There are no travel guides to the Congo. This came as
somewhat of a shock to me, as I had always thought
that the indispensable Lonely Planet guides, which
I've used for years, covered just about every country
on earth.
But no. Not the Congo.
So on the Air France flight from Paris to Brazzaville
(Congo's capital), I was understandably eager to speak
to anyone who knew about the country. As luck would
have it, the two rough looking British guys sitting in
front of us were divers for Exxon Total, laying
pipeline off the country's coast.
"So what can you tell me about the Congo?" I asked.
"Things to see, things not to miss, and so on."
I may as well have asked him to translate ancient
Greek. No idea. In fact, as soon as he heard that we
were "tourists," his eyes widened.
"If it were me I wouldn't leave the airport grounds
until my return flight," he stated. And his parting
words were something about seeing us on CNN. Oh boy.
The Brazzaville airport is very small. Only one
runway, which the plane had to use fully to slow down,
then do a 180 to return to the terminal. As we taxied
back I saw random people walking in the fields around
the airport grounds, presumably a shortcut to wherever
they were going. Not the most secure runway in the
world.
Apart from a couple of military cargo planes and
Russian troop helicopters, there was only one other
airliner: Air Gabon, Congo's neighboring country to
the north. We deplaned onto the tarmac and spent the
next hour sweating through the loud chaos and
confusion of immigration. Even the immigration
official thought we were transiting through
Brazzaville and was surprised to hear that it was our
final destination for tourist purposes. There are no
tourists in the Congo. None.
Our uncle Bernard has been living in the Congo off and
on since 1993, including some very tense years during
the civil war in 1998. A prolific writer, it was here
while directing plays that he met his wife Felie, and
they currently reside in Brazzaville with our two
cousins, Arthus (10 years old) and Ulysse (5 years
old).
During the recent civil war, the north essentially
(and literally) raped and pillaged the south. In
Brazzaville, the districts housing southern
inhabitants were forced out (if not killed outright).
The entire neighborhood where Bernard lives still
bears the scars of this conflict, with many buildings
still damaged from tank shells, bullets and grenades.
Bernard's entire house was pillaged, to the point of
even taking the tiles off the floor and electrical
wiring from the walls. Grenades were exploded in the
ceilings to check for hidden valuables. It was only
sheer luck that Bernard was not there when the
soldiers came, and he spent a year or so with his
family taking refuge in other areas of the city under
cramped, sparse and difficult conditions, catching
some serious cases of malaria and dysentery along the
way.
On Saturday Arthus took us out for a visit of the
city. Stretched out along the Congo river, Brazzaville
faces Kinshasa, the capital city of Zaire (now
confusingly called the Democratic Republic of Congo--a
country far from democratic and embroiled in bitter
war). Kinshasa, with some 8 million inhabitants, has
triple the population of the entire Congo, a country
with only 4 million or so residents. Brazzaville is a
considerably smaller city with about 800,000
inhabitants.
In the West African market, Pascal filmed while I took
pictures. Rows and rows of small shops selling
everthing from cloth to shoes. But the main attraction
for me was the amazing display of vividly colorful
African garb worn by the shoppers themselves, from
bright yellows to reds to greens to elaborately
patterned outfits. Truly stunning.
And then we hit our first snafu. Several locals
accosted us and started asking for our papers, asking
for documentation that we were allowed to film or
photograph. As we started discussing, several
policemen joined, plus scores of curious onlookers. We
were completely surrounded.
The conversation got a little heated, and we were led
by one of the officers toward the police station (I
had no problem with this as it took us away from the
unruly crowd). At the gates of the station, I refused
to enter without calling Bernard first. I know well
from experience that in a third world country your
problems magnify by orders of magnitude once you're
actually in police custody. This was nothing more than
a shakedown, and I didn't want to have to pay off the
whole local police infrastructure to resolve the
situation.
Plus, it's important to note that the policemen in the
Congo are for the most part the same militia brigands
who had conducted the worst of the raping and killing
during the war, many corrupt to the core. Not exactly
your friendly neighborhood protectors.
Luckily, Bernard was able to strike the fear of God
into the officer, invoking the name of Brazzaville's
mayor (not a man known for gentle treatment) if he had
to come down to resolve the situation. Bullies
understand well the simple language of threats. A few
dollars exchange for the officer's troubles and we
were free to roam once again.
At night the streets come alive. While many areas are
pitch black from electricity blackouts, certain bars
have generators, blaring African music over bright
lights and bottles of beer.
In one area not far from Bernard's house, the local
market moves from a covered area across the street to
an open air area, and each shopkeeper's table is lit
by a single candle. This creates a surreal visual
effect, with customers as shadows moving between the
tables. The location and tables of the daytime market,
meanwhile, become center stage for the world's oldest
profession, sans candles...
