Shocking news: Once again we miss the violence: At least 18 die in car bomb attack on Nigeria U.N. HQ

On 16 June we left Abuja in Nigeria to continue our southwards journey. It was only a couple of days later when we heard about the bomb that had exploded in front of the main police station in the centre of the city on that very day. After having had the same near-miss experience in Marrakesh, where a bomb exploded in the same restaurant one week after we had had our farewell dinner there, we were once again very relieved that we had left the violence behind us.

This time we are well clear of the city and the country, but the shock and the horror learning about yet another bomb blast in a city that we had come to know and enjoy, a place where we had met people and made friends, is no less serious or disturbing than if it had happened whilst we were there.

Our thoughts and sympathy go to the people of Abuja.

This morning Reuters reports: A car bomb ripped through the United Nations' headquarters in the Nigerian capital of Abuja on Friday, killing at least 18 people, in an attack reminiscent of a June blast claimed by a local radical Islamist sect.

Security sources and witnesses said the car rammed into the building and blew up, badly damaging parts of an office complex where close to 400 people normally work for U.N. agencies. Body parts were strewn on the ground as emergency workers, soldiers and police swarmed around the building, cordoned roads and rushed the wounded to hospital.

No one claimed responsibility for the attack. However, one Abuja-based security source suspected the Nigerian Islamist group Boko Haram, whose strikes have been growing in intensity and spreading further afield, or al Qaeda's North African arm.


"This is very likely the work of Boko Haram and, or, AQIM (al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb) and is a serious escalation in the security situation in Nigeria," the security source said.

In today's attack the car slammed through security gates of the U.N. complex, crashed into the basement and exploded, sending vehicles flying and setting the building ablaze. "When the car got inside it went straight to the basement and exploded, killing people in reception, right and left," said Abuja resident James John, who witnessed the attack. "The entire building, from the ground floor to the topmost, was just fire and smoke. I saw six bodies been carried. I can't believe it."

"All the people in the basement were all killed. Their bodies are littered all over the place. I saw about five dead bodies," said Ocilaje Michael, a U.N. employee at the complex.

The building was blackened from top to bottom. In places, walls were blown away and there were piles of debris from the explosion.

SIMILAR ATTACK

Militant attacks in the oil-producing regions of southern Nigeria have subsided but the north has been hit by a round of bombings and killings by Islamist extremists.

Boko Haram, whose name translates from the local northern Hausa language as "Western education is sinful," has been behind almost daily bombings and shootings, mostly targeting police in the northeast of Africa's most populous nation. The group claimed responsibility for the 16 June bomb attack on the car park of the Abuja police headquarters which bore similarities to Friday's blast at the U.N. building. In the June attack, a car rammed through the gates of the police headquarters in the capital and exploded, killing the bomber and narrowly missing the chief of police.

Boko Haram has mostly targeted its shootings and bombs on police in Nigeria's remote northeast, which borders Cameroon, Chad and Niger, but its ambitions are growing.

President Goodluck Jonathan has set up a committee to investigate the sect, and police and army officers have been making dozens of arrests and engaging group members in gunfights in the last two weeks.

Reuters

Update Gabon to Congo to DRC: Part Eleven - The last, final, end, ultimate episode in the Visa Saga

There is so much to still tell about Kinshasa – the wide impressive 8-lane Boulevard that runs 14 kilometres through the city – so imposing with high skyscrapers on either side, the large bill boards advertising CENI – the Independent Electoral Committee that is supposed to make sure that the upcoming election on 28 November will run smoothly and fairly and with transparency. The feel of affluence and almost obscene amounts of money, whilst fifty metres away, behind the facade of the tall modern shiny skyscrapers, the roads are dusty and dirty and potholed and the daily debris is piled in heaps which are set alight at night and give the effect of a post-apocalyptic scene with the smoke filling the dark empty streets, the electricity cut, the only light coming from the burning fires.

