Bob's Blog

By Hook or By Crook

Feel the savagery, the utter savagery... all that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men. There's no initiation.. he has to live in the mist of the incomprehensible, which is also the detestable. And it has a fascination, too, that goes to work upon him. The fascination of the abomination... the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate.
—Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

Since planning the cycle trip to Cape Town, I'd always held a desire to traverse Africa, most especially the chance to cross the Congo, which held a fascinating appeal, one unmatched perhaps anywhere in the world. The allure of adventure held in the heart of Conrad's 'dark continent' was hugely enticing; to follow in the footsteps of the great explorers, such as H M Stanley and Livingstone, to experience at least some of what they had endured, to live a day through their eyes, this, this, is what made me leave the shores of England and seek the life I now led. But ambitions to cross into the Congo had ultimately always depended upon both time and motivation, a decision I would make after my arrival in sub-saharan Africa.

Motivation was easy - cycling through Uganda had reinforced the need to head to more adventurous parts - travel was just too easy, I was just a backpacker who happened to have the inconvenience of cycling to the next hangout, this I thought would become a standard story if I continued along the eastern side of Africa. The cycling was also becoming tiresome and after canoeing the length of the Thames River last year, thoughts moved towards reinvigorating my journey and the possibility of swapping my pedals for paddles and canoeing the navigable stretch of the mighty Congo river.

I met up with another cyclist in a small town in south western Uganda. Peter Gostelow was well on his way to becoming a legend of cycle touring, he had traversed Asia and Europe on previous trips and was now almost two years into his own African adventure. Peter had just traversed the Congo himself and, like me, harboured doubts towards eastern Africa - unsure his adventure would ever be the same again. He'd crossed into the Congo from the Central African Republic and took the classic river trip upstream as far as he could get. I would be planning to do the same, in reverse, but carry onto the DRC's capital Kinshasa, downstream and without the aid of an engine. Peter hooked me up with all his useful contacts and all the advice he could muster. After meeting Peter and discussing my journey with several other mad English adventurers, the trip was finalising itself - all seemed possible, by hook or by crook I would get to the Congo!

I arrived in the Congo in Goma, a dusty, ugly city that belies its idyllic setting on the beautiful Lake Kiva. Once a small Congolese town on the extremities of its border, Goma had taken a rapid evolution after floods of refugees had fled the genocide in neighbouring Rwanda and was now home to one of the biggest UN missions in the world. Goma is also part of the greater Kivus' region, perhaps one of the most unstable and volatile areas in the world, an area which all of Congo's recent wars stemmed.

Deliberating my route onward, through territory that comprised a variety of rebel groups, was proving to be a sticking point. To avoid cycling through deep FDLR (Hutu rebels who took part in the genocide) territory, I took a ferry across the lake, to the enchanting town of Bukavu, home to a thousand and one NGOs along with another big UN base. All the ex-pats were housed in the charming colonial district, segregated from the masses, a distinct separation, drawn away from the chaos of the town.

After immersing myself in the segregated bubble of NGO life in Bukavu, I found my presumptions of the Congo rapidly changing, or perhaps more accurately, reinforced with aplomb. A recent shooting of a Spanish MSF (doctors without borders) guy had everybody on the back foot; people were feeling the chill, the incident was not a robbery that had turned nasty, but rather it looked like MSF were specifically targeted.

In the Kivu region, the various NGOs constantly strove to increase their power and influence in areas affected by rebels, to provide aid to those they deemed most in need. But while the NGOs were armed with dollars, VIP contacts and a humanist attitude, the rebels were anded with with guns, lack of money and blood-soaked desperation.

Peter had just cycled the route where the MSF guy was shot down, along Lake Tanganyika, unaware of what happened... it was probably better he didn't know. This route was obviously out. Whilst I was less of a target on a bicycle, without an NGO banner plastered all over, thoughts of recent events would just consume me in fear, definitely not an option. So I spent the week visiting various 'security' advisors from various NGOs, discussing the various options and hoping to determine the safest possible route through the most dangerous territory in the Congo.

The result? A resounding 'no go'. I even considered loading my bike on to a truck and joining a convoy, but no convoy existed. The roads that had once existed during Belgium times had now been reclaimed by the forest, my plans were in serious jeopardy. The summary conclusion was to go back to Goma and take a road north, a road that was l000km out of my way, either that or take a flight. Was this time to surrender? I feel seriously dejected.

