DRC Part I: Goma

Nyiragongo Volcano

I bloody love my life. Every now and then it has moments of extreme serendipity. 

A year or so ago, I took on a client through my UK charity start-up consultancy. Hand on heart, I didn't really pay much more attention than I would any other client. I deal with all sorts: children's cancer, arts initiatives,  incurable diseases, and a couple of international aid groups, of which this is one.

Helped them through the paperwork, no problems. Didn't hear much after that. Couple of back and forths regarding legislation. Request for some policies and procedures.

Then, somehow, it transpired that the founder was coming to Kigali en route to DRC, as he's from Goma. Funnily enough, he shares the same family name as my landlord, though not related. 

Would I like to meet up? Hell, yeah. It's not often I get to meet my start-up clients face-to-face. 

We met at a little guesthouse in town and had a chat.

"I'm going to Goma in three hours. Would you like to come?"

HELL YES!

That wasn't a total surprise. I knew he was planning to go, and he'd invited me along, hence I got my CEPGL, which allows me to cross the border without paying. But I hadn't expected him to say 'today - right now - this minute.'

I ran home to pack and off we went, in air-conditioned taxi comfort, three hours up to the border between Gisenyi and Congo. I've been up to Gisenyi a couple of times and even walked part of the Congo Nile Trail, which starts there, but I've never actually crossed the border. When I was with VSO a few years back, it was considered too dangerous. But I'd always been curious. When I was a kid I watched this terrible movie with killer gorillas called Congo, but one of the gorillas could use sign language, and I later went on to become a sign language interpreter. It really was a terrible movie, but for some reason the Congo has always fascinated me. I really, really wanted to see it.

What an incredibly opportunity to go with a guy who grew up there, and who was willing to pay for luxury transport and a hotel room - with a hot shower!

Eight months without a hot shower and suddenly seven in five days! I am squeaky clean. I practically sparkle.

HOT SHOWER!!!!

Jerryson Hotel

Oh, my gods. The bed was so comfortable. The shower was divine. 

For a country with such a difficult relationship with Rwanda, the crossing was far less intimidating than Uganda, which has a much better relationship. The guy I was travelling with, LB, seemed to know everybody anyway. Made getting my papers stamped quick and hassle-free. 

On the other side of the border we were met by his best friend's brother, Ghassy, who had a car waiting for us. We had travelled up to Goma with a Rwandan student who was studying in Congo and trying to catch the night ferry from Goma to Bukavu to get back to school. Apparently a lot of Rwandans study in Congo because, despite appearances, the education system is very good. 

The border between DRC and Rwanda closes from 6pm until 6am and we made it just in time, then shot down to the harbour where a posh-looking passenger ferry was waiting.  

Slightly blurry photo of a ferry.

But - wow! The place was mental. As soon as you get over the border, the roads stop. There's only a couple of kilometres of tarmac in Goma, so basically no roads in Eastern Congo (I'll get to that shortly) and people crowding around everywhere trying to get money for any little thing, cleaning the car even though it wasn't dirty, then demanding payment. The conditions are fairly extreme. The kind of poverty and housing you don't see in Rwanda, and rubbish everywhere, particularly plastic bags (which are banned in Rwanda). It reminded me of Godown, the slum in Kampala.

But we were soon on our way again. We stopped at LB's best friend Mimy's house on the way. Our driver, Ghassy, is her youngest brother. We took a beer and said hello to the family. Which is where I learned that nobody leaves their house at night. Her house and our hotel were next to each other in a 'safe area', but beyond that you do not go. She said it was like being 'a prisoner in your own home' because you can't just go out to see friends, you can't take the kids to after-school activities. It's just not safe, due to the different rebel factions walking the streets, all professing to own Goma, trying to extort money. 

After settling me into the hotel, LB headed off to see a few people but there was tilapia waiting for me, and he told me to order anything I wanted. I adore tilapia because you get to eat with your hands, which is something I enjoy doing. Though it soon became apparent that, in Congo, you eat everything with your hands.

Tilapia

Sign Language Interpreter on the Telly

I felt totally pampered. I will say it straight-up. Attitudes in Congo and attitudes in Rwanda are very different. Goma is less than a mile from the border with Gisenyi, but it's like stepping into another world. Rwanda is incredibly safe, incredibly clean and incredibly well paved. Goma is utter chaos, a bit of a dump, and peppered with potholes. Yet you know where you stand with the Congolese. They show their emotions. When we went to Mimy's house, I instantly felt extremely welcome. The people I met were genuinely warm and welcoming. I got the sense that if someone didn't like me, they'd let me know. But meanwhile, karibu! 

Rwanda just isn't really known for its hospitality in the same way. When you go to someone's house, you often don't know whether or not you're truly welcome, or what people are really thinking about you. When people shake your hand they may like you or hate you, the expression remains the same. Even people you've known for a long time. Rwandan culture is very guarded. In Congo, people say what they like. They also seem to do what they like (at all hours! Kigali is much quieter), it's an infectious sense of freedom. It felt more like West Africa than East.

Anyway, back to the potholes. Some of them take days to drive around!

Spot the guy on the truck?

Rush Hour in Goma

The first day we just went for a bit of a drive around the back streets. LB's brother runs a bar, and Mimy, her kids and their friends enjoyed the chance to sit in the back of the van and watch the world go by. The town is utterly infested with UN. I think the land cruisers are breeding.

I counted about twenty UN vehicles between town and the hotel: UN vans, UN minibuses, UN tanks, UN road diggers, even a UN plane. Apparently black is for MONUSCO and the military, and blue is for all other UN departments. It makes the place feel more of a war zone than it actually is, and yet no one seems to have the faintest idea what they actually do. On occasions you'll see UN troops mobilising and driving down the road brandishing guns and helmets, yet everyone tells you when M23 rebels swept in from Rwanda a couple of years back, the UN just stood back and did nothing to protect the people of Goma. I'll get to this more when I talk about the refugee camps. But it's just bizarre. Plus, they drive like wankers. One UN vehicle almost drove into us after blocking our right of way, then proceeded to wind down the window and shout as though we had done wrong! Felt strange, me not being the irate muzungu for once. Awwwkward. They frequently drive up the wrong side of the street and generally seem to act like arses.

Only thing that was a bit disconcerting were the coffin shops! Quite a few of them. I contemplated taking one home as a souvenir, but apparently a coffin costs around $100! 

As Mimy said: "Here, life and death are side by side."