While on the plane, seeing Roger find a magazine behind the seat in front of him that was dated from 1989, and the thought that firstly, the plane was that old (the laminate wood effect interior should have given it away) and that maybe the plane hadn't been cleaned in that long.
Flying from Entebbe in Uganda, I was awestruck at the beauty of Lake Albert and the steepness with which the hills fell away into the lake. On the Congolese side, from the air the hills looked like they were covered in thick moss with steep river valleys calved their way into them.
On the approach to Bunia, my eye was caught by the well ordered grid in which the town was laid out - this said “welcome to French-speaking Africa' to me”. In contrast, Nairobi is very clearly British-speaking Africa, with the roads strung together in a rather haphazard way. Once we had landed and disembarked, the first thing I noticed was the Bangladeshi soldier sitting next to a high calibre machine gun and armoured personnel carrier - this is the town from which the UN's MONUC mission is based. Half the airport had UN written on it - it's a bit like when you're at school and your Mum writes your name on things; she doesn't want you to forget what you own. I wonder how much the UN would misplace if they didn't label?
Bunia Airport terminal was about the size of a large bungalow. It was a bit dank, and on the TV there was a Kenyan soap opera airing. We were lead through to a little room where we had to each pay $25 because the passports had not been used in Congo (or maybe just at that airport) before.
At customs, men search men's bags, women search women's – here it seems that there is an undercurrent of superstition present.
On leaving the airport, we skirted the town and headed north on roads of compacted mud. There was normally a channel calved by rainwater down one half of the road, and it was rather bumpy. We were in a 4x4; our bags were in a pick-up truck.
On the way we passed the site of an alleged mass grave, caused by peacekeepers that had been weary of local gatherings and misread scenes, such as church gatherings.
Had to stop at a police check point - across the road was a rope and on the left, three men with guns and on the right a group of mud-walled and thatched-roofed huts. What were they after - $6 in road tax. As we were in a church-owned car our local colleague talked us through as church related journeys are exempt.
We arrived 45 minutes (and 15 kilometres) from Bunia at the conference centre.
On the Sunday I walked with three colleagues through the village. We greeted possibly 500 people and saw a few pick-up trucks carrying about twenty folks apiece - there were even people reclining on the bonnet, leaving just enough space for the driver to peer between them. One woman told us (in French) that before the war it had been common to see white people walking round - we felt humbled - I think that's the right word - at the thought that by simply being there, someone would remember back to normalcy and wonder if it had finally returned.
On the Wednesday I left to return to Nairobi. An hour of travelling got me back to Bunia, though to the high street where some of Congolese workers went to by fish - or rather a massive lump of fish, cut up with a panga (machete) - I've never seen any fish so chunky in my life (other than a porpoise), and in Eastern Congo it’s likely to be fresh water. It was at this point that a phone call came to tell them that their plane was already waiting at the airport, so they dashed off in one vehicle, and I went to spend an hour or two at the local university campus. It was great to see such vibrant campus with so many people crammed in. As it was by now lunchtime, we slowly ate through the Pringles I had bought at the duty-free store in Entebbe.
When I finally reached the airport I had to pay taxes to leave - about $125. Just the previous Monday, a new tax of $10 had been added to the cost. What's unnerving is that dollars are not the currency of DRC and there are no cash machines anyway - quite how you are meant to leave the country if you do lose your possessions is anyone's guess.
The journey back to Entebbe was in a small a 6-seater Cessna 205 (that’s not a Peugeot if you’re wondering). As I am disappointingly light and underweight, I was relegated to the back row where you cannot really sit upright or stretch your legs. The flight was just over an hour. On getting near to Entebbe, flying over Lake Victoria, there was a whole cluster of islands that looked like green bubbles on the water - wonderfully bizarre.
And so that was my trip – a wonderful adventure. Such a beautiful country. So big. You cannot help but wonder why it had to be subjected to so much hardship over the years.
