Gorilla Trekking in the DR Congo
My heart was racing as I stood in line at Immigration on the
Rwanda side, waiting for my papers to be stamped. It was 5:30 pm on a Friday,
and the line to enter Congo before the border closed at 6 pm was easily 60
people long, all equally as impatient as I was to get across. As the minutes
passed, the line lengthened, it became increasingly evident that not
everyone would make it through the line and the tension was visible. Several people
tried to cut, although angry shouts in Swahili and Kinyarwanda, and
sometimes shoves, usually put them back in their place.
After the
immigration officer questioned my intentions to go to Congo, my papers were begrudgingly
stamped, and I proceeded across the rickety bridge over the Rusizi River that
leads to the second largest country in Africa. Right next to the rickety wooden
bridge lies a fancy blue, two-lane, paved bridge that was completed about two
years ago, but has never opened to either foot or vehicle traffic. Rumors say
that the agreement was for both Congo and Rwanda to refurbish and straighten
the roads leading to the bridge on their side of the border. Rwanda,
rule-abiding to a T and with signs saying things like “Together We Prevent
Corruption!” lining the way to the border, finished their side of the road
around the same time as the new bridge was built. Congo has yet to keep up
their end of the deal since someone managing the project was rumored to have
taken the funds, so the now two-year old bridge remains closed. If only they
had more enthusiastic anti-corruption signs lining the road to the border...
I headed
into the Congo immigration office, where several Congolese police officers
stood outside smoking cigarettes in faded blue fatigues. Once I entered the
small immigration office, a large photo-shopped picture of the Congolese head
of state, Joseph Kabila, stared back at me. The immigration officer was
surprisingly friendly, and thanked me for coming to visit his country in
slightly accented English as he looked through my American passport.
My friend
Lotte met me at the border in a car, and we headed to her home in Muhumba, one
of the five fingerlike peninsulas of Bukavu. It was drizzling slightly, and
the potholed roads were filled with muddy puddles. I couldn’t help but notice
the increased security as the evening light faded, with high brick walls topped with half of yard of
barbed wire or electric fences surrounding each house like a fortress. Lotte
and I arrived at her house, where elegant crowned cranes strutted about a
well-manicured garden.
Lotte’s parents were visiting from the Netherlands, and
I got to know them in between staring at the sun slipping in between the ribbons
of sapphire-hued mountains beyond Lake Kivu.
We ate a satisfying Congolese meal with
grilled fish, lenga-lenga (greens), rice, and ugali, as well as some chocolate
Lotte had brought back from the Netherlands. I fell asleep on the couch at some
point after eating and awoke to the sound of dishes being washed awhile later. I
decided to keep sleeping on the couch, but when the sound of mosquitoes buzzing
in my ears became too loud for me to sleep, I pitched my tent in the middle of Lotte’s living
room and slept inside of it instead.
The Gorillas
The next morning, we all woke up early to head to
Kahuzi-Biega National Park, a massive forested park just an hour outside of
Bukavu.
The driver picked us up, then we switched drivers, and then proceeded
through the crowded streets of Bukavu towards the park.
The streets
were bustling with uniformed schoolchildren, who actually study on Saturdays,
various small-goods vendors, and throngs of brightly-painted mini-buses with
the convoyeurs standing out of the
open doors yelling out the final destination to attract potential passengers.
We passed the harbor, where fishermen were bringing the night’s catch and where
large passenger boats were setting sail for Goma, at the opposite end of the
lake.
Our nostrils filled with the smell
of fermenting grains as we went by the Congolese Bralima brewery, which
provides the area with its supply of the ubiquitous Primus beer, and whose
counterpart Bralirwa brews the same beverage on the opposite side of the lake. The
walls of the brewery were painted with the rather strange slogan of Primus
Bralima, “Toujours Leader”, or “Always Leader.” Our driver stopped the get gas,
and I watched as a Chinese truck with an unimaginable number of dirty yellow
jerrycans piled high on top of it spewed clouds of black smoke as it sputtered
by. The driver said the jerrycans were used in the palm oil trade. The palm oil
could be collected from large plantations a few hours from Bukavu, and brought
back to the city, where it was sold.
The road to
Kahuzi-Biega followed the lake, and was pretty well paved for most of the trip.
We cruised through several small villages and a couple of barricaded police
checkpoints, one of which we had to pay a “fee” at to get past. I was
speechless at the beauty of the Congolese countryside. One of the things I miss
most living in the most densely populated country in Africa is true wilderness.
No matter where you are in Rwanda, unless you’re in a National Park, you can
always spot people around. The land is parceled out into millions of tiny
fields, like a patchwork quilt covering the rolling hills in maize, beans,
bananas, and sorghum. I started to get choked up just gazing at the untamed,
vast expanses before me.
At the
turnoff to the Parc National Kahuzi-Biega,
named for the two highest peaks in the park, the road began to get a bit more rough,
although not unmanageable. There was a statue of a gorilla with faded and
chipped paint among the few buildings on the compound.
I took a short walk
around, and saw the grave of the Belgian founder of the park, as well as a sign
in French designating the park as World Heritage Site, although two of the
metal plates making up the insignia were missing.
