday. It's Friday now. 'Best wait for a pickup,' says Pem, and takes me to the bus station. Local kiosk holders were intrigued and very helpful; someone finds me a chair and finds me a place in the shade. The local pastor - wearing a delightful, bright robe - walks past and stops to welcome me to Congo. One local kiosk owner takes me to a cheap market restaurant for a meal and insists on paying for me. Back at the bus station hours pass and, as the day draws to a close I find a nearby hotel / disco and get a room.

A new day and the same process: wait for a pickup. For a while nothing happens but then some news - there's a 4x4 which is heading to Bunia, I can get a seat for $20 (the pickup costs $15) so yes, Hell yes, I'm going. And, for my troubles, get a comfortable seat in a new 4x4 which will take me all the way to Bunia. The journey was pleasant along sometimes bumpy dirt road past rolling hills and grassy plain. We stop several times: once for the driver to buy a live chicken, sometimes for the driver to register his vehicle and again at Djugu - a major police post, complete with derelict prison - for everyone to register our journeys.

After traveling most of the day we arrive at Bunia and I'm dropped off at the edge of town. After a while I find the hotel recommended to me - Hotel Bunia and check in. Bunia is a major UN and humanitarian aid base with a bit of town thrown in. The UN base, guarded by guys in blue helmets with big guns, dominates the south end of town. Other agencies - Solidaritie, Cooperazione Internationale, Medicins Sans Frontieres, WFP and many others that I've never heard of - are all dotted around town near the UN. The UN soldiers here are truly international: from Algeria, Chad, Pakistan and Bangladesh. Outside of the main road that runs through Bunia the rest of the town is a melange of shacks and kiosks spreading over the nearby hills. I spent a good deal of time walking around taking it all in. There is a market, although it is very run down and mostly empty.

As I took photos in Bunia there was one instance where I took a photo and a man came out of a kiosk that I had photographed. 'I'm from security,' he said and, when I looked sceptical, took out an ID. It looked impressive - Department of Internal Affairs etc. - although there was something wrong. The lamination had largely come off, the photo looked dodgy (a guy's portrait but with his grinning face half turned to the side). I covered the name on the ID and asked him what his name was. 'Can I have my ID back?' he asks. 'Sure, but what is your name?' He asks for his ID and then grabs it and tries to wrestle it back, by this time laughing. I smiled and said 'Vous connissez pas votre nom?' and left.

Bunia is just south of a major gold mining region in Congo and, not long after arriving I found a couple of other white guys there (mostly the hotel was full of local aid workers doing stuff on their laptops). I introduce myself and find that they are Stephen and Jeff, ex-pat Americans living in Nairobi. Stephen's a freelance photojournalist and Jeff is his friend and helper; they're here in Bunia to make a film about the gold mining here. The day I met them they have been to a small village north of Bunia to find the story and been stopped by police: why were they there? After four hours of interrogation - mainly spent negotiation the fine - they left after paying a $35 fine (bribe), reduced from $400, for being in a sensitive area without permission. They next sorted out permission however the next afternoon, as we were drinking some beers, a local chap walks in: he has 10kg of gold in his family owned and operated gold mine which he wants to sell ... does anyone want to buy it and give him a bit of commission? The story had found Stephen and Jeff and they recorded an interview there in the bar before arranging to visit his mine the next day. On their way back to Kenya they were going to stop in Uganda and make a film about child sacrifice, already commissioned, although they weren't expecting these interviewees to be so forthcoming.

After a few days I caught the next bus to Kisangani, a town 700km west of Bunia. To get there I had to catch a shuttle to the town of Komanda and then catch the coach coming north from Beni. The coach ride was again pleasant and passed some pleasant scenery and a few hours later I was dropped off in Komanda, a remarkably small town yet one on the crossroads between Kisangani, Bunia and Beni. I find the waiting area and then, literally minutes after getting off the bus, an old man with a wide-brimmed hat and wearing a loud shirt stops to talk to me. 'I'm from security,' he tells me before asking me where I've come from and where I'm going. I tell him - in French - however, he seems to not understand and tells me that I should speak French to him, he doesn't understand English. In the end I give up and leave him to find food. Just as I'm finishing eating another man comes into the restaurant, introduces himself as being from the immigration service and asks me to come to his offices. He has no ID and after I ask him repeated just gets angry and says he'll arrest me. So I go along and meet Chief: 'Here,' he says, 'fill in this form'. After completing the form he rubs his fingers together. I refuse and for a long while after we argue about how much he wants and why. Basically, as I didn't know exactly when the bus would come I had the choice of either paying $10 or maybe missing a $50 bus ride so common sense prevailed. The guys at the bus ticket office were surprised and annoyed at what had happened when I told them.

