Shots Across the Water, page 10
When I got back to the hotel mid-afternoon there was a Zairean band playing. They were fantastic, watched by a great crowd of mostly Ugandans; all those I spoke to said that Zaire had the best music in all of Africa. We were back in the room by curfew hoping that we wouldn’t hear gunfire again. Sadly we did.
Guy had left Kampala and Rob and I were on our way to Zaire. We could not wait to get going, but the trains were not running for three days. Given the risk of violence we decided not to hitchhike out of the city. I was less naïve and more cautious than I had been when I took the lift into Kampala with a lorryload of uncertain soldiers during the coup.
That weekend we stayed safe. We stayed in or close to the hotel as there were bodies on the street every morning. The hotel gossip was that the Tanzanian soldiers were not being properly paid so there was extortion of people on the streets after curfew and this accounted for the bodies. I had no idea whether this was true but didn’t enquire further. We spent every afternoon listening to the Zairean band in the hotel. We asked some of the band members about what they thought it would be like for us travelling in Zaire. They said we would be fine and seemed pleased that we wanted to go. I loved the music; it was dance music with a beat but also soulful and sometimes mournful. They played guitars, drums and brass instruments with the whole band singing.
Leaving
We booked the train from Kampala to Kasese, a town in the west of Uganda close to the border with Zaire. We left Kampala station mid-afternoon and the train arrived in Mityana station about three hours later. The carriage was surprisingly empty and it wasn’t until we arrived that we understood why. The train was terminating and there would be no more services west until the next evening. We asked the staff where we could sleep and they offered us a small room off the waiting room where we hung our mosquito nets.
The next day we woke early. The station was empty, with no staff or passengers. We ventured out to a beautiful sight. The station was in the middle of jungle, with trees of all sorts, flowers of every colour and the sound of birds. There was a small track which we assumed led to a town but there was no sign of any vehicles. We had enough food for a few days, mostly dried fruit and nuts, so decided to stay where we were, enjoying a day of absolutely no travelling at all.
By late afternoon some of the station staff arrived and as darkness fell passengers started turning up. Eventually the train from Kampala drew in with the promise of an overnight journey to Kasese. And it was full. Rob and I boarded and stood for most of the night. As the sun rose, the train came to the station at the end of the line. We had eaten some food and were ready to hit the road. We got a lift from the station to Katunguru and a junction where we left the main road.
My now battered map of the roads of Africa showed that there was a road from here to the Zairean border. This was no longer tarmac, but a long, hot, dusty track. We walked for about two hours with no vehicles to be seen. By now it was a very hot mid-morning and the road was pretty inhospitable with thorns often spreading across in front of our feet. There were no animals or people to be seen. After a very hot and exhausting walk a Land Rover appeared and its two Ugandan drivers welcomed us in. We drove around the side of a hill and suddenly we could see an enormous lake, Lake Edward. On my map it was called Lake Idi Amin, its name from 1973 to 1979 before Amin was overthrown and it reverted back to its colonial name.
They drove us down to a small, very isolated fishing village on the shores of the lake where we saw enormous shark-like creatures that the fishermen had caught. After a lunch of beans at a roadside café we set off walking. It wasn’t long before two large Kenyan lorries arrived heading for Zaire, driving together. They stopped and offered us a lift. I got into the driver’s cab of the first and Rob the second. The road was the worst I had encountered so far, even worse than in Sudan. It was full of pot-holes in the dirt and some parts were partially washed away. It wasn’t long before the larger lorry behind got stuck in a pot-hole. We all got out, the drivers brought out a chain and fastened it between the two vehicles, and the smaller lorry started to pull the larger one out. With some pushing from Rob and me we eventually got the larger lorry out. By the time we arrived at the border at Ishasha it was getting dark.