Part of the posh showy side are the countless buildings and vehicles that represent the NGO's, the UN, the Red Cross, the Medecin Sans Frontieres, UNESCO, UNICEF, the World Bank -- and of course, the many foreign embassies. On the Boulevard you could almost think yourself back in a very modern and very wealthy European city, but step off the main Boulevard, and you are immediately back in Africa. Here you will smile at the sights and sounds and the colours and the smells. So synonymous with Kin, the click-click-click of the shoe shine boys advertising their service by clicking the small wooden footrest he carries in one hand, his bag with polishes and rags in the other; the bell-like tinkle of two little bottles clanging together carried by the man that sells all-sorts-- a large tin bowl of aspirins, razors, tissues, bundles of wooden sticks that Africans use for toothbrushes, snuff, you-name-it; or the ting-ting-ting of the man's knife against the tin bowl piled high with fresh French loaves – which he too carrires on his head in a large tin bowl. When you stop him, he will take the bowl down, take one loaf of bread, cut it lengthwise, butter it, squirt on some mayonnaise, peri peri and slices of any one of several sausages that are nestling in the middle of the bowl: an instant and delicious lunch.

Kinshasa is also synonymous with the best fabric shopping yet! Enormous shops with literally thousands of Africa fabrics – far too many to buy only one or to make a final choice in a day; and in the grand market itself, row upon row upon row of stalls with even more choice, and then, in the centre of the market, an area where the sound of manual Singer machines is mesmerising as dozens of tailors sit amidst masses of bits and pieces of all these fabrics, sewing the most elaborate outfits for every Kinois, rich or poor, young or old, male or female.

All the warnings about pickpockets and muggings are real. Almost every time we went out in the streets, there was at least one attempt to rob us. Some of the youngsters are just that – youngsters with no job, no money and nothing to do, so they try to rob people of their money and belongings. But every now and then there is the slightly more professional youngsters who usually, it seems, work in groups of three. One of them 'sells' big plastic bags to shoppers. He would come up to the victim with the apparent aim to sell bags, hold the bags up at shoulder height so that they completely cover the victim from view of anyone else in the vicinity. Another then comes from the other side and 'stumbles' against the victim while a third comes from the front and in this muddle, hands go into pockets, unzip bags, cut shoulder straps, and before you can say “Hey you”, you have lost all your worldly goods. Another problem in Kin are the 'police' or the 'immigration officers' – sometimes in uniform, often not, --people who stop any and everyone – in particular the 'mondele', i.e. white people, and demand money, papers, or anything they can get out of you.

Anyway – you want to know about the Angolan Visas!

To bring this endless saga to an end, when we were finally told “no you cannot have visas at all, we have suspended all visas”, as a very very last resort I asked Terence to help, and he, as a very very last resort asked a good friend and colleague who is as high up as you can go in the DRC to intervene on our behalf, and he, in turn, asked his miracle man in Kin to do his magic. He did and, after another few weeks of waiting, sleepless nights and stomach churning and dread having to pass on the news (on my part), seven of us coming to Kin to stay in one of our friend's properties while the other four chose to stay behind in Matadi, and

after being told we have the visas, they are on the ambassador's desk but he was waiting for one final authorisation, we were finally told – three full moons since we started applying for Angolan visas, that the ambassador had been overruled, as the powers-that-be in Luanda had decided after all that, that with all the rebel activity in the northern half of the country, and then, topped off by the kidnapping of a woman only last week, made it impossible for them to guarantee our safety and security as we travelled through Angola.

He offered though to still give us the visas – after all they are there and ready to be pasted into our passports, but with the proviso that we only use them to fly into Luanda, that we ship the truck from Pointe Noire down to Luanda, pick it up there and drive from there down to Namibia. But – cost and logistics made this option impossible and our long-awaited visas remain on the Angolan ambassador to the DRC's desk. We don't even get to see them.

It has been a long haul. Different people in the group have reacted differently to this trying ordeal. Some have fallen right through the bottom layer of the Mazlow Pyramid, others have been amazingly stoic, positive, cognisant – and appreciative of the sterling efforts made by some very important people on their behalf. What has surprised me is how easily people can start assuming that it is their right to have others go out of their way for them, turn over mountains on their behalf in an effort to make things go their way and then be angry when the end result is not as they had wished for. Once again adversity has been responsible for our little group to act in a way that no one will be very proud in years to come.

So here we are, frantically looking for flights to Johannesburg, to Cape Town, to Windhoek – anywhere from where at least some of the much-awaited sections of our expedition can still be salvaged. At least we have options. And the trip will continue. We still have a long long way to go!

In passing --

Matadi and Kinshasa : a few impressions in passing

(Keeping in mind that photography in DRC is against the law, I have been breaking my neck to get pictures for my readers!)

A tailor in the Kin market busy cutting Randy's fabrics. The yellow bits were supposed to be pants and the red supposed to be shirts. He made red pants and yellow shirts -- but, as David says, "In Africa some of it is good. Some of it is bad. But you know there will always be a surprise."