The ride to Kisangani from Komanda is long, very long. The journey took 21 hours on the way and about 18 hours coming back (although I returned to Beni, not Bunia). This excluded the overnight rest break that the driver took, often in small villages with limited hotel space meaning that most passengers had to sleep on the bus. The view during the journey is remarkably similar: jungle. Lots of jungle. There is very little else to see - villages, perhaps better described as hamlets of no more than a dozen huts - are often cut into the forest by the side of the road and very occasionally you find a proper village with services. It was at one of these villages that I, sitting on the bus, saw a young man drive down the road towards the bus on his motorcycle. He sees me, stops, stares at me for a few seconds and then quickly turns his motorbike around and speeds off. I know where he's going and, sure enough, a few minutes later he returns with a uniformed immigration officer on the back of his bike. Motorbike driver stops and continues to stare at me and I stare back. The immigration officer boards the bus and makes a lame attempt to pretend that he's not interested in me and, oh, hello, a foreigner on the bus! 'Where am I going? Where have I come from? Can he see my passport?' (I speak English to him to waste time). 'Hmmm, you need to come and register.' However, the bus is almost ready to go and the passengers boarding tell immigration man quite bluntly that no, actually I don't need to register because I'm in transit and the bus is about to go now so please kindly sod off. Good news, I learned the rule and found that impatient fellow passengers are a blessing.

Arrival at Kisangani and, yes, registration. Not at the immigration office, not yet at least, just some guys with exercise books listing the passengers' details before they leave the bus offices. I wait with the rest, including Leon, a passenger who's friendly and happy to help. During this wait I notice that the man registering passengers gets an occasional small cash gift (usually a few hundred francs, 900 Fr = $1) for quick treatment. The man registering sees that I see and simply raises his eyebrows at me: 'what? This is normal,' he seemed to be saying. He registers me and asks if I have anything to give him - I ask what he had in mind and how much and, to my surprise, he made a joke of it and asked for my tent. I think it was a joke because all the other passengers laughed and then he let me pass without paying but I'm not completely sure.

I found my hotel, the Casa de Bati out in the suburbs, recommended to me by Brett the Australian miner. I'm given four copies of a registration form - four bloody copies! - don't worry, fill out one but sign all four and we'll copy out the other three. After the bus ride I'm stuffed and have an early night. The next morning I'm asked for the forms and, going downstairs to the porch, find a man from security: passport? why am I here? why this hotel and not one in the city centre? Brett told you about it - I remember Brett, long hair to here? No problems.

Next to the immigration office to register: here no excuses, a $20 fee will be asked and no way of dodging it. However a line of questioning that wasn't entirely unexpected. Brett, bless him, had run foul of the Congolese authorities for visiting a village he shouldn't have and for his plans to prospect. By complete coincidence, Kisangani is smack in the middle of a diamond mining area and, yes, people smuggle diamonds (I heard about an Indian man in the news who was stopped at Kinshasa airport with 8kg of diamonds in his luggage - he paid a $100,000 fine). 'Are you here to buy diamonds?' Of course not, I explained. 'The truth, monsieur, what are you here to do?!' The same reply. After paying the $20 the immigration man asks me for some money: he needs to buy petrol for his motorbike. What to do? I could pay nothing and maybe get some harassment back or I could pay and get marked out for being soft and asked again (and again). After a few minutes of thinking I give him a few extra dollars? Could I give him $10? No, that's enough.

