Cruisin the Congo

Bukavu near the lake

I feel dizzy just thinking about this little excursion. It all started with a big meal, where I downed as much local food as I could. I completely avoided meat, but ate pretty much anything else at this all-you-can-eat buffet. And why not? I was ready to take on those hills! In fact, I had it in my head that not only was I going to take this 5 hour stretch of nasty, gut wrenching hills and turns, but I was going to do it in style while reading my riveting novel about President Kagame.

I was wearing sea sick bands, listening to music, and was purposefully avoiding glancing out the windows to trick my body into thinking we weren’t moving at all. Every once and a while I would peer over my book just as a precaution. It was all going fine until about midway when things literally took a turn for the worst. Our driver seemed to lose all his previous inhibitions and started swerving around cyclists and passing cars. It only took one of those turns and I my innards were waving the white flag.

Hills of death far in the distance

At this point I started pep-talking myself, trying to think about anything else, but my mouth started to water and I knew that my stomach was about to erupt. I politely told the driver to pull over…4 TIMES. At this point I couldn’t even see properly. I pointed off the side of the road and yelled at him to stop while I was rolling down the window. He took his sweet time to stop and I ended up “tossing a tiger” out the window—all over his new black Land Cruiser.

Things didn’t get much better from there on. The winding roads that we took through the dense rain forests whipped and winded around the hills. It was like being on a horrible roller coaster. Our driver was so excited about the new road that the government had built through the forest that he felt like he could rip through the forest like a scolded monkey.

I was crying trying to hold in what little I had left inside. BLAAAAH #2….BLAAHH #3…. “are we almost…BLAAHHAHGH AGH!” At this point, my traveling companion Augustine, who is one of the premier bean breeders in Rwanda, scientifically stated “Pole sana Jewan, You seem to be ill-adapted to this environment” As if I were another one of his undesirable climbing bean variety that needed to be cast by the wayside because it lacked the resilience or tolerance necessary to succeed.

I was angry at that point. I had already taken off the stupid sea-sick bands that were about as useful as a chocolate hammer. I was just sticking my head out the window clicking my heels like Dorthy, when Augustine started opening his mouth again “You know, Jewan, we should have flown. It would have cost the same” And that was when I lost it. My eyes went red with rage and any morals I had previously flew out the same window I had been sticking my head in solace. I was fully ready to murder my driver and this funny-man-bean-breeder.

I had previously asked everyone I knew if there were flights to Congo from Kigali and they all said no. Even Augustine had told me that. “Your kidding right!!?” I retorted, giving him a chance to live. He then explained that there was a very nice, cheap 20min flight from Kigali to Bukavu (where we were heading first). I told him that he was out of his mind for having us waste 5 hours and my lunch on this roller coaster ride. Luckily we made it to the hotel before I really lost my cool. Next time we agreed to take the plane even if it is a tiny bush jumper.

Crossing the Border

Chris, Me and Marius

The next day, I was still woozy from our trip. I hadn’t eaten dinner and was holding back on breakfast because I was still as nervous I would have a reunion with it all too soon. I was being reassured by our driver that the worst was all over because we were now by Lake Kivu. I forgot all my pain from the following night as we curved around the expansive, glimmering lake. The breeze almost made me feel like I was on the coast in California.

We had to park and then walk across the border. I have never seen such a contrast in my life! As we crossed the language changed from Kinyarwanda to French and Swahili. I felt my heart leap as I could finally communicate past my jumbled Kinyarwanda vocabulary now. Our host, Chris picked us up to take us to the farms. Chis struck me as the African version of Winston Churchill without the cigar in his mouth. He had this witty charm, infectious laughter, and deep raspy voice that made him an instant hit. He also donned a British driver’s cap to top it all off.

