congo buhdget

Sunday, October 25, 2009

gorillas

May 2, 2009

I’m standing at the bottom of a slope in Kahuzi-Biega National Park west of Bukavu in the DRC, dirt splattered all over my pants and for the second time in two months I am  witnessing my car flopping around in the mud. I think back to Nyungwe Forest in April when Martina and I drove to Rwanda to see chimps and just to get away from Burundi. We picked up Sarah from Scotland at the Park Ranger station (some foreshadowing perhaps – I had a ticket to Scotland for the following month). On the downhill drive into the park, we had no problems despite it being rainy season. The park’s tourist numbers confirm that April is the least popular month to visit but I highly recommend it if you want to see new landscapes and gorgeous cloud patterns every five minutes.

Anyway, of course, we didn’t have any issues getting to the park – we just slid downhill on the tire tracks other vehicles had carved into the yellow mud. Coming back uphill was a predictable catastrophe that no one really bothered to think about. The trip had seemed like such a brilliant idea until that point. Then things got cagey. I had run out of candy.

This was how the exit route looked.

We tried putting logs into the tracks, we tried piling leaves under the car. I took out my machete to hack and to dig. We tried a lot of pretty silly things but with only the three of us and the Park Ranger, we didn’t move a yard. Finally, we convinced the Ranger to call his buddies and also to send for help from a nearby village. We waited for about 20 “Rwandan minutes,” which we were shocked to discover was only 15 ‘European minutes’. And then help arrived. Boy, did it arrive. Or I should say: boys. Lots and lots of barefoot giggly boys. We got to see chimps in their natural environement, a rainforest. The boys got to see foreigners in their natural environement, helplessly flailing in the mud. Fair enough. Everyone got to go home happy.

More Rangers arrived. Martina marshalled the whole group by shouting encouragements in a language no one really understood (Italian?) until she was laughing too hard to help push. Half the team pushed the car from behind, the other half pulled it by the grill on the front. The team rocked the car back and forth over each bump until it slowly gained enough momentum and traction to get going. But once it did pick up speed, I didn’t want to stop again so Sarah, Martina and our guide piled into the moving vehicle and I didn’t let up on the gas pedal until we were back on pavement. The car looked like hell. Probably the branches I crashed through did also. And then there was the rescue team:

All this flashes through my mind as I watch my Land Cruiser get a gentle nudge back up the hill so we can leave it on the drier part of the trail and hike toward the gorillas, the eastern lowland silverback gorillas. I love saying that. We’re a total of six hikers, one guide, and at least six Congolese soldier-turned-rangers. I hear some of the soldiers served under the Congolese Tutsi General Laurent Nkunda and had been integrated into the Congolese forces. That’s good, I guess, as all reports suggest they are really effective soldiers. In all, there are actually only three civilians – our guide, Carlos, Martina and me. The other four hikers sheepishly identify themselves as “Information Specialists” for the U.S. further north in Goma. I glance sidways at one in a black cap, impenetrable shades, a black tactical vest and menacing (black) boots. “Information? Oh, are you a writer?” Martina asks.

It’s a really refreshing hike. It’s still early in the morning and the Congolese landscape is awesome. The air’s clean, it’s not too hot – the climate isn’t really the problem for this country. We hike for about an hour when all of a sudden, a guerilla!

Last known photo of the hikers before they see gorillas.

The guerilla helpfully estimates that we are about several more minutes hike from the gorillas. He also tells us that we should always keep seven to ten meters between ourselves and the male or we might offend him. We learn the guerilla’s teammates have been radioing back and forth on the gorillas’ locations so he has seen them. All we have to do is turn right along the trail and hike a bit further. We take literally five steps after the turn when all of a sudden, gorillas!

At first, I don’t understand what is happening. I expected more hiking. I also expected more distance than two meters. When we got our pep talk, we must have already been inside seven meters of the gorillas. What I see is a semicircle trained on a small scene, almost like a stage. I’m confused because on the edges of this scene, just inches from a large female and her kids, are two or three rangers hacking away with sharp machetes, stripping the trees of branches and leaves. Then I realize they are clearing the space for us so we could see the gorillas better. Pretty quickly, we ask about the distance and the disturbance we are causing but Carlos explains that the rangers and gorillas are familiar with each other and if the gorillas were irritated by us, they would let us know. Everyone, gorillas and humans, also know that the law here is Chimanuka, the kingly male off to the left. He is essentially tolerating us because if he really wanted to, he could flatten all of us in a heartbeat. We are the ones that have to be totally respectful. At the moment, I am totally respectful of his eating every leaf around him. That’s about as far as our relationship gets. We don’t share a beer or anything, but he does end up tolerating us for more than an hour as we follow him deeper and deeper into the jungle.