This aside, I quite enjoyed Kisangani. Through the hotel (and Brett) I met a young English teacher called Jean-Paul who showed me around. We took in a local football match at the Stade Lumumba a game of high pace and not such good skill, although played and watched with passion. Local fans were segregated and the highly favoured AS Nika drew 1-1 against their tougher-than-expected opposition. Entry cost 1500 Fr - not bad for nearly two hours of entertainment. Aside from this the other entertainment was self-made, simply reading, relaxing or walking around. I was surprised by the number of diamond exchanges and shops - 'Diamont achats' - were present around town, considering how sensitive the security seem to be about it all.

Having also met Leon on the bus I met him again a couple of times for drinks and so on. 'What am I doing tomorrow?' he asks one Saturday. No plans at all, so he invites me to his church for a service. Why not? I went for the spectacle, as an interested observer, rather than to find God although I didn't tell Leon this. The church was big and contained a complete band: lead and bass guitars and drums were all present along with several microphones for singers. The dials were all turned to 11 so distortion was sadly all too present. The service started with singing: lots of it. The lyrics were highly repetitive and often a chorus was sung four or five times per song. After the singing would anyone new here stand up and introduce him or herself. I introduced myself (Leon helping, I think I wasn't speaking loudly) and Frere Stephen was welcomed to the church. The service, given by a guest pastor called Samuel Waka, was called 'Two Kings, Two Kingdoms' and involved Samuel shouting as loudly as possible into his microphone whilst stabbing the air repeatedly with his free finger. Samuel's wife, who speaks English, kindly joined me to translate what he was saying which was good because any French I would have understood was pulverised by his shrieking and the microphone distortion. Sam noted how much God loves us - should we accept him into our hearts etc. - and emphasised the alternative: Revalations 20:15 - 20. Yep, there's a lake of fire waiting.

Beni was next and, like Bunia, a large UN base is smack in the centre of town. It is small and not unpleasant although there really wasn't much happening there. I found a cheap hotel and registered with immigration - another form to complete and another $20 - and had a look around. There's a decent enough market and some nearby hills which I walked up which gave decent views of the town. Coming back from the market a large crowd has gathered in the middle of the road around a UN jeep which is stopped in the road. Getting closer I see that the jeep has pulled out in front of a motorcycle causing an accident. The soldiers, whom I later learned were Jordanian special forces, weren't so special.

I also met a UN worker outside of a "maison de change" and he said he came from a large town in southern Congo (the next biggest after Kinshasa), just north of Zambia. He told me that there everything is fine - electricity 24/7, running water everywhere and good transport, although it's 'quite expensive' - basically making the point that this border region, which took the brunt of the civil war fighting, was not really representative of Congo. He also claimed that the Jordanian special forces were in no way responsible for the car accident which lessened his credibility somewhat.

My plan was to head next to Goma however there is no direct transport from Beni so I took a shared taxi to the town of Butembo a few hours to the south. The scenery was decent and Butembo, looking like a large Beni (but without the UN base) was worth a walk around. Again I went to immigration to register and found, to my surprise, that registration is free there (no form to fill in). The immigration man was very friendly but that didn't stop him politely asking for a voluntary donation so I gave him a few dollars. In Butembo I also met a plain-clothes security man - just a spot check to make sure that I'd registered - and bought my ticket to Goma in a minivan.

The next morning the mini-van's almost ready to go and another plain-clothes security man - another security check, another confirmation that I had registered at the DGM (Direction Generale de Migration).

The ride to Goma was fantastic: the scenery was stunning starting with big rolling hills and some forest before morphing into some even bigger hills, often with terraced farming covering the hillsides and picture perfect villages perched on top. Normally in Africa when you pass through a village, even in a bus or van, there's a chance to stop and but refreshments from local villagers. This is often drinks - water and soft drinks - biscuits, junk food and some fruit. In Congo things are a little different: perhaps as a throwback to Belgian colonial rule there are still boulangeries in Congo and so villagers here were selling freshly baked bread and cake and - surprise - big slices of fresh cheese. I bought a big lump of cheese for 500 Fr (just over $0.50) and some bread and had a fantastic breakfast on the go. The cheese was delicious, soft like edam or gouda. There was plenty of pineapple going around too so I had my fill of that.

