Down the Congo - Kinshasa to Boma
Today, I'm setting off from Kinshasa, the capital of the DRC, down the mighty Congo River to Boma. I’m waiting in the hotel lobby at nine, as instructed, but nothing happens until after 9.30 when I am given a message to say that driver Adolphe and guide Yahve will arrive shortly. Another fifteen minutes and they’re here – ‘Traffic jams’ they say. I’m going to give them the benefit of the doubt, as we can set off now to Zongo Falls, a three hour journey on a good day.
Trying to Leave Kinshasa, DRC
Except that Adolphe is driving his own Toyota hatchback, as the company car is out of action (they say) and he needs to buy a jack. It takes a while to find one at the right price. Then we have to change the office dollars (which is the currency used by most banks) into Congolese francs, so that we can buy petrol that is cheaper than if you pay in dollars. This involves a visit to the (very busy, very bureaucratic) ‘best-rate’ currency exchange. (Now we’re all loaded down with wads of franc notes. The locals all tote them folded into bundles).
Then we have to buy food at the (very upscale) supermarket for our lunch (and a toothbrush for Adolphe). Next, Yahve stops to buy bread for his breakfast, which he hasn’t had time for yet and goes off in search of cheaper water (it’s too expensive in the supermarket). Finally, we stop and fill up on petrol. Adolphe rocks the car so as to get in as much fuel as possible. It’s like setting off on a scout expedition. It’s also nearly noon and we haven’t even braved the traffic of Kinshasa yet.
Adolphe’s car is in fairly good shape for Africa. There’s only a crack in one corner of the windscreen. But it's right hand drive, which has the double disadvantage that he can’t see the road ahead very well and I’m the one in prime position facing the oncoming traffic. The speedo on the car doesn’t seem to be working, which at least means that I can’t tell how fast we’re driving. There are several near misses and a lot of bad language. I’m flinching constantly as horns blare.
Money, Money, Money
Finally emerging from the suburbs of Kinshasa we are constantly accosted by street vendors. some of them smiling. others not. Then we are stopped by provincial border police. They demand a fine to let us through and return Adolphe’s license. He belligerently pays up. They ask for more. He pays up again. Another half mile down the road the same thing happens. Adolphe doesn’t help by driving his car at the gesticulating officers and he is duly hauled off to the station to have his documents inspected.
I’m idly waiting with my camera and snap a passing truck full of wood. Then all hell breaks loose. I’m surrounded by a posse, some uniformed, some not, screamed at, called ‘Presse’ and my camera is confiscated. It seems there is a police officer, unrecognisable in a high-vis jacket in one corner of my picture and one must not take photographs of government officials in Congo. (Or police stations and there are lots of them).
I judge that tears may be necessary and produce a few. The camera is returned, but there is some argument over my credentials. Where is the document that proves I’m a tourist? Yahve points out that my visa, in my passport, does this job. Then there’s negotiation over my fine. It begins at 100 dollars and is eventually reduced to five. And then increased by another one. Clearly a lone female European is seen as easy game.
Adolphe is eventually released, berated because one of his papers is not as required and we are finally permitted to leave. It seems that the warnings about this country were true after all . Congo is most definitely intimidating.
Driving Through Congo to Zongo
Actually, the DRC isn’t what I expected at all. Neither Heart of Darkness nor The Poisonwood Bible have prepared me adequately for modern day Congo, though both books paint bleak pictures. I’m still hunting for the jungle they write of. Most of it seems to have been cut down round here. The countryside is undulating, a few palms and rusty dry bush, with greener swathes along the many rivulets. The air is cloudy brown, the houses are yellow brown, the narrow wooden pirogues are grey brown and the Congo River is muddy brown. The most colourful sight is the sandy clay, of various brown hues from yellow ochre to cinnamon. It’s ideal for building and there are cuboid kilns and stacks of bricks scattered along the roadside.
How to Repair a Puncture in the DRC
Eventually, we turn off the main (reasonably paved, mainly by the Chinese of course) road for a bumpier 50 metre stretch to the Zongo Falls. We’re still speeding along, so I’m amassing blurred memories. Adolphe doesn’t really understand the concept of tourist photography. It’s definitely Groundhog Day, Bangladesh meets my trip to Ouagadougou.
Then we collect a puncture. We halt at a small dusty village, where Adolphe directs operations from a plastic chair, while the locals change the wheel and queue up to have their photos taken. It’s a good job he bought that jack. I’m less amused that he’s drinking the local coconut firewater while he’s waiting. Yahve assures me that it won’t hurt. ‘Some people drive better when they’re drunk!” Fortunately, he leaves the bottle in the village. Two miles up the road another tyre gives up the ghost. We just manage to scramble into Zongo town, where we assemble in a bar. It’s now five in the afternoon. At least I get to eat lunch now, while both tyres are repaired.
