We've all got a little of this phobia I think. It's been a while since I last wrote. 33 days left in the UK, then back to Kenya. I spent a couple of weeks in China, travelling with a friend there. I'll add a photo stream giving a flavour of what I saw. I'm not sure I can do the stories justice in a blog. Maybe one day I'll give it a try.
So... Congo. For me, the trip was many little moments stitched together so I'll try and share a few with you:
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.
Our evening entertainment consisted of My Big fat Greek Wedding, and Mamma Mia - awesome :o)
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.
These views are my own and based on just a few days there. I hope I have conveyed my experiences accurately and sensitively.
One Sunday, in upcountry Kenya, there was a preacher. And he was preaching and preaching, on and on, he just kept going. By chance, a frog hopped through the open doors at the back of the church and at this the preacher paused and said "what's the frog doing here?" To which a woman near the back replied "He says 'Let my people go.'"
So, it's been almost two weeks since I got back from the DRC, and I still haven't written any insightful thoughts from my time there. It's fair to say that I've been a bit busy, but I'm also aware that I don't want to misrepresent eastern Congo - I'd love to tell you what's the same as in Nairobi rather than what the cost of the past few decades have been. I'll get something written soon.
Meantime, while listening to Coldplay in the office, I was reminded of the video below. It was put together by the Mark and Alison, brother and sister of Marlene who worked in Congo 2006-8 (Angi who worked with Marlene also features in a few of the shots, so here's a shout-out for her and her blog).
So, last Saturday, there I was sitting in my comfy leather seat on an Air Uganda plane that felt no bigger than a learjet, waiting for it to depart Nairobi en route to Entebbe, Uganda. My final destination: eastern D.R.Congo.
In the seats in front were a couple from the office who work across Francophone Africa. Their row had the emergency exit over the wings. The airhostess came to chat to them about how to open the door in the even of an emergency. This is how the spiel went:
In the event of something going wrong, the pilot will come over the intercom saying "Emergency emergency". At this point you will take the crash position with the rest of the passengers. Once we have crash landed, the pilot will switch off the 'fasten seatbelt light' at which point you can open the door. If this does not happen I will scream at you to open the door.
That's what the text message says. The Kenyan Premier League kicks off this weekend and I've been invited to watch Nairobi City Stars vs Mathare United at Amboseli ground this Sunday at 3pm.
Answer: You get the RSPCA to come and collect the little tyke and pop it on the next flight back.
This was Tom's experience on leaving Nairobi (Tom being my younger brother). It seems that the gecko that was living amongst my socks thought his suitcase was a suitable second home. So, on Tom's arrival home to Britain, he opened the suitcase to unpack, and off scampered the gecko to find somewhere to hide. After a few days he was finally caught.
He stayed in the UK for three weeks, during which time he experienced one of the coldest winters on record. He's a young gecko - very small. If fact, you'd be able to see his heart when he's on a window with the sunlight coming through from outside. I'm not sure he ate much during his time in the UK. I half suggested that my parents should bring in the old Christmas tree from outside so all the green aphids living there will think it's spring and wake themselves and the gecko could have a feasting.
But before this point was reached, and before 'Jeff' had the chance to die, the RSPCA came, collected him and popped him on a plane to Mombasa on the Kenyan coast. I'll always be left wondering what the baggage handler at Mombasa airport must have made of this gecko in a box and perhaps a set of instructions on release - they die every day here in Kenya and are two-a-penny.
I'm not sure what the moral of the story is - maybe it's animal rights gone mad.
Oh and by way of note - consider typing in 'gecko' 'German' and 'pants' into Google and see what comes up :o)
Seeing that I mentioned December 2008 in my last post, I thought the photo below may interest you. It's of a petrol tanker that has two minutes before caught fire while unloading fuel at a filling station. There were no serious injuries or fatalities. Unfortunately for me and my passenger we decided to scrap our visit to the giraffes, as though we may have been able to creep past the immense and occasionally exploding fire, it would have taken vastly longer on the return journey. (The photo was taken just as we have crossed the central reservation to return to town). Though much of the petrol station melted and burnt, it was not more than a few months before it was rebuilt.