David seriously considered buying this yellow tuxedo. But didn't.

One of our two locals in Matadi

Every time on the road between Matadi and Kin -- in the pursuit of Angolan visas -- just as we thought we could not possibly be more uncomfortable in our shared taxi, we saw one that was heavier laden than ours, and we smiled

The dry season in Congo DRC is like dry season anywhere in Africa -- the long elephant grass burns easily and the countryside is quickly turned into a black, burnt landscape

At the end of a long day of shopping, the back streets of Kin resemble a scene from a post-apocalyptic film. The rubbish is swept into piles and set alight during the night, the embers and ashes blowing down the empty streets in the pre-dawn silence

Right behind the posh facade of the main Boulevard through Kin, you are back in the dust and dirt and potholes of African streets

Matadi is called the 'up and down city'. Built on hundreds of hills, the vista changes wherever you look.

Our shopping street in Matadi.

Would you like pelipeli salt on that hard boiled egg?

Kimbangu was a 'prophet' back in the 60's and 70's, until his assassination, but to this day his influence is as strong as ever and the Kimbanguiste churches can be found in every village -- in particular in the Bas-Congo region

Our 'salon' in Matadi - in the grounds of the convent. Waiting for visas has a different effect on everyone -- but mostly it is boredom, sitting around, reading, reading

Elodi, my very lovely and competent dress maker in the Kin markets. She is working on a reversible kimono I designed. Right up the moment when I put it on, she could simply not understand what it is that I wanted. Only then, when she saw that I intend to wear it with either one fabric on the outside -- or the other -- did the light go on for her! Already there is at least one copy of my African kimono and I suspect there will be many more.

An efficient -- but questionable method to rid a city of debris. The fires are usually lit at night -- but I managed to capture this one in daylight - when it is still possible to venture out on the streets.

My tent on the right - in front of the convent. I seriously wanted to record the beautiful matins singing of the nuns every morning at 6:30am and make that my alarm clock sound for perpetuity -- such a very beautiful way to be woken.

In the Congo DRC you drink Primus, Turbo King or Skol. The painting on the wall of the shebeen shows which is the favourite here.

If you have the skill (and this man does!), the material and the tools (medieval but efficient), you can set up shop on the pavement and start making beautiful french windows, panelled doors and bedroom furniture

A particularly ambitious -- and delicious -- dinner -- Orm rolling out the tortillas for a complete Mexican feast

$50 turns into a black bin bag full of francs. Here you draw dollars from the ATM and change them into local money at the men who sit on the pavements everywhere - and you buy Francs in bundles.

The view from our local in Matadi.

Matadi murals

I was quite proud managing to get all these photographs of the many painted advertisements in the town of Matadi -- considering there is a ban on photography in the DRC. There would have been more though -- had the armed policeman not noticed my camera and insisted on walking me back to our campsite to make sure I take no more pics!

Waiting for visas can inspire great moments

Update Gabon to Congo to DRC: Part Ten. And it goes on and on and on

The next day we set off to go look for cheaper accommodation. We were finely settled and reasonably comfortable little hotel the taxi driver, Guy, and his brother-in-law, the senior policeman, had found for us, but on our budget --- remembering that whatever money we spend in the pursuit of elusive visas, come out of the pockets of each one in the group --- did not stretch anywhere near to the expensive cost of living in Kinshasa. It was clear that the standards of everyone in the group have to be lowered when you look for accommodation in such an expensive city. Proof in the reaction of us all when we, by a stroke of luck, got turned down at the Anglican Church's St Anne's - accommodation because you have to book a day in advance and this rule is carved in stone. I say a stroke of luck, for this is supposed to be some of the cheapest accommodation in Kin -- very simple rooms and dorms a la church youth hostel style, but at $40 per night per person, if there are four of you and if you are living on the money provided by a group of trans-travellers and you are going to end up staying nine days -- well, work it out for yourself -- that is a lot of money! By another stroke of luck, a young man who is map-seller, took us to an apartment not far off the Boulevard which we could rent per day, and even though this was our 'own space' with kitchen and bathroom, lounge and two bedrooms, with bad tv, sporadic internet, more often than not no water, a flush toilet that does not flush, frequent and prolonged electricity cuts which means a walk up four floors - and carrying buckets of water up four floors -- it was heaven and sheer luxury. Yes, most certainly my standards seems to have dropped!