We can see the smoke of the falls wafting over a patch of trees in the distance. It turns out that my hotel is peacefully set upstream, next to a group of small rapids and the first swirling drop. It seems gorgeous and tranquil. Except that it’s now dark and the paths to the views are all closed. My hair is so caked with dust I can’t even get my comb into it. The shower is just a dribble of (cold) water. Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to wash with. I’m hoping that’s the worst day of my travels over - Zongo Day has turned into Congo Day. I’m also hoping that it’s the most expensive day. If Yahve and Adolphe think I’m a bottomless pit of wealth too I’m in real trouble.
Up at six, to see the falls before we set off to Matadi. We were going to breakfast first, but the cook is nowhere to be found. Still, it’s nice to have the views to ourselves. The chutes are very impressive. The drop is only 60 metres at most, but there’s a veritable torrent of water, even though it’s the dry season. Our guide is an ultra-serious military man in Nike waterproof trousers. He saves me from plummeting to my death and knows all the best photo spots.
Back at breakfast, I ask if I can have water instead of tea but Yahve explains that the Department of Water is separate from the Department of Tea and Coffee and also from the Departement of Petit Dejeuner. So, no I can’t.
Driving Through the DRC, Zongo to Matadi
On the road in Congo again. It’s the same as yesterday. More document inspection, more demands for money. Adolphe tries to queue jump at ‘traffic controls’, to no avail. He’s always sent back, sometimes losing even more queue places into the bargain, as he reverses. If I want to use a toilet Yahve comes up with the goods by interrogating the locals. So far I’ve sampled a police station, a village, a bar and a hospital. No stopping for lunch – Adolphe buys us a bunch of carrots from one of the many eager wayside vendors.
Staying in Matadi, DRC
My hotel at Matadi is very fancy, with every possible attraction thrown in for good measure. There’s a great deal of gilt, a swimming pool, several terraces, a huge outdoor TV screen (showing football) and a funfair area, complete with small train. (I can’t see any of it actually operating). I’m just grateful that I’ve got some tepid water, after persuading the staff to turn on the supply. I’m less grateful that I seem to have surround sound entertainment in my room. It’s Le Weekend and there’s live music by the pool, muzak in one of the terrace bars and, what seems to be some sort of political rally under the third wall. I can’t check as I can’t see out. The only window looks out onto a balcony that holds the hot water heater (I wish).
We have another early start today, at eight, so we can do the tour of Matadi we were supposed to do yesterday. We were late yesterday because we had to do the Zongo Falls tour in the morning, instead of the day before, because we were late arriving there. Except that the clerk is printing out my invoice exceptionally slowly, Adolphe says that the car has yet another puncture and the guide hasn't turned up yet. It’s nearly nine before all these matters are resolved.
Matadi was founded in 1879 by Sir Henry Morton Stanley. It has a very strategic position on the River Congo, as it's the built at the highest upstream navigable point of the Congo when travelling from the sea. before the impassable Livingstone Falls. It's the country's largest port.
In the centre of Matadi the list of things I’m not allowed to take pictures of grows. No ministerial buildings, (that seems to include most businesses too). Yahve suggests I check with him every time I have the inclination to take a picture (that is disappearing rapidly too). There are palm fronds lashed to poles and signs along most of the roads. The governor died last week, in mysterious circumstances. Poisoning is suspected. The first colonial building in the DRC looks as if it might be interesting inside - it has fancy stonework, red pillars and balustrades. But it’s closed. So is the cathedral.
The Belvedere, Matadi
Onwards, to the loftiest viewpoint, the Belvedere, in this very hilly city. There’s another guide at the Belvedere and a bronze coffin shaped memorial, so I now have three people to explain to me about the history of the Congo and Stanley’s attempts to build a railroad to Kinshasa, where the river is once again navigable. Our late guide disappears again. It seems he isn’t well - he probably has malaria.
Graduation Day in the DRC
It’s graduation day in Matadi and the streets are thronging with students in capes and mortarboards, marching along dancing to clashing brass bands. It’s the highlight of the visit.
Driving Through the DRC, Matadi to Boma
We depart on the road to Boma, further downriver, taking a suspension bridge that delivers more picturesque views across the mighty Congo River and the town. But not before we have negotiated the fee for crossing the bridge, and for taking photos on it. It's the only proper bridge across the Congo.
