Travel Tips

I joined three Italians in a Land Cruiser for the trip across the border to share some of the costs on this, the single most expensive day of my trip. Of any trip, causing my finances to topple into free fall. But it was worth it.



It only took a few minutes to get my passport stamped, and then I was in. The dark, foreboding skies opened and the rain poured and thunder growled in protest. Oh my god … I was in the Congo. What the hell was I doing here?



We drove to a hut on the flanks of the Vurunga Mountains where we teamed up with four armed soldiers, a guide and two rangers and began to walk.



The going was fairly easy, trudging up a muddy path under clearing skies, passing by farmed terraces and then into the jungle.



After only a couple of hours, I climbed over a wet, fallen tree and pushed through a thicket of almost impenetrable forest and came face to face with an adult male silverback mountain gorilla.



What a rush!

He sat amongst the thick vegetation, munching on leaves, fairly oblivious to my presence. He was just gigantic!



Soon, a couple of females came striding into a nearby clearing with their young. This was the Gendo family group, made up of one dominant male silverback, three females and a number of juveniles and babies.



We spent an hour with them. I could not believe how close we came. One juvenile ran over my foot and later one fell out of a tree whilst playing, almost landing on my head. A large adult female appeared out of the forest to my side and silently, yet formidably, strolled past just inches from my legs.



I very quickly became accustomed to having the gorillas all around. The silverback was typically chilled out and just ate or slept, farting away contently to himself. The mothers fussed over the babies and the adolescents ran amok.



It was a magical, memorable experience to carry with me.

Later, I said goodbye to the Italians and driver, who escaped back across the border into Uganda. I wasnt to see another traveler in the country. Meanwhile, I remained in the village of Bunagana. I was alone in the Congo. Feeling very alone.



The country had been at war since 1998, in what had been termed as the first world war of Africa, with troops from nine African countries and involving numerous Congolese militia groups, fighting for control of the huge mineral wealth.



A couple of months previously the BBC World Service had announced that 34,000 people a MONTH were being murdered. That amounted to 2.5 million deaths since the beginning of the war. A forgotten war. One that the rest of the world chose to ignore.



People had spoken of a fragile peace just recently, but obtaining information on the countrys security, even in neighboring Uganda, was impossible.



In my bulky Lonely Planet Africa, information covering this massive country, Africas third largest at nearly 2.5 million sq. km, was contained in just three paragraphs. Essentially, 'Dont go there', 'Dont go there' and 'Dont go there'.

So I went. I can picture my mother now, eyes rolling to the heavens, muttering something like, "God, he never changes".



I met a Congolese named Kennedy, who spoke fairly good English and was a mine of information. After an hour of chatting it transpired that not only was he a member of VirtualTourist.com (KennedyRW), but he had replied to a question I had posted on the Congo just a couple of weeks previous.



I could stay at his mothers home, a wonderfully paternal lady dressed in the typical Congolese dress and head wrap of vibrant colours, similar to that found in West Africa.



I took a walk through the village and was astonished at the attention I received. French was spoken, of which I know very little, or Swahili or Linguna, so I had to use a big smile and visual humor to break the ice.



The most common question was, "What are you doing here?" My reply of, "Je suis un tourist," was met with baffled looks followed by unnerving laughter.



Swarms of scruffy children followed me everywhere, shouting "Mazungu (white person) mazungu, mazungu. How are you?" I stopped to photograph them, causing a small mob riot, especially when I showed the photo to them and they all began screaming hysterically.



Everyone said hello, in one language or another, or they simply stared from the doorways of their mud homes or from the side of the muddy track. I cannot remember visiting any country where my mere presence caused such a commotion. It was all together very humbling, slightly tiring and just at times a tiny bit intimidating.



After a fine meal of potatoes, beans and a fish head, I retired to my simple room and slept solid, exhausted, for twelve hours.

The following day I walked through other tiny settlements to climb the nearby Banagana Mountain, stopping short of the summit when local farmers indicated that the soldiers at the military lookout might become agitated by my presence. The misty Vurunga volcanic mountain chain, rising dark and menacing over the lush Congo lowlands, was breathtaking.



On the way back to the village, I collected my entourage of screaming children. Sitting on a wooden bench I did a quick head count. Around 120 children and adults stood in a semi circle, mesmerized by me drinking from a Krest soda bottle.



I spent three days in Bunagana, waiting for onward transport. One afternoon, I was invited into a Congolese bar to drink a BUCKET of porridge beer. A thick, fermented home brewed maize beer, which didn’t taste anything like Stella Artois and Ill probably stick to Ready Brek for my breakfast, but it was an interesting and cheap experience.

A brigade of heavily armed Indian UN soldiers came through, moving on foot street by street, corner to corner to protect their vehicles. With nothing better to do, I tried to strike up a conversation with one chap, weighed down by an RPG launcher on his shoulder. I greeted him in Hindi, to which he replied, though with a surprised expression that suggested he had just been spoken to by a talking goat.



Gradually, I became less of a novelty and could wander the village without causing a commotion, with just some of the younger children occasionally bursting into tears when they saw be before running away to hide.



Finally, transport was arranged. I had to scupper any intentions of traveling overland west to Kisangani as the war had left the roads impassable and I was assured it would be suicidal with various militia groups still fighting in the jungle, so I turned south.

(.. continue)