In the Congo, Part Two: In Which Susan Destroys a Military Vehicle

Goma was the city on the Congo side of the border. What’s Goma like? Let’s put it this way: At the time of my visit I had been to over 75 countries. The previous champion of my “worst place on earth” list was Tangiers, Morroco. The day before, Nairobi had narrowly edged Tangiers for the top spot. Goma blew both cities away. In the last twenty years the city had gone through civil war, absorbed a flood of refugees from the Rwandan genocide, undergone periods of famine brought on by arguably the worst, most corrupt government on earth AND been buried by a nearby volcano that was still active. The city was heavily garrisoned by the UN forces, which protected the army of aid workers trying to stem rampant poverty from the region’s incessant instabilities. Goma was a blue city. Literally: Through charity or thievery, the entire city was painted the same shade of fluorescent blue the UN uses to paint their soldier’s helmets.

We took a cab to Virunga Park’s tourism office. The cab driver wanted five dollars to take us half a mile, scoffing at the Congolese Francs we offered (“We don’t take that shit!”). The taxi was riddled with bullet holes, which the driver had thoughtfully duct-taped over.

The park’s tourism office was more encouraging in appearance; There was no evidence of gunfire and – amazingly – there was electricity. A single employee was napping at the desk when we entered. We woke him and introduced ourselves. “You’re late,” he said.

“We’re here exactly when we said we would be,” I replied.

“I’m not sure we can get you to your campsite in the park tonight,” he replied. “It is very late.”

I looked at my watch. It was 3 PM local time. The sun beat down on us through the windows. “Seriously?” I asked.

“What are our options?” Susan asked.

“There is a new lodge we might be able to get you to. It’s closer. The price is…” he checked a paper, “$400 a night.”

“You’re scamming us,” I said. “What’s the average yearly income here - $300?” Susan tried to calm me down, but I was on a roll. “No, clearly they’re trying to milk us for a little extra juice. Waita fuck up your booming tourism industry, player,” I said to the clerk, laying the sarcasm as thickly as possible.

While I steamed, Susan began the pragmatic task of salvaging the situation. She swiftly negotiated the rate of the lodge down to a reasonable number. The park’s tourist director made a call and said out transport would be here soon.

Ten minutes later, our ride arrived. I was expecting another bullet-ridden cab. What showed up was an armored military troop transport with giant tires that came up to my chest.

Our driver was a skinny guy wearing a shiny knock-off green and gold track suit. He looked like a benchwarmer for the Seattle Supersonics. Susan and I made for the open back of the truck, but were stopped by Track Suit. “Not safe,” he said, and gestured for us to get in the front of the truck with him. The truck's cockpit was so high that Susan literally had to be boosted up into the cab. I piled in behind her and we sat stuffed, bags and all, in the cramped cab of the truck.

Our ride passed in rumbling silence. After a few fruitless attempts at conversation with the driver, we gave up. People in the Congo speak French and Swahili. Apparently, ‘not safe’ was the only English our driver knew.   

  

From satellite photos on Google Earth, I knew the park was only about 20 miles away from the city center. In America, this ride would take about maybe half an hour, more if we stopped for a slurpy. Round these parts, it was going to take all day: In 2001, Mount Nyiragongo erupted and buried the city like a modern day Pompei. The roads were completely destroyed in the eruption, and were now littered with shards of jagged of lava that stuck up to two feet out of the earth. By modern standards, the road was impassable. Only small motorbikes – which could pick their way between the rocks – and giant military vehicles could traverse the “road.” The going was insanely slow and the ride was rough; Susan and I were covered with bumps and bruises when we peeled our travel-soiled clothes off that night. Most of our time was spent praying, first for the jagged road goatpath of a highway to flatten out, then simply for the vehicle to not run out of gas (we’d noticed the gas gauge was on empty. Fortunately (?), it was only broken).

We rumbled out of town at eleven miles an hour, being thrown this way and that at random.

After a couple of hours, it did start to get dark. Susan and I exchanged nervous glances as convoy after convoy of NATO soldiers rumbled past, presumably heading to safer pastures for the night. Five minutes after the last convoy passed, another military truck, this one sporting a .50 caliber machine gun swung across the road, cutting off out path of advance. Several soldiers piled out of the back, each carrying an automatic weapon. Bandits. “I love you,” I said to Susan, fearing this might be my final pronouncement. The soldiers passed the cab and ambled into the back of the vehicle, where they assumed the watchful repose of a sentry. They were, apparently, here to protect us. Our truck resumed its bumpy journey, now followed by the troop transport. Moments later, a third vehicle pulled into an escorting position in front of us.  