Halfway to Goma we entered a large village only to find a procession moving slowly ahead of us in the same direction. There's quite a lot of people involved, all moving in single file, and many of them are wearing black plastic shopping bags on their heads. What the Hell's going on? A couple of young men come to the van and talk to the driver in their local lingo (Swahili or Lingala) and we end up moving at walking speed with the procession. Then the driver has a moment of inspiration: he finds a black plastic bag and puts it on his head too and attaches one to the windscreen wipers of the van. Somehow he ingratiates himself with the young men who were keeping us back and after 15 minutes we get past the procession and leave the village. I ask what happened: a local teacher had died and this was his funeral / memorial service. What were the plastic bags for? I have no idea, even to this day.

Adding to the pleasant views we drove directly through the Virunga National Park: the northern end was very hilly, same as outside the park, before we descend considerably onto a vast grassy and tree-covered plain. In the middle of the park there's a barrier and everyone has to get out and show their ID to pass before continuing. As I approach the barrier a man in a loud, colourful shirt pulls me aside: he's the head of immigration at this post and can he see my passport. He won't let anyone come too close and hear the conversation, waving them away with his little baton (a sign of authority not uncommonly found in east Africa). He checks the passport carefully and asks the usual questions then basically wants to know why I haven't already slipped him some cash. I play dumb - one of my fortes - and just as another passenger comes up to find out why I'm still not through the barrier ask Chief how much money he wants. My brilliant plan works: he's forced to deny that he really wants money and, ask there's no problem with the visa, has no reason to delay me. That doesn't stop him dead though: he waves other people away - who don't leave - before making a slow retreat. Within a minute the van driver and full complement of passengers have surrounded him and demand that he gives back my passport. He gives in, returns it before pretending it was all a big wheeze and acts all matey. We leave ...

... and ten minutes later arrive at another roadblock, the exit. Another passport check, this guy just asks me for a Fanta. The passengers tell him I don't speak French. Off again.

Goma. Goma that just over a decade ago was buried under lava and scoria. Recently there has been more volcanic activity, much to the consternation of whoever writes the FCO travel advice. Goma is still, much like Bunia and Beni, UN central with a massive supply base just out of town, an airport with regular UN flights and plenty of other humanitarian agencies. Central Goma is not overly exciting: a fairly dull, ugly town although the lava and scoria still clearly present makes it a little different. The 'suburbs' a few kilometres north of the centre are different: lava, and only lava. Roads are lava that have been smoothed over enough for vehicles to drive on. Minor roads and footpaths are just scoria - not fine scoria, lumps as big as your fist - left for people to walk over. People have built wooden shacks on sections of scoria and made their garden walls out of scoria. It's a strange and interesting sight and I would have photographed it but ...

... my luck had run out and I fell foul of the authorities. The rules in Congo are fairly clear (again according to the FCO): you need a permit to take photos and film. This rule, however, seems fairly poorly policed. In Goma, there's even a group of about a dozen local guys who all hang at the Rond-point de l'independance with their 35mm film cameras - old Pentaxes, Minoltas and the like. I paid one of these guys, Elie, who had already helped me find a reasonably priced hotel to accompany me for a few hours to take some photos of Goma. With a local photographer with me things can't go wrong. The next day Elie and I are walking to the port to buy me a ticket to Bukavu when a man on a motorcycle taxi pulls up, soon after joined by his colleague. He's security, I was seen yesterday taking photos: do I have my little bit of paper? Ooops. Elie, who actually took the photos, very quickly becomes worried and says that I should pay these guys off: if we go to the station we'll be up to our necks in it. So I cut a deal: $25 each to pretend it never happened. As they don't want to be seen taking money off me on the street we go to my hotel and - bless him - the reception, concerned for me, gets a policeman who's drinking tea at the hotel involved. All that means is that I now have to bribe three officials. Bugger.

My next big adventure is the ferry to Bukavu: it goes overnight arriving at 0700 the next day. I get a ticket - $10 in second class, a comfy chair rendered uncomfortable by a startling lack of leg room. Vendors are there: whole rolls of cheese for $5 were conspicuous by their presence. Once again I had to register my journey. Registration Man (RM) notes my details and passport information before asking for my tourist letter.
'That's my visa', I say.
'Ah', he lies, 'the visa is for travel but for tourism you need a special letter.'
'Really, I'm surprised that no-one at the DGM's pointed this out already', I reply.