I’ve only uploaded a couple photos of the gorillas because this is ultimately not something I could show you well. Anyone can see images of gorillas anywhere, but there is so much more to it. It’s humbling and majestic and frightening and exciting and even a little sad, all at the same time. I would just muck it up; the experience deserves better than my telling of it. It would be hard to retell the stories we exchange while hiking or describe the flowers we smell. The enormity of Chimanuka’s frame, his fists that are the size of my torso, his commanding grunts. The little ones, interacting with us, dangling from branches, swinging by in the surrounding trees. Putting all of it onto a blog is really not why I went.

What I do support is tourism in the Congo. If you get the chance to visit, I recommend tours led by Carlos from the Co-Co Lodge, located in Bukavu. He has been there for a long time, so he knows the terrain and he knows the people. You can contact him at lodgecoco@kivu-online.com

You might mention Jeff and Martina from Bujumbura said hello, but I can’t be responsible for what happens next. Carlos was the one who had to get my car out of the mud.

prehistoric time travel

I guess the first thing I should mention is that I am, in fact, not dead. Long periods of silence tend to create some outrageous rumors, like the idea that I would actually let myself die here. Humanitarian crisis created by a boneheaded U.N.-led operation? Rampant Interhamwe rebels, Congolese soldiers and militianmen raping, killing, burning and being generally unruly?
Please.

Instead, travel back in time with me to May 2, 2009, when I traveled back in time to 40 million B.C. Co-conspirator Martina and I are in Bukavu in the DRC. We’re at the Hotel de la Roche (the “Roach Hotel”) having some lunch after seeing eastern lowland silverback gorillas in Kahuzi-Biega National Park (which I’ll write about separately), when we’re joined by the cast of Disney’s new theatrical production, “Congo.” We are swarmed by a flock of mini-turkeys, something resembling a peacock on cocaine and our favorite, a shoebill. The shoebill is unlike any creature I have ever seen. Its slate-blue beak could keep me mesmerized for hours. It also really does look like a shoe, but the kind of shoe you would wear if you wanted to get beaten up in high school. We respond to this fascinating bird the only way humans know how when confronted by an astonishing creature: we try to hunt him. Martina and I take turns creeping as close as we could to the guy. We first track him and stare, hoping to build up some telepathic rapport. Then we move in for the kill. Here’s a visual narrative of our attempts.

It takes a little while but I have a good trick for getting right up to the shoebill.
(Photos by Martina)

Eventually, I lay down right next to him(?). There aren’t any serious objections, just some curious glances (from the hotel staff, too). I think he was completely fooled by my blue camouflage.

Next: Gorillas! And, guerillas!

Still alive, still alive, thanks…

seeing things

Some recent random shots.

I woke up at 5:58 a.m. and took this in the garden at 6:00. By 6:02, it was gone.

Dancin’.

The ‘Burundian Gentleman’ is defined by his visionary coupling of polyester leopard-skin hat and French cuffs.

The next three were taken in Ruzizi Park, where there are hippos and crocs and where you can see the mythical police-creature dozing in his natural habitat.

The next one was taken in front of my house. It’s noteworthy because this is the third or fourth time the steamroller has appeared to re-grade the road. Each time, the crews don’t follow up with the other steps to finish paving, so of course, the rain sweeps away previous efforts. Good planning and stuff. Thanks, European Development Fund. (Follow-up: the canals have all been dismantled/smashed because they were too poorly built the first time and need to be reconstructed.)

taco night

Tuesday, March  3, 2009

What’s more astonishing than all the traveling we do? The things we bring back:

• Taco spices from Stockholm
• Taco shells from London
• Black beans from New York
• Cheese from somewhere in Burundi
• Chocolate chips from Singapore
• Brandon from Canada-ish

Left to right: Brandon, Katie, Amy, Katherine, Seth, Trina and Felicia (dark hair)

Seth’s post about Novotel

A few of us have had some harrowing experiences lately, but when my friend Seth told me his story, I was stunned. I have asked him to write it up to post on my blog because we’re not 100% sure he should post it on his, for security reasons. Here is his post:

Friday the 13th of February 2009 started like any other day. Coffee, and a scoop of NIDO. I didn’t even think about it being Friday the thirteenth. I’m a videographer in Burundi, and I have been staying in the Capital city of Burundi. I was going to take my photographer friend to the roof of a hotel in town to get some city shots. This was going to be my fourth time on the roof of this hotel. Novotel, in Bujumbura Burundi. I may never go there again.