As dusk approached, Susan and I found ourselves traveling overland, escorted by no less than a dozen heavily-armed soldiers. In my opinion, we could have used some more. Out here, there was no electricity. Our vehicle’s headlights cut a little pocket into the night, which occasionally revealed pockets of dark faces staring as we rumbled past. The only light was from the cone of the volcano. The same volcano that had buried Goma and the same volcano we appeared to be driving directly at. I voiced these sentiments to Susan, and asked her why she thought gorillas would choose to live here, on the edge on annihilation. "I don't know," Susan said, "maybe that's why they're almost extinct."    

The military convoy rumbled up the mountain, getting closer and closer to the volcano. Finally, we ground to a halt at a gate staffed by even more soldiers. Our driver jumped nimbly down from the truck and engaged the gate attendants in vigorous discussion. Although my Swahili is limited to pleasantries and dirty words, it did not take a genius to realize that the park guards were not keen on letting us in at this late hour. I turned to Susan and was getting ready to tell her we might have to endure the bumpy ride back to town when our truck started to roll backwards.

Susan later told me that she thought we were being towed somewhere. My more pessimistic view was that the driver had parked ten tons of rolling stock on a steep mountain without using the parking brake. The alarmed shrieks from the soldiers in the back of the truck seemed to confirm that my opinion was correct: our vehicle was officially out of control and was – at this moment – picking up speed and careening towards the escort vehicle parked behind us.

Even in the dark, two things were clear: First, in a few seconds we were going to collide with a heavily armed military vehicle and – second – the only person who could stop the out-of-control truck was Susan, who was wedged between me and the driver’s seat.

Susan’s confused face begged me for additional gentle prompting. “Woman, you think this is a ride? Jump on the brake!” I yelled.

African voices joined me in urging Susan on. From the gatehouse, I heard our driver yell out “Mzungu [‘foreigner’ in Swahili], brake! Brake Mzungu!!!”

Mzungu Susan sprang into action. Within two seconds, she had jumped into the driver’s seat and was searching for the brake with her foot.  Unfortunately, the entire area was PITCH BLACK. It was a race against time to see whether Susan would find the brake before the collision.

We were too late: Susan and I were rocked by a great impact – a flat bang followed by a terrible sound of rending metal. For one terrifying moment, both vehicle’s shifted, and it appeared both would be sent rolling downhill, likely to death or serious injury of many soldiers and one or two white people. A split second before momentum would make inevitable further disaster, Susan’s foot stabbed down on the brake. Both vehicles ground to a stop. Susan looked at me, the whites of her eyes clearly visible in the dark. Outside, a new chorus of excited Swahili erupted. Inside the truck, no one spoke. Out of the darkness, our driver flung open the door and threw himself into the cab, looking resplendent as ever in his green and gold tracksuit. Without EVEN ACKNOWLEDGING THAT SUSAN HAD JUST CRASHED A GIANT FUCKING MILITARY VEHICLE, Track Suit starts up the truck and peels out at a rumbling 8 mph. The gate was now open; Our collision must have somehow convinced the park guards to let us enter. In the dim glow of the taillights, I can see that the impact has done a good bit of damage to the trailing vehicle, which was apparently unable to follow us any further.

Susan and I sat in shocked silence. “Hakuna Matata [‘No worries’ in Swahili]?” Susan finally ventured.

“I suppose,” I said, “they don’t exchange insurance info in Africa.”  

Ten minutes later, we arrived at the lodge. I an oasis of crappy, the lodge was... almost indescribable. A six star luxury villa set into the jungle. While sipping on welcoming champagne, we were given instructions on the finer point of life at the lodge. These included:

(a)   How to summon our personal butler.

(b)   What to do if attacked by gorillas.

(c)    The location of the private wine cellar.

(d)   What to do if attacked by guerillas.

Susan and I shared what amounted to a medium-sized house with a stone shower large enough that the cast of Jersey Shore could have held an orgy in it.

At dinner, it was clear that we were the poorest people there (excluding the waiters) by far. One of the guests was Brent Stirton, a photographer for National Geographic and Getty Images, among others. He was easily the coolest guy I’ve ever met. Later, we found out he was the guy who had taken Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt’s kids’ baby photos. As entertaining as Brent was, the most memorable conversation was between Susan and the head park ranger, who had joined the guests to welcome us to the park.

Susan began the signature exchange of the evening while discussing the status of animals here with the head ranger. “I noticed that there were a few dogs, but I only saw one cat," Susan said. "Are cats really popular here?”

“Well, yes,” said the ranger, looking a tad uncomfortable, “this is a really war-torn area. Pets aren’t really something that are important to people when they’re starving themselves.”

Something about the way he said this caught my attention. I made eye contact with the ranger and subtly pointed to my stomach and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. They ate all the cats during the war, didn’t they?

Almost imperceptibly, the ranger nodded, then quickly went back to talking about something else. Susan had no idea the exchange even occurred.

Despite the opulent surroundings, Susan and I were spent from the day’s exertions. We collapsed into bed and fell into the deep sleep of the exhausted, day one of the Congo complete.

Next Time: Susan incites a riot, Gorillas, and an explanation of where vintage clothing goes to die.