He moves on. Do I have a camera? Of course. Do I have a permit? Not at all.
'Ah', he lies, 'you need a permit to have a camera here.'
'No, I need a permit to take photos and film', I point out.
'Not so', he counters, feeling like he's getting somewhere, 'you need a permit for a camera.'
'Really, I'm surprised that the security people I spoke to this morning didn't point this out'. I reply.

He moves on. There's a $5 registration fee. Locals are paying 300 Fr ($0.33) so I point that out. That's for locals only, he lies, noting that foreigners pay a little more. I need this guy to stamp and sign my ticket, which he still holds in his hand, so after complaining directly to no result I try a new tactic. 'I know it's hot here, and you're really thinking of a nice, cold Primus [beer]. That's what you want right now.' I say. To my surprise he laughs and says 'Alright then, give me 1000 Fr' ($1.10) which is the price of a beer. Done deal, I'm on the boat.

And at 0700 the next morning I'm at Bukavu being greeted by a uniformed DGM man. 'Come and register,' he invites. It's simple, he helps me and charges no money. The next day, walking around town, I hear a voice 'Hello Mr. Stephen,' it says. I turn and see a man, stop and say hello as he knows my name. Yes, it's the same man (but not in uniform). 'I'm from the port', he reminds me, before saying hello and shaking my hand. Why aren't the rest like him?

Still, that's just registering my arrival, I need to register my stay here too so I head to the DGM offices. I ask directions and, by a stroke of luck, I ask a DGM employee in plain clothes. He's happy to accompany me there. As we get close to the offices he notes that, as his job is to nab people who have not registered, he demands $5 from people he accompanies to the offices. 'Tough', I say, 'you're getting nothing.' That doesn't stop him asking several more times. We arrive at the offices and do the usual paperwork but then ... 'What's that in your pocket?' he asks, pointing at my UK passport. I explain, but he wants to see it: queue excitement in the office and a detailed study of both passports. They look keen so they're probably already thinking of the bribe they want. What else to do but complain, after all that's what innocent people do. So I complain bitterly and they go and see their chief. Soon I'm invited up. Cheif, sitting behind his desk is wearing a too-large, loud shirt and a baseball cap. He asks simple questions: where was I born? And the UK passport? Because of Mum and Dad. 'Not a problem,' he says, and explains the rules to his uneducated underlings. He confirms to them which pages of the passport they should photocopy and that the price is $10.

Later, copying done, I come to pay. $20 is demanded. 'Really, but the man upstairs said $10', I note, glad that I followed the earlier conversation. After a prolonged pause: 'OK, $10.' I leave, followed by the same man who brought me here. 'Don't forget that you need to pay me $5,' he reminds me. Now that I've registed everything's easy. 'You don't need $5,' I say. And the poor bugger ends up pleading for money. I try my trick again. 'You just really want a beer, don't you? Come on, let's go get a beer right now and I'll pay.' Then, to my surprise, he insists that he's a really important person - he's also a chief justice (some sort of judge). He shows me his badge and it's true, so now I know how the justice system works here - same as the immigration system. In the end I gave him a dollar to buy a beer with and he left me alone.

And what about Bukavu itself? It's the sort of town that, were it in Switzerland where it could easily be judging by the views, it'd be stuffed with tourists and hotels charging $100+ per night. It's not in Switzerland, the town is basic and rough around the edges (visually) although the lakeside location makes it pretty special nonetheless. I enjoyed walking around the lakeshore where there are a lot (really, really lots) of new houses being built by the waterfront, not unlike what's happening in Goma but in a much more pleasant location. There's UN in town: I saw Indian, Bolivian and Chinese soldiers also wandering around but no big base dominating the town like in Goma, Beni and Bunia.

And to finish my journey a simple and pleasing 3km walk to the Rwanda border around the lakeside. I arrived there 45 minutes after leaving the town centre, was stamped out without any problems and without paying anything else.