Inga Dam, DRC
We’re going via Inga Dam, which I’m promised is very scenic, the tour will take roughly half an hour. We arrive just before 12, but it seems that Yahve is missing a couple of required permissions. Two hours of interrogation, pouring over passports, talking to various officials and meeting with the local manager, (who wants to know how much such visits cost in Grande Britannique) follow. I tell him they’re free. I don’t think he believes me. Yahve eventually hands over 30 dollars, despite the fact that I’ve now totally lost all interest in seeing any dams. When we are finally allowed in the dam is old, small, and dirty (1960s) and the view very hazy. There are plenty of shallow rapids spreading into the distance. I can see why the river isn’t navigable. It’s more interesting to see the huge turbines running inside the second dam wall.
And now the car won’t start. I’m still there at six, sitting outside a bar with some tepid bottled water, while it is repaired. A guy is skinning a goat suspended in a tree, I’ve had no lunch (again) I’m alone, while Yahve chivvies Adolphe and I need the loo. We arrive at the hotel in Boma at 8.45. It might have been sooner, but Yahve and Adolphe don’t know where it is and have to keep stopping for directions.
Staying in Boma, DRC
I’ve woken with two dozen infuriatingly itchy bites on my arms; the mosquitoes must have feasted on me in the dusk at the bar last night. I’ve also acquired a livid wheal on the underside of my left thigh. I hadn’t realised that the plastic toilet seat in my bathroom is actually an instrument of torture. It has a cunningly concealed crack that operates a pincer movement after you have sat down. This is one of the better rooms. There is hot water and electricity though they don’t function all day. I haven’t worked out the rules of operation yet. The lobby is decorated with a grimy Christmas tree.
Today is billed as a day tour of Boma. We don’t start till ten, ‘so we can rest’. Yahve hijacks a guide, a bow-tied and bespectacled young man, and we begin with a hollow baobab that Stanley slept in. It’s old, but not quite the revered Bo tree, more King Charles’ oak. A very decrepit old colonial house by the river follows. It was built by a German before the days of the Congo Free State and boasts the remains of two very rusty old cars.
The old governor’s house is bigger and is in marginally better shape. It seems now, to be used mainly to host several small concessions selling mobile phone time. Adolphe and Yahve are taking photos of all the sights and acting for all the world like two additional tourists. Adolphe sits in the cars and poses. He also insists on putting his arm round me at every attraction, tilting his head and calling me his ‘Bebe’. I’m beginning to count down the days till I leave the DRC.
Next, the new brick cathedral. It’s packed (it is Sunday) and echoes with moving melodic harmony. The old cathedral, dinky red spire and white walls, is adjacent. I’m told it used to be much bigger. And I’m also informed it’s the end of the tour. It’s not quite noon. I try protesting, but am assured there is nothing else to see in Boma.
Leisure Time in the DRC
We decamp to a café by the river for a drink, looking across to Angola. Adolphe and Yahve order beer. I reason that it won’t hurt, it’s not far back to the hotel. The Congolese take after the Belgians in being partial to a brew, but feel they should go one better. The Simba beer here bears a crude lion logo and I discover, too late, that it comes in a bottle that’s nearly twice the size of most beer bottles around the world. And Adolphe has also purchased a quarter bottle of whisky for a chaser. I sigh and add some to my coke.
I’ve only just realised, to my distress, that we return to Kinshasa tomorrow afternoon by domestic flight (when did that creep into the itinerary?) That gives me twenty four hours in Boma with nothing to do, except pray that the mechanics and fuel suppliers are on their best behaviour this week.
Where in the DRC is Boma Airport?
I’ve been reading the FCO travel advice, which says all DRC airlines are banned in the EU. I am woken up by a text from Yahve saying I am to be ready for nine as the flight time might be changed. So I get up, have breakfast and wait in my room. He turns up at eleven to say that the flight is at 2.30, as planned.
The airport is miles up a really bumpy track. Yahve and Adolph keep stopping people to ask where it is and has no facilities whatsoever. There’s one hut and a dirt runway, nothing to drink and I don’t have any water. But I’ve only had lunch on one day so far anyway. The baggage allowance is 15 kg to include my hand luggage and my handbag. It would have been good to know this beforehand, especially as their scales are wildly inaccurate (though ‘certified’). Yahve is loading a carpet and a printer (I’m not sure where he has acquired either) as part of his allowance. Adolphe is setting off back down the bumpy track to Kinshasa. He may well be there before us.
The plane is an ancient Turbolet that reeks of kerosene. But it manages to stay aloft, tracking the river back up to Kinshasa. It’s amazing how a hotel that once appeared dreary and decrepit can now feel so warm and welcoming.