12 macrotrends.net/cities/21711/nairobi/population#:~:text=The%20current%20metro%20area%20population,a%203.95%25%20increase%20from%20 2020
13What I couldn’t have known then was that two weeks after returning in October 1980 I would meet Paul Grassick in Bristol, create Nova Wholefoods Cooperative with him, and thus launch my career as a social entrepreneur. This is a subject of my book Creating Social Enterprise.
14Guy Dehn went on to become the founding director of Public Concern at Work, the charity that was formed in 1993 and became Protect in 2018. He trained as a barrister and was one of the drivers behind the UK’s whistleblowing legislation – helping to draft the Private Members’ bills that eventually became the Public Interest Disclosure Act.
5
ZAIRE
Goma
It was dark as we left Uganda and walked the 20 yards across to the border of Zaire. At the tiny border post we showed our passports with their elaborate, full-page visas and were welcomed by the head customs officer. It quickly became clear that we were among the very few travellers crossing this border, but extraordinarily we met two Brits, Claire and Sharon, who were about to cross to Uganda. The customs men had a short discussion between themselves and then all four of us were brought to a small dining room at the back of the building where we were served a French-style leek potage. We were then shown two empty offices where we could stay the night, one for Rob and me and one for Claire and Sharon. A very generous welcome.
The four of us chatted well into the night. ‘Where have you travelled from?’ asked Sharon over dinner.
I started. ‘I travelled overland from Jericho to Cairo, then by train to Luxor and Aswan. The boat from Aswan to Sudan was incredible. I then took the train from Wadi Halfa to Khartoum and then had a wild trip on top of lorries to Juba where I first met Rob.’
Rob carried on. ‘I travelled pretty much the same route to Juba but then went east to Lake Turkana in Kenya, then on to Lamu.’
‘And I met him there after going through Uganda to Nairobi, where I was sick with malaria, before heading to Lamu.’
‘That’s pretty much what we plan to do in reverse,’ said Claire.
‘How did you get here?’ asked Rob.
Sharon gave their summary. ‘We went from Spain to Morocco, then Algeria and across the desert to Niger, across Nigeria to Cameroon, then Congo and down to Kinshasa, up the river to Kisangani on the ferry and then on lorries through the rainforest to here.’
‘We plan to travel to Uganda and Kenya and then head north, like you both,’ said Claire. ‘Although we hadn’t thought about Lamu. What’s it like?’
‘You have to go,’ Rob and I both said in unison.
We plied each other with questions about the road, how best to travel, places to stay and places to see. I bought out my notebook and wrote down lots of their tips and they did the same. Towards the end of the evening, I asked them, ‘How safe have you found hitchhiking?’
Claire said, ‘Like you both, we’ve chosen to pay for transport sometimes because it felt safer. But otherwise we’ve hitchhiked and felt safer doing that on this trip than in Britain.’ Sharon agreed.
In the morning we said goodbye to Claire and Sharon and they headed over the border to Uganda. I never saw them again but I’m pretty confident that they made it home.
Rob and I thanked the head of the border post and I gave him one of the postcards. We started walking along the dusty road. On both sides it was very green with lots of banana plants, maize, cassava and strange red plants that looked like broccoli. There were villages all the way along the route and plenty of people walking the road. Rob spoke French very well and mine was returning, so we conversed with people as we walked. We were clearly an unusual sight, which meant lots of women, men and children came up to talk with us. This was fun.
Towards the end of the morning vehicles started appearing and it wasn’t long before we got into a car with, to our surprise, the head of the border post. He stopped at the next town, Rutshuru, and we went to find something to eat in the tiny market there. After lunch we carried on walking down the road past banana trees and coffee plantations. The soil was so fertile largely because of proximity to the volcanos of the Virunga mountains. Eventually a lorry appeared that looked like it would be the perfect vehicle to take us through the foothills of the volcanos, but it soon broke down. We got out with the two other passengers and the four of us pushed it a long way down a hill where another lorry that was passing in the other direction jump-started it with a rope, only for our lorry to break down again.