Bukavu (Tortuga)

I noticed as we drove that the roads on the Congo side were almost nonexistent with slabs of asphalt placed here and there to give the illusion that there had once been a road there. Bukavu was a lively fishing town. Dirty, teetering wooden structures passed by view as we entered deeper into the belly of the town. The smell of smoke and broiled fish filled the air and made my eyes water. Yup, this was pretty much Tortuga from Pirates of the Caribbean. It got even better when we asked Chris where we could exchange money and we stopped randomly at a corner as he made a sign and some shady looking guy on the street whipped out loads of money from his pocket to exchange for our Rwandan Franks. Eastern Congo has an infamous history of wars, exploitation, and corruption. It is cursed with an abundance of minerals and wealth which somehow bypass the hands of the common man.

Boat ride across the lake

Our visit to the farms was well worth the time. We spent hours discussing the challenges the seed breeders faced with unprotected borders where uncertified seeds where coming in on a daily basis. They also pointed out numerous bleeding hearted NGO's who were undermining the market by shipping over improved seed varieties and handing them out for free. With all of the challenges, I saw hope in so many young men my age who were being trained to be plant breeders and seed system specialists. I insisted on standing in the back of the truck with the youth (much to the shock of Chris and the program Director). I closed my eyes and thought of what a privilege it was to finally be old enough to sit in the back of Grandpa’s blue ford truck or on the trailers when we were bucking hay. Didn’t they realize I had earned the RIGHT to stand with my fellow yeomen, breeze blowing in my visage.

If Bukavu was Tortuga, Goma was the Wild West.

Time sped by quickly and we spent the night at our overpriced hotel, getting ready for our voyage over Lake Kivu to Goma. I was really excited about it to be honest and was hoping that we were going to be on some old rusty barge with grimy sailors on deck ta-boot, but that didn’t happen. In fact, as I walked on deck and entered the hull, it looked more like a movie theater. The seats were nice and comfy and there was a large screen TV in the front playing the latest violent Samuel L. Jackson movie. I was able to finish reading my book on-board without getting sick at all-Pugh! Ill-adapted my eye!

We made several stops to small fishing villages along the way. I wondered what it would be like to live there and be isolated from the rest of the fray. Just paddling your dugouts around the dock and living the dream. Our final stop was Goma and I have to admit it was a lot to take in all at once. Even Bukavu didn’t prepare me properly for what I saw next. It was like entering another planet. The roads were paved in molten lava and fine black volcanic silt filled the air and covered buildings all around. Everywhere you looked, buildings where made of the same volcanic rock, leaving countless holes big enough even for bats to get through.

Goma (Wild West) 

Just that day, two Game Rangers had been killed by the Rebel groups that investing the region in search of lucrative minerals. These Rangers are posted all along the road, striving to protect the Gorillas in the park. As we sped up the volcanic road, people riding their wooden carriers down the mother of Volcanoes in Virunga National Park as if they were great Trojan horses. Some of these bikes were carrying hundreds of pounds of wood, charcoal or sometimes entire families.

Virunga Volcanoes in the morning

The higher we went, the cooler it got even as the intensity of the sunlight increased. We stopped at our first plot that was smack dab in a remote village where they were testing some of the bean varieties. I was instantly bombarded with requests for a picture from the men, who decided they would be cool and pull a pose.

Picha with the boyz

The further we went up into the park, the worse the roads got. I was cramped in the back seat with two of my colleagues. It was hot, dusty, and the only thing that was on my mind was the fact that the further we went in the longer it would take to get out. We didn’t get to our final destination until 2 hours in where we checked the new sweet potato varieties coming from Mozambique. Having lived off of sweet potatoes in Texas for the last couple years, I was ecstatic. The only sweet potatoes I had found were yellow and tasteless almost the same as Irish potatoes. As I cut into these new varieties, I was surprised to see orange flesh full of sugars. I am hoping to find similar varieties in Rwanda soon.

The trip back was uneventful. I opted to sit in the very back of the land cruiser, which ended up bucking and throwing me around the entire drive back. As sunset, we were back at the border ready to cross back into the land of new paved roads, the serene cleaned cities and villages, the secure and comfortable Rwanda that I had taken for granted. Throw up or no throw up, I was grateful to be back. I finished my book on President Kagame and said a little “thank you” to him and my dogs knowing my family was safe back home.