We went inside to the visitors
center, where several men were building the floor. I wasn’t sure what hike I
wanted to do (Lotte and her parents had already planned on visiting the
mountain gorillas), and inquired about the various options, and eventually
decided to stick with my friend for the gorillas hike (which was amazing in and
of itself---in Rwanda gorilla trekking permits are around $700, and they
usually have to be bought weeks if not months in advance).
I chatted with on of the rangers in
French about what I did in Rwanda and how long I’d been there. I mentioned that
I first came to Rwanda with Corps de la
Paix, and the ranger had a soft look on his face. He said he remembered the
days when Peace Corps was in what was then Zaire, and that there was a teacher
at his school who was from Peace Corps and that the program was well-respected.
He asked how many Peace Corps Volunteers are in Congo now, and I had to tell
him that there weren’t any, since the wars in Congo in the 1990s. The ranger
asked when we’d return, and I said I couldn’t tell him. It made me feel so
proud that he had such a positive experience with Peace Corps, and it made me
really sad that I couldn’t assure him that the organization would be back soon.
We had some tea the staff brought
to us and some waffles we brought from Lotte’s house for breakfast next to a
table full of gorilla skulls.
We listened to a short briefing from one of the
rangers along with three people I knew were Belgians before they told us. The
ranger introduced himself in French as “Juvenal, the alive one from Congo and
not the dead one from Rwanda“ (a reference to the former president of Rwanda,
whose death in an airplane crash prompted the beginning of the Rwandan genocide).
Juvenal gave a short history
lesson, showing us a picture of the Belgian founder of the park, and large
photo of the first ranger of the park, a man by the name of “Monsieur
Pillipilli Pygmee” roughly translated as “Mr Spicy Pygmy.” Juvenal also showed
us a massive map of Kahuzi-Biega. All of the trails were concentrated in a
smaller area in the southeast; the rest left unexplored. It was astounding.
After the briefing, the seven of us
and a couple park rangers piled into a beat-up pick-up truck to drive to the
trailhead on a dirt and gravel road with dense rainforest all around it.
I knew
I was no longer in Rwanda when a few motos with passengers and drivers who were
not wearing helmets, and up to the three or four people were crammed onto it,
passed us on the way to Kisangani (Rwandan law dictates that only two people,
the driver and one passenger, can ride a motorcycle, and that both must wear
helmets). The motorcycle passengers and drivers seemed shocked to see white
people and would crane their necks trying to get a glimpse, and in one case the
driver crashed into a ditch because he was trying to see us and wasn’t paying
attention to the road.
2 out of 3 passengers with helmets gets a thumbs up from Papa Lambert |
After maybe half an hour of
driving, the truck stopped. A guide who introduced himself to us as Papa
Lambert met us, and although there was no trailhead, we began to hike on a
narrow path through the jungle. Papa Lambert walked in front, and a guard
wielding an AK-47 walked behind the seven of us. The forest was thick, and the
path was occasionally slippery. After we’d walked for forty minutes, Papa
Lambert stopped us in a small clearing. His face was somber as he cleared his
voice. In French, he said that military groups used to use the clearing as a
small base during the Congo Wars in the late 1990s, attacking traffic on the
road from Bukavu to Kisangani, and killing both the animals and some of the
guards in the park. I had so much respect for the guards and guides of
Kahuzi-Biega. Papa Lambert had a sense of pride and dignity about him mixed in
with the twinge of sadness in his voice, and I instantly respected him.
We continued on through the
rainforest for perhaps an hour and a half total, and finally Papa Lambert
turned to us and said we were approaching the family of gorillas. He handed out
surgical masks “so we don’t catch the gorillas’ diseases, and they don’t catch
ours”, we put dutifully put them on.
There were perhaps twenty gorillas
in the family, including a massive silverback and several playful young gorillas.
There were only seven of us, plus the guards, and we got to be within a few
feet of them. It was magical.
The young gorillas goofed around, swinging from
branches and even wrestling each other.
Some of the parents groomed and picked
insects from their young’s hair. And all of them ate bamboo shoots and other
plants.
No pictures and no description does it justice, and I would do it again
in a heartbeat.
We stayed with the gorilla family
for a couple of hours, which seemed to fly by, and then made the trek back to
the road, where our truck was waiting.
More guards came back with us, and the
back of the truck was very full. I sat next to one guard who was no more than
four and a half feet tall, who wore bubblegum-pink rain boots, and another who
was carrying a Kalashnikov with a slightly rotting wooden barrel that was
duct-taped together, which didn’t exactly inspire confidence in his ability to
use it, if it was needed.
I sat and stared at that gun as we
bumped and bounced down the rough road. I wondered where it was made, who had
brought it Congo, when, and how and why. During the Congo Wars? Maybe even when
Mobutu was president? I could only guess. I thought about all of the people
that might have carried that ancient-looking gun, and tried not to think about
the people at the other end of it. I wondered what that gun had seen.
I was jolted from my thoughts when
another large truck carrying hundreds of dirty yellow jerrycans and quite a few
passengers piled on top as well came barreling up the road, towards wherever
the palm oil was coming from.
We made it back to the main
compound, and then Lotte, her parents, and I got back in our car to head back
to Bukavu.
I had my head out the window the whole time, taking in the small
villages with little shops and wooden bars, rows of sugarcane lined up against
houses, children playing football, clothes drying in the breeze, and then once
again, the hustle and bustle of Bukavu as we reached the city’s limits in the
late afternoon.
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