So -- back to Kinshasa and back to visa stories.

Getting past the policeman at the gate of the Angolan Consulate, past the man who takes down every detail of your life as well as any items you might have on you for the duration of your visit, then waiting (under the continuing falling and exploding mangoes) and occasionally getting into the inner sanctum of Monsieur Emile's office, was quite an interesting experience. On the first day we were running around the city of Kinshasa collecting letters from all our embassies that declared that we were who we said we were. This resulted in personal experiences of varying degrees of emotions; Randy was excited -- it was the first time he stepped into an American Embassy on foreign soil. Unfortunately the section where you go for these letters did not resemble anything that he had obviously hoped to see, the staff in this section were anything but fellow-American and all round, it was disappointing. Graham was thrilled, on the other hand. His embassy was beautiful, friendly, helpful - and offered to provide the Australian passport holders with their letters as well (as Australia does not have a delegation in the DRC and they are part of the Commonwealth) so that was a good experience. The Swedish Embassy was next for David's letter and they could not be nicer. Offered to give Elisa a letter as well as the Fins also did not have a delegation -- and hei! they just happened to like her!, and everyone agreed that David would have been the proudest of his own embassy. Next was the British Embassy -- or should I say "British Country Club and Resort, DRC". Flood lit tennis courts, swimming pools, manicured lawns, we suspect there is probably even a golf course on the banks of the Congo, glass and polished brass and high white walls and solid teak doors -- quite, quite impressive, and the Scottish, heavily tattooed burly builders working on the building and decorating of this elaborate flash five star resort/embassy, reckoned this was the cushiest job they had ever had. I don't know that the tax payers back in the UK know what their money is paying for -- or perhaps it is the GBP 50 we had to pay for each of Andrew and Ben's letters that pays for these extravagances, but one does wonder what the political reasoning is behind it all. The South African embassy for my letter came last -- well, perhaps I should say no more... Let's just say that as a South African I was not made to feel welcome on what is, in effect, South African soil, and I made this fact known. The urge to sit down and write a letter to my government is strong.

But my fighting spirit was not only awakened at the SA Embassy. Back at the Angolan Consulate I had been told by M. Emile to be back at 1pm with the letters and the final documents needed for the processing of our passports. I arrived at the gate at 12:55. There were several people there, trying to speak to the policeman lounging on a chair on the other side of the slightly open gate, one foot against the gate to prevent it from being opened further, telling everyone to go away, the consulate is closed.

I pushed my way through and popped my head through the opening and told him I had an appointment with M. Emile. "Go away" he said. "The consulate is closed. Anyway, your visas have not arrived yet." This got my hackles rising. This young insolent man may be an AK47 bearing DRC policeman, but by this time I had had more than enough of people being disrespectful, rude and unpleasant for absolutely no apparent reason.

I pushed the gate open. He lifted his foot higher to stop me. I pushed harder and got my whole self in through the gap. He jumped up - and found he was a head shorter than me, which, as we all know, is not a good feeling - especially when you had planned to show who was boss in the situation. "You can't come in. Your visas are not here. Everyone went home at midday. The Consulate is closed. There is nobody here. They have all gone home. Come back tomorrow," he shouted in my face.

I stepped even close to him -- right into his bubble of self-aggrandisement. And to make sure that this bubble would pop for good, I even used a finger -- an index finger -- under his nose.

"Don't you tell me about my business here. You are not an employee of the Consulate and not even Angolan, so what makes you think you can be an expert on my visas? And don't you sit on your back while you talk to me - or to any other person who comes to the gate. You get up and show them respect when you speak to them. And as for me, don't you "tu-toyer" me either. I am old enough to be your mother and I am a woman, so you "vous-voyer" me, young man, and you show the respect to you would show your mother." (the familiar form in French is the second person singular, as opposed to the formal respectful form of address which is the second person plural)"I have an appointment with M. Emile and your ridiculous behaviour is going to cause me to be late for that appointment. So you let me in this very minute or I will make sure this is your last day in this very comfortable job."

He teetered backwards under the onslaught. The poor man could not have known that we have been fighting this same attitude for the last two months. We have stood on dirty dusty pavements in several African cities and been told to go away when all we wanted was to see someone to whom we could apply for the right to travel through their country. We have been turned away, we have been told we are white and therefore not welcome, we have been abused and insulted and humiliated. This young soldier could not have known that his conduct and his attitude was going to be the last straw that was going to break the camel's back. He got the full onslaught of my wrath.