Pascal and I went barhopping with Bernard, Felie, and
Gilles, a wild and crazy southern Frenchman working on
a project with Bernard. While this particular brand of
African music wasn't exactly my cup of tea (reminded
me of salsa), Pascal, Felie and Gilles spent hours on
the dance floor, dancing the night away.
Sunday we all boarded a 12-man ferry boat and headed
upriver to a development site that Bernard and Gilles
have been preparing as an eco-tourist destination.
It's going to be called the Parc Malamine. Until that
time, however, I've renamed it the Mosquito Coast!
To access the beach in front of the 125 meter sand
cliffs, a path had to be cut across thick floating
grass. While the local fishermen had been hired to
clear the way, they hadn't exactly completed the job.
We spent several hours hooking large chunks of
floating grass and dragging them back out into the
river with the boat.
Several hours later, though, we realized that we
wouldn't make it all the way to the beach before
nightfall (aka the mosquito invasion hour). We
anchored the boat and were introduced to the world's
smallest canoes.
Made out of one thin carved out tree trunk and barely
wide enough for me to sit in (and I'm not exactly
wide-hipped!), this long boat floats just a few inches
off the water. One small lateral movement and in the
water you go.
Defying the laws of physics, the paddler rows standing
up, sometimes two of them working together in the
front and back of the canoe. We had only one paddler
in ours, with four passengers. I didn’t dare try
standing and rode in a squat clutching the side of the
canoe with one hand and my camera bag with the other.
While I can swim, my camera cannot and I’m just glad
I’m not prone to ulcers. The Congolese passenger in
front of me, however, looked like she was on the verge
of a nervous breakdown.
The waterways were narrow and twisting, often giving
the impression that we were floating directly through
tall grass. With the cliffs as a backdrop, if you
could take time to simply enjoy the scenery it was
remarkably pretty.
On the beach Bernard and Gilles have cleared an area
of shrubbery and set up a small camp to spearhead the
construction of their site. Once completed, the
initial customers will primarily be residents of
either Brazzaville or Kinshasa coming for the day for
a picnic in a gorgeous nature environment. Eventually,
as international tourism grows (from the current
nothing), the site can also serve as an eco-tourist
destination for out of country visitors.
Because of its location right below the equator,
sunrise and sunset in the Congo happen with remarkable
speed. One minute the sun is there; next thing you
know it’s gone. Six o’clock morning and evening all
year round.
And at night, the vampires come out.
Thousands of mosquitoes took wing at dusk, and as the
only humans within miles, we looked to them like a
particularly tasty all-you-can-eat buffet. We’d
overstayed our daytime visit and it was high time to
make a hasty exit.
The canoe ride back was worse. Apart from the normal
anxiety about tipping over at any second like on the
ride out, we now had to deal with swarms of
blood-sucking insects moving in for the kill. And it’s
not just about being bitten, which is annoying more
than anything else. It’s malaria that’s the real
concern. Entirely transmitted by mosquito bites, this
vicious illness is highly dangerous and one of the
leading causes of death in the region. There is no
vaccine, and although Pascal and I are taking strong
pills for it, they only minimize the impact—they don’t
prevent it.
So being bitten was something that everyone was
concerned about. And let me tell you, sudden hand
movements to swat mosquitoes in a little canoe that
looks about ready to tip over any minute are not good!
But it gets worse. This particular canoe had a leak,
with water progressively rising inside. God only knows
what it was doing on the water. I had the only scoop,
so in addition to clutching the side of the canoe in
the usual grip of terror, plus holding on to my camera
bag, I also had to spend the whole time bailing water
so that we didn’t sink!
This meant that I really couldn’t deal with the
mosquitoes, and boy did they take advantage. The
person behind me did try to help, as I felt the
occasional smack on my back (either that or they just
liked to hit me!) Nevertheless, by the time we took
off on the boat I was pretty chewed up. My feet
especially, where the DEET must have rubbed off from
the water, seemed to have a neon sign announcing “eat
here!” I counted over 50 bites on my right foot alone.
Great.
The ride back toward Brazzaville at night was
interesting. Michel, the boat owner, was testing out a
new pilot, and the first mate was a fellow he had
previously fired for stealing gasoline.
Their lack of experience became abundantly clear when
the boat grounded itself in the middle of the river.
Currently at its low point, the river is very wide but
often exceptionally shallow in places, and we hit an
underwater sandbar in the middle of the river.
Bernard and several others jumped into the river to
push the boat away. Although we were literally in the
middle of the river a few thousand feet from either
shore, the water reached only to below their knees. In
the bright moonlight as they walked around the boat it
looked like they were walking on water. Very
otherworldly.
Back on land, we were ready for our next set of
adventures...