But the first three times I went to the roof of Novotel, Bujumbura I didn’t bring a tripod so my shots were a bit shaky. I brought my tripod this time, and my friend and I approached the reception desk. I just told them what I was doing: “I’ve been on your roof three times now, I’m going up again with my friend to take some shots, and I’ll come back down in about 20 minutes.” The staff seemed to have a spontaneous meeting due to my comment, and after a minute they said the person who has the authority to allow us up on the roof is in a meeting. I said, “No problem, send him up to meet me on the roof… that’s where I’ll be.” One of the male staff members was pissed at my cockiness I think, and he told us not to go up there. So I ignored him, and went up on the roof with my friend. So the reception desk saw us take the elevator, and I’m sure they called this angry staff guy. We were on the roof for a minute, and the guy showed up, super angry. I told him, to calm down, and come on over, and to make sure to remember to have the manager meet me here, and I’ll wait for him. My friend took off, as he didn’t want any part in this. The guy said he’s going to call the police and have me arrested, and I told him, “No problem… call the police. I can see one right down on the road in front of the hotel from where we are standing, I can yell for him if you like.” The guy got on his phone and made a fake phone call to the police, which we both knew would do nothing, and seeing that his bluff didn’t work… he quickly grabbed my tripod, and took off.

Admittedly, I wasn’t being very humble with this Novotel staff guy, because I get so tired of people on power trips, especially when I’ve had no previous problems shooting video from the roof. And so I waited on the roof. I didn’t shoot any video because I didn’t have my tripod, and I would just get more shaky footage, so I just sat there, and tried to figure out how I would get my tripod back. After about 15 minutes the guy comes back up, with my tripod in his left hand, and an AK47 in his right hand. I told him to give me back my tripod, and he told me if I don’t get off the roof he’s going to shoot me. We were both nervous and angry, so I just started loudly saying: “oh, so you’re going to kill me! You’re… going to kill… me!” I didn’t really know what else to say because I was nervous. All I knew was that I really wanted to smack him and tell him he’s a complete idiot, and he should be locked up, and that even though we have a difference of opinion on whether I should be on the roof, to just up and threaten to kill me is absolutely asinine. I felt an extreme anger towards him in the immediacy of the moment. He threw my tripod at me because I wasn’t moving, and he needed to load his clip before he could properly shoot me. Also, he needed two hands to aim even though he was about a meter and a half away. I picked up my tripod and looked it over, furious that he would throw it and damage it. Sure enough a knob broke and I was pissed. I put the broken knob in my bag, and started to collapse the tripod, while the angry Novotel staff guy pushed his gun into my chest and told me if I don’t leave he’s going to kill me. I noticed he was shaking pretty bad with nerves and I thought he’s going to shoot me by accident. I said once more, “I can’t believe you’re aiming that gun at me and actually threatening to kill me!” Well, I decided I didn’t want to die that Friday, but I did want that guy fired. So I went down to reception, and asked for his name. They wouldn’t give me his name. I said I want to speak to the manager. They said I couldn’t. They told me to write a message for him, so I did, and I left my number. I knew they would just throw it in the trash. I waited one hour for the manager who was supposedly in a 15 minute meeting. Realizing that the entire hotel staff was against me, I left, and the AK47 guy followed me to my car, and wrote down my plate number, and said he would kill me.

I don’t think I’ve ever been that angry in my life. I dwelt on it for days, and I went on every travel website I could find, to leave a negative review of Novotel Burundi. I contacted human resources, and the hotel branch managers, and only one person has returned my email, saying that they would look into the situation. Which of course I knew they wouldn’t do. I told them to pass along my report of the situation and stated I would like a meeting with the manager… Nothing. I will simply end by saying, I really don’t recommend Novotel Bujumbura as a place to stay. Not only because their rooms smell bad, their pool is often dirty, everything is over priced, the food isn’t any good, their TV’s get bad reception, their dinning tables are tipsy, and their chairs uncomfortable. I predominantly refuse to recommend the Novotel as a place to stay and spend money, because there is this guy there, and if he disagrees with you over some issue, he’ll get an AK47, and he’ll shoot you if he’s so inclined. And hotels with people like that working at them, should be avoided at all cost. Novotel Bujumbura is one such hotel. If you’ve had a bad or even a good experience at Novotel, Bujumbura, I’d like to hear about it. Please go ahead and leave a comment.

rules of the road – burundi (hahaha…), pt. 2

Friday, February 27, 2009

“Dear Emmanuel,

Léon was not trying to run you over.