He stepped back, told me quietly and politely that he will go call M.Emile. I stepped back, he closed the gate and I waited. A few minutes laterhe reappeared, M.Emile in his wake who was waving his finger at him, severely and sternly reprimanding him for not allowing Madame enter the premises when she had told him that she had an appointment with M Emile.

It was not a good day for this policeman. But the one thing I realised then and there was that, as intimidating as these police and military people can be – i.e. young, often non-educated men and women who have been put in a uniform, been given a fire-arm – with ammunition, been given a carte blanche to practise their authority as they see fit – they are also – and probably first and formost, young people straight out of the countryside where they had been raised with love and discipline in equal measure, where they had been taught respect for their elders, respect for women, values that many of our western young people often seem to have discarded and ignored a long time ago.

I would not assume that I am right in this and that every one of them, as they strut importantly up to you and demand to see your papers, as they brandish their fire arms and bully the people in the street, is really a very nice, polite and well mannered young person deep at heart. That would be as ridiculous as to maintain that a lion would never attack you if you just walk quietly past him and not bother him. But I do believe that unless he is drunk or stoned – in which case you stand no chance whatsoever, you would be able to appeal to his basic good solid upbringing and the foundation of decency his heritage has instilled in him.

Let us hope I am never called upon to test that premise...

Update Gabon to Congo to DRC:Part Nine. Are we on the home run yet?

The next day we were at the Angolan consulate bright and early – here no problem getting in at the gate and once inside chairs to sit on in the shade while waiting to be seen by one of the three people in the office. Phew! What a difference! The first time I was called in it was only to be told that our forms should be each in a separate folder. So, quickly out the gate again and down the street where the vendors are standing at their small tables, selling their wares – and find a vendor that sells files.

No problem. Back in at the consulate again and wait another couple of hours – entertained by the reactions of people every time a mango falls on the corrugated iron roof under which we are sitting! The first time I thought it was a gunshot and if I had not been immersed in the book I was reading, or,if I had still been immersed in the weird and wonderful ways of South African city life, or, if had we had just recently during our military convoy episode been immersed in a little more action, I would probably have fallen to the ground in a second. But I hadn't and I didn't – and than goodness for that for neither did anyone else, and I would have looked the proper clown if I had.

However, everyone did jump up and shout and cry out and act quite silly in general – as they did every time another mango fell down with a big bang! Later, I was again called in to the office and a *kind, **helpful ***Angolan man (*really) (**trust me, it is true) (*** well, what else), called Monsieur Emile, who went through the 13 individual files and informed me that we need photocopies of every single visa of every single country we have thus far travelled through.

Once again dash outside the gate, down the road, into the open piece of walled land which, it seems, is waiting building approval, but which is now, in the interim, used as a mammoth photocopying production line. Under the trees, in the dust, all around this 3-4 acres plot of land are hundreds of small trestle tables, each with a photocopy machine connected to an electric wire that leads to a multi board, connected to more wires which all disappear, in thick bundles, somewhere over one of the walls. Where the electricity comes from , remains a mystery, but wherever the main source is, is as susceptible to the vagaries of a country which does not maintain its power stations (ask a South African to explain that one to you!) and every half an hour or so the electricity cuts out for anything from ten minutes to a few hours. Fortunately for us, the electricity only cut out for very short spells at a time, albeit quite often, and the ten visas in each of the thirteen passports were copied in record time. Back to the consulate and back into the office of Monsieur Emile and finally the thirteen applications are safe and sound and accepted in the hands of a kind friendly Angolan man – with the promise that he would try to make sure that these are submitted into the process as soon as possible.

A little aside -- regarding a Parisian alley cat that went by the name of Toulouse Lautrec...

Kinshasa ; funny how you remember all sorts of things you had heard through the years from people who had been to a place you had never visited.

I had in years gone by stopped here so many times en route to Europe – and remember one time, when I went home after my years in Paris, when I was flying with my beautiful Toulouse (a 12kg Parisian alley cat) in an overnight bag with holes cut in the sides. (long story – but the airline had forgotten to provide for a live animal in the hold and had to allow me to take him in the plane with me.)