Fraught thoughts, to-ing and fro-ing, from risk to safety, adventure to stupidity, conquer to surrender. But I knew the reality was different, the NGOs and their security experts build the hype, the fear grows, manifests itself, until you can't leave your safe compound without 'security' people tailing you, guarding your every move. This was not the reality, danger did not lie in every step, it did not lurk in every corner, there must be a way through.

Luck eventually came in the shape of a group of South African mining prospectors. After a chance meeting in the swanky Orchid hotel, we struck up a conversation which quickly moved toward my trip and my onward route. They had been prospecting in and around Kindu, a town on the Congo river, past the Kivus' and situated a relatively 'safe' area. They told of a path that was safe, no problems, the road was tough but doable (on a bike). The road would take me slightly in the wrong direction, but once I got to the river, I could take a boat up to my desired destination of Kisangani.

Advice from mining prospectors was definitely advice in which I had more faith; they lived in real world, they lived in the bush and didn't pander to 'security' problems. The prospectors took advice based upon the reality 'on the ground', making practical decisions based on current events, they were certainly not entrenched in compounds and living in fear. They too had to battle with rebel groups, but they were not scared to use their power -I was happy to live by their advice.

The mining prospectors and the NGOs attitudes were poles apart, both groups despised and derided the other, give versus take, realism versus idealism, but for now at least, I knew which side of the fence I needed to sit.

So I shook off my lingering doubts and took off through the mountains towards Kindu, my map showed a dashed purple road, I imagined it would get fairly tough once outside of Bukavu. The mining prospectors told me that past Kitutu (about 200km) the only vehicle access was via motorcycle, as the bridge was down, from there things were bound to be challenging. And so it proved. Whilst the first section was not paved, the road was OK, albeit with hard steep climbs.

The first night was one of many where I approached the local Catholic mission. Alter being led to the compound by an over eager motorcycle-taxi driver, a young German guy was led out. With my limited French, I was happy to see him. Nikol was working for a local NGO called the Green Helmets (as apposed to the blue, worn by the UN) and was helping build a school in a neighbouring village. The Catholic mission was apparently the only place to stay in town and the only place you could take a shower. I relaxed with a beer and retired to my tent.

I spent another night in a Catholic mission at the end of the next day in Kitutu, this time not quite so peaceful and relaxing. A huge electric storm hit, lightning striking down within what seemed like a whiskers distance from my tent. Rain lashed down and the wind was so fierce, it whipped around the courtyard shaking my tent back and forth until eventually my tent pole snapped. No more tent, no more camping.

The road after Kitutu disappeared, in places it narrowed to perhaps just half a metre, it was just a jungle track and I was pushing the overgrowth from my path on frequent occasions. Whilst it had not rained for seemingly some time, water trenches developed in the dank and dark places, boggy mud covering the tracks. Even motorbikes were becoming less and less frequent, I perhaps saw only one or two a day on the journey to Kindu.

The road was certainly not desolate and I encountered many other people, each at some stage of a long journey, often walking huge distances through the bush to the next village. People were usually hauling a variety of goods on their bicycle, which were always pushed, never ridden, for the road was just to hard and the loads too heavy.

Every night I approached the local church and I was always warmly received. There was an evident concern for security, people often asked of news from villages I had passed through, questioning whether the 'men from the forest' had come and attacked, referring to the FDLR rebels. From what I gathered and until rather recently, attacks were a frequent occurrence. The men always came at night, taking goats, money and whatever else they wanted. Just a month before, the FDLR had entered a small village that I had passed, and murdered four of their community. The torment of the people was striking, despite their warm and inviting facade.

The daily fear they lived their lives in, was to me incomprehensible, but they had to live and toil in these difficult circumstances, for they had nowhere else to go, no other life to lead. Recently government forces had pushed the FDLR deeper into the bush, but the situation was still volatile and things could change at a moments notice.

After many long and hard days, I finally escaped the clutches of the rebels and the dank dark confines of the jungle, I'd made it to the Congo river, a special moment on my journey. A place where many adventures had taken place in the past and where I would begin another chapter of my own.