A large Mercedes car drew up and the driver, a local businessman, took us to the town of Goma. We arrived in the dark and did not know where to stay. We saw a small café, went in and ordered some food. Rob spotted two men about my age and walked over to have a chat. After a few minutes he came back with Gildas and Alain. We chatted with them in French and English and then Alain said, ‘You must come and stay with our family.’
‘Thank you, that is so kind of you,’ I said in my best French. By now I had learned not to say the classic English ‘Are you sure?’ or ‘I don’t want to bother you’. This would be taken as an insult. They took us to their home where we met the rest of their family before having a very good sleep.
The next morning we sat and talked with Gildas, Alain and some of the family over coffee. They took us to their father’s sewing shop in one of the main streets of Goma. Their father was working away on an old Singer sewing machine. There were two other Singer machines at the back of the shop.
‘What are those machines doing here?’ I asked.
Gildas translated for their father who said, ‘These are broken and if I could get the parts I could repair them, employ more people and grow my business.’
‘Where can you get the parts?’ I asked.
‘Maybe in Kinshasa,’ he replied.
Gildas then said, ‘Kinshasa is over one thousand six hundred miles away and it’s not certain we could buy these when we got there.’
I thought about this and remembered that there was a Singer shop just off the Strand in London.
‘When I get back to London I will go to the Singer shop and try and buy these for you,’ I said. I got him to explain what the parts would do and what their names were in French. I took these details, wrote down the model numbers of the machines, even sketching little drawings of what the parts looked like and where on the machine they were needed. There were lots of smiles, thanks and backslapping all around, so no pressure.
Rob and I walked around the town. The street was littered with large rocks of lava from the 1977 eruption of nearby volcano Mount Nyiragongo when the lava flow covered eight square miles, destroyed 400 houses and reportedly killed 350 people. There were two parts to the town: one modern and affluent with large colonial-style houses leading down to Lake Kivu, and the other poorer with lots of shops and stalls and lava rocks in every street. Unsurprisingly, there was no lava on the roads of the affluent part of the town.
Goma has had a very challenging recent history. I had never heard of it before going there and I suspect few people in the UK had either. As a result of the Rwanda genocide at least 850,000 refugees arrived in Goma between June and August 1994. This was followed by a cholera epidemic. Wars have continued in eastern Congo pretty much ever since. As I was writing this I checked the UK Foreign Office advice, which stated, ‘The security situation in eastern DRC remains unstable. There are continued reports of several towns… being attacked by or falling under temporary control of armed groups, including some territories and villages within a 30km range north of Goma. Armed groups are present and intercommunal violence can affect the political, security and humanitarian situation’ 15. This part of the world has suffered tragedy after tragedy for many years.
Volcano
On the way back to our hosts Rob and I discussed our plan to climb Mount Nyiragongo, the nearby volcano that had last erupted three years earlier. We had seen signs for guided tours and it looked like this was the only legal way to climb. Costs were priced for tourists far wealthier than us. We cooked up a plan, went to the market, bought some food, extra bottles of water and a warm blanket each.
By chance it was a Sunday when we set off. We did not know that this was the only day of the week that tours were not taken up the volcano, which was to our advantage. We left very early, thanking Gildas and Alain and their family. I left them postcards and reiterated my promise to visit the Singer shop in London. We started walking up the road to Kibati at the base of the volcano. Eventually we got a lift that dropped us off just before the village. Keeping an eye out for people watching we slipped into the forest and set off upwards. It was a steep climb from the start in very dense vegetation. There were paths but it wasn’t clear which one to take. We carried on walking upwards, stopping occasionally for water and a bite to eat. We were completely in the shade with occasional shards of sunlight bursting through, and that meant insects. Mostly lots of gnats and ants that crawled into our sandals and itched like hell. It was hard work climbing. The path kept disappearing and we sometimes had to turn back and try another route up. We had to be careful not to trip over the thick vegetation. It was slow-going.