I am sure there are people all over the world who, to this day, tell the story of the Air France flight they were on one night from Paris to Johannesburg when there was this huge black and white cat on board that walked up and down the aisles and greeted everybody and got his own tray with food and entertained the children by playing peek-a-boo over the tops of the seats with them and scratched at the toilet door when he needed to go.

When we got to Kinshasa we got off at the airport, we went in to the airport building – as one did in those days – and the only thing I could get for him to drink was warm Fanta orange in a saucer; Toulouse was not impressed with Kinshasa.

Update Gabon to Congo to DRC:Part Eight. Cornered in the DRC, still no end in sight on the visa saga.

Guess what – this time, in the town of Matadi, the gate guard is a youngish woman and there was NO way past her – and, sadly and surprisingly enough, the same old lie – “the consul is away in Luanda at a meeting.” Five minutes later she contradicted herself and said that they are currently waiting for the new consul to arrive as this is the time when they change consuls. She blanched as she realised she had contradicted her initial (standard Angolan) lie, turned on her heel and went through the steel gates never to be seen again.

What now? There was only one more consulate to try before the Angolan border – in Kinshasa. So Randy, Elisa, Graham and I set off on an 8 hour journey in a wonky taxi to Kinshasa – burst tyre on the way, a few hair-raising moments sliding around blind bends in the mountains, finally arrived at the terminus in the totally 'wrong' part of an already dangerous city way past sunset where we were supposed to take another taxi to get into the centre of the city, when even the taxi driver insisted we stay in the car while he called his brother in law to come accompany us into town – his brother in law being a senior DRC policeman! The two of them drove us into the centre and stayed with us whilst we went from place to place to look for accommodation (Kinshasa closes down completely at around 4pm and before sunset as it is simply too dangerous to be out on the streets) and finally saw us safely booked into a hotel which is way above our budget!

I was infinitely grateful to this unexpected and very considerate treatment from two complete strangers. Isn't life amazing – when least expected there is always a random act of kindness that restores your faith in people!

Kinshasa – Locally know as Kin, apprarently previously know as Kin la Belle (Kin the beautiful) and now more often as Kin la Poubelle (Kin the trash can). How to describe this place?

The stories I had heard from visitors to the city added up to something like this: “A big mad modern city with two sides: the haves and the have-nots. High walls with security around the extremely affluent people and right outside those walls, the most abject poverty, slums and dirt you will find anywhere.” In the group we have talked about these preconceptions some of us had of places we then discover for ourselves, and we have pretty much come to the conclusion that, because we have been travelling for so many months and through such a big part of West Africa – and probably because we have come from the north, and not from the much more developed and westernised south, our whole perception of what is “abject poverty, slums and dirt” is vastly different from everyone else's idea of the same concept. Kinshasa is a perfect example of this – but we could also be talking about Brazzaville, or Pointe Noire or Yaounde or about Nouakchott or Layounne or Bobo or Lome or Bamako – we could be talking about any of the big cities we have been to and spent some time in – or even simply driven through. All of these have these two opposing sides – the haves and the have-nots, the rich and the poor, the big houses with their walls and security, and the backstreets with their open sewage, piles of dirt and their shacks. And yet, when we talk about this, we all agree that we yet have to see the 'abject poverty'. I am generalising of course and I can almost already see the bristles rising and the backs going up. Don't get me wrong – you have read about my observations of the people in the villages who have nothing.

But what I am saying is that what we see are the slums and dirt and poverty, but we don't see the suffering associated with the conditions generally expected and assumed in Africa ; what we do see as well, are mud villages – where the houses are well built and usually re-plastered with cured mud after every rainy season, where the central yard is swept every single morning and kept clean and tidy with not a stray dead leaf lying about; where the area around the well is kept neat and tidy, where the roofs of the houses are renewed every year with either the banana leaf covering they sit and weave in the village at this time of year, or re-thatched with the elephant grass that is now being harvested, or with new strips of corrugated iron where the old has become too rusty to be of any use. What we do see in the cities are, I suppose, what you would call slums and what we would have called slums before this trip – but now we see them differently. What we see now are shacks built of every kind of scrap material imaginable, narrow alleys where there are puddles of dirty water and rubbish lying around, smoke and pollution and piles of litter set alight at the end of the day and burning every night – but somehow these houses and these alleys and backstreets have changed in our view. We have now gone down some of those alleys, and visited people we have met, in their homes. We have seen that from the outside the house might look like a shack in a slum alley, but step inside the door and there is order and comfort and a warm welcome no different from what you would give in your beautiful pristine home. The water that is offered might come from a large barrel with a cotton cloth over it standing in a cool, dark corner, rather than from a tap in a white ceramic sink in the kitchen. The seat you are offered might be a mat on the floor against the wall or a wooden bench that is pulled up for you, the honoured guest, instead of a leather couch or a Louis VI reproduction antique. The light in the room might be provided by an oil or a paraffin lamp rather than by electricity. The toilet might be a squat toilet out in the back yard behind a flourbag screen rather than the flush toilet in avocado and burnt orange that you are used to.