Really sorry.

Jeff”

rules of the road – burundi (hahahahaha), pt. 1

February 25, 2009

Léon is my Logistician. Before I came to Burundi, I would have had no clue what that title would entail, but now I have a decent idea. An example: not long ago, I received a text message from Léon at around 6 p.m. that read, “Please don’t forget the reception at the Ambassador’s at 6:30 p.m.” And you know what? I had forgotten. But what really gets me is that I had never mentioned the reception (for the now-State-side and much-missed Caren – hello, Caren!) to Léon. But because he seems to know just about everyone in town, he knew that 1. There was a reception; 2. I had been invited; and 3. I had forgotten I had been invited. This is very clearly a complicated operation and only someone with a mind for logistics could anticipate all those steps. Without Léon, I would probably be doing something dumb like jumping through windows at a police station. More likely, I would probably be quietly weeping in the bathtub right now, wondering how to get out of it.

Léon does have one weak spot: he doesn’t know how to drive. This is actually an astounding deficiency for a Logistician – he can do everything but he can’t go anywhere. What is even more surprising is that Léon has a Burundian driver’s license. Right. He can’t drive but he’s allowed to. Welcome to Burundi!

(Photo by my House Chief, Léonidas)

So, today, I am giving Léon his first driving lesson. After a quick demonstration and an explanation of all the relevant buttons and levers, I let him take the wheel. We creep back and forth in the driveway, moving in an adequately straight line. Léon does fairly well except he’s a bit nervous about turning the steering wheel, in that he doesn’t. In fact, he’s terrified. Death-gripping the wheel would be fine if the car is perfectly aligned to go straight, but it’s not. One of our passes leaves the car leaning to the left. For every action, there is a note of apology.

“Dear Emmanuel (my gardener),

I am sorry.

Jeff”

You know that moment when you hope a car would slow down, stop, turn away? When the inevitable impact just seems so improbable? If you’ve ever (unintentionally) hit anything with a car at slow speeds, you might know what I’m talking about. And at the last moment, I think about flailing my arms, trying to say stop, brake, freine! I even imagine stomping on the passenger-side brake that car instructors usually have. But I do none of those things. I think, well, surely Léon sees what I’m seeing. Surely he isn’t going to plow into those pretty leaves.
 

Emmanuel, I am so sorry.
 

 

mount teza

February 15, 2009

Burundi doesn’t have many touristic activities:

“Have you seen the hippos yet?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
(silence)
“Let’s go eat Indian food.”
“I ate there last night but ok.” 

Sometimes we have to really seek out our own fun. One option is to go for a hike, except all the nearby areas are still in rebel-held territories, even if they’ve promised to put down their guns. We did some intrepid organizing and notified the guerillas that we would be hiking around, so please don’t shoot us.

We decide to climb Mount Teza, which I had thought was the tallest mountain in Burundi. Turns out it’s the second tallest. And we actually don’t end up hiking Teza, we hike the peak next to it. The mountain next to the second highest peak in Burundi.

It’s a truly glorious day, and we haven’t had many recently. But today is perfect – big chunky clouds and glowing tea plantations lining the valleys. I’m not hoping to see many animals – the war was brutal on them, too – but we did sight a few fascinating birds and some giant earthworms, which were described as “muscular” (I later picked one up – ‘muscular’ is the correct word). And while not animals, we also saw a few broken clay pots, probably indicating old rebel campsites. Pretty neat stuff.

Walter helpfully points out the spot where your correspondent will slip and plunge an unhappy foot into that clean clean spring water.

Brandon: “This is where we’re going.”

(Wyatt!)

Amy – wily henchman, photographer (did you or I take those shots up top?), navigator and soon to be taco-conspirator.

Not-Mt. Teza.

usumbura

My friend Katherine sent me this link for photos of Usumbura (the colonial name for Bujumbura) from the 1950’s:

http://membres.lycos.fr/usumbura/page1.htm

Some of the scenes in the photos are impressively similar to the city today. Many of the buildings shown still exist.

This post is maybe a stunning glimpse into Burundi’s colonial past, maybe another, less stunning, evasion on my part of considering my current surroundings.