By mid-afternoon we arrived at the lava field, where very brittle, old black lava lay underfoot. There was no choice other than to walk across this very slowly to avoid getting our feet damaged by sinking into the lava as we trod. Every step had to be carefully planned. Looking back we were really foolish doing this without a guide. After about an hour of walking slowly up the lava field I suddenly realised that my tent was no longer tied to my rucksack. That was a blow. We might not survive the night without the tent.
I looked back and couldn’t see it. The tent could be a long way back. We both swore and had a bit of an argument, which didn’t last long as we both knew it was fruitless. Then I did something I’d never done before. ‘I’m just going to shut my eyes and be silent for a minute,’ I said to Rob.
I sat in silence and in a couple of minutes got an image in my mind of the tent by the trunk of a tree not far from where we were standing. I carefully walked down through the brittle lava and after 15 minutes I found it exactly in the place I had visualised.
‘I’ve found the tent,’ I shouted to Rob and climbed slowly back up.
‘How did you know it was there?’ asked a somewhat surprised Rob.
‘I’m as surprised as you,’ I said. ‘I think that’s what’s called intuition.’ Intuition is the ability to understand something instinctively, without the need for conscious reasoning. This was the first time I had even used the word or, more importantly, trusted that impulse. Ever since, being able to spot and act on intuition has been a key feature of my life. And it is something I learned climbing a volcano.
By now it was getting dark and we were near the summit of the mountain. We could tell by the thinness of the air. We were expecting to sleep in the tent, but fortunately found a small clearing with a wooden hut. We decided to spend the night there, eating our dinner of one banana and a bread roll shared between the two of us.
We woke up before first light and set off carefully for the summit, with a steep climb through a second tree layer and some very large ferns. When the trees thinned we had an incredible view. We could see the peaks of nearby mountains above the clouds. After an hour and a half we reached the summit, exhausted by the altitude and lack of food, but exhilarated as we looked down on the enormous crater. The crater was streaked with different colours, with a column of steam rising from a hole at its base. We lay on the rim and looked down. I had never seen anything like it. It was a magical moment.
After about 20 minutes we started to feel cold and set off to walk back down. On the way we spotted a group climbing up with guides, so quickly hid behind some large trees until they had gone. It was faster going back down and eventually we carefully came out of the trees, making sure that we weren’t spotted. We sat down by the road and almost immediately a car arrived, slowing down to ask us where we wanted to go.
We had climbed 11,381 feet and looked down on an active volcano from the top of the crater. It was an unusual experience and an image I have retained. Nyiragongo has erupted many times since. A major eruption in 2002 produced paths of lava, one of which headed towards Goma. An estimated 300,000 people fled east to Rwanda, 245 died and some 120,000 lost their homes. There was another eruption as recently as 2021.
Hills
Michel our driver wanted to discuss the politics of the area. ‘President Mobutu 16 is a dictator,’ he said, ‘but the country is the safest that I can remember.’ I was surprised how open he was about his views but careful not to share any opinions of my own. Michel carried on talking politics while driving along bumpy roads with thick green vegetation on either side opening up to views of mountains as he negotiated hairpin bends with deep drops below.
After a two-hour drive, we said goodbye to Michel at the town of Rutshuru. It was early afternoon, and we walked along an empty road, glad of the shade provided by trees and ferns. After an hour a lorry arrived and offered us a lift and we drove into the Virunga National Park, leaving this mountain range for a low, flat plain. We stood in the back of the largely empty lorry, holding on tight to the sides to avoid falling. We saw hippos lying by the riverbanks and lounging in the water. The lorry stopped at the small town of Rwindi where we thought we could stay overnight, but we didn’t have a good feeling about it. After the tent incident on the volcano I was starting to trust these feelings. Soon we got a lift with a larger lorry as the road climbed up into the hills and mountains around more tight hairpin bends.