But the environment becomes unimportant because it is the people that make a shack a home, and a slum a neighbourhood. No sooner will you be welcomed into a home and everyone will be popping in to come say hello. Friends, neighbours, family – they all must come and talk and ask questions and make sure you are welcomed and comfortable. And you can understand why we maintain we never see “abject poverty”. These people may have no money, no worldly comforts, no access to first world medicine and education and consumer goods, but yet they are rich compared to so many of us. Their attitude to life is what makes them rich. They have their values, their customs and traditions passed down though many generations, their hard work, their integrity. And what they have, they are willing to share. Their friendship, their homes, their families and friends. There is always food on the table – albeit fufu with a sauce that has only a smattering of dried fish or a whiff of meat sauce, and they do not seem to go hungry. Malnutrition is not always evident although we know, from statistics, that it is prevalent. The cassava is so low in nutrition and yet it is the staple of millions of people. As there are no animals left -- other than the occasional bushmeat they manage to trap an kill, and as they do not keep the beautiful cattle herds we have seen in every other country, nor do they grow maize or any other crops, one "sees malnutrition levels here as if this place was suffering from fulkl famine", according to a local.

And yet -- these people are always well dressed – no matter how little they have, they are well dressed, neat, tidy and clean -- and that is probably the one main reason one finds it difficult to asses the true situation just by general observation. We have so often stood in wonder at how clean they keep themselves – even in the muddiest times or the days with the most dust, their clothes never seem to get dirty. Even the women bent double hoeing the fields wear beautiful cloth wraps or dresses that are always clean and crisp and and neat.
It is indeed difficult to make any kind of informed impression of this country, of what is poverty and what is the true situation. We drive through and see what we see. We talk to as many people as we can – never many – and ask endless questions, and even then the answers are too often what they wish us to hear. We most certainly become somewhat immune to inured to the visible hardship. I know when we reach South Africa we will most certainly not be spending time or money to go to one of its most popular tourist attractions – the slums and squatter camps of Kayalitcha or of Soweto. Not after having driven through much worse for seven months in the rest of northern, central and western Africa. Do we sound callous when we say we do not see the 'abject poverty', the people dying of starvation? What is this conclusion we have come to? Sheer ignorance or stupidity or is it the reality of Africa which has made us accustomed to that which would have horrified us at first encounter?...............

Update Gabon to Congo to DRC:Part seven. You take the high road and we will take the no road.

We are here and we need to be there -- with our truck!

The view of Kinshasa across the Congo River, from the port of Brazzaville.

After spending an eventful afternoon in the Brazzaville port with Mark trying to figure out the feasibility of hoisting our 17 ton truck onto a floating steel barge by means of a 6 ton crane, getting it pushed across the massively wide and fast running Congo River to Kinshasa on the other side --- and then, whilst discussing the safety of the operation, witnessing this same crane tumble and let drop a heavily laden pallet of air conditioon units into the water, it did not need much more than the ridiculously expensive quote for the lifting to make Mark make the final decision: no way would he risk his truck in this precarious manoeuvre!

But – Kinshasa is the very last place on the African map we haven't yet been to apply for Angolan visas, so we had to get there.

So, the next morning early we left the nuns' friendly compound – taking half of one of their gate posts with us as we squeezed through an opening too small, with a truck too big – and back on the road to Kinkala from where we headed south and south west. Fortunately, this time, we could skirt the Pool Region and did not need a military convoy or protection, but the police and military check points were frequent nevertheless and instead of being highly irritating, having to stop every few kilometres, did rather give a sense of security and being looked after. The first night we slept in the grounds of a medical centre at Louingui– a quite impressive little hospital with probably about 50 beds, but only one patient – a little boy who suffers from sleeping sickness.

This was the first time for many in the group to even hear about this deadly and cruel disease one gets from a Tsetse fly bite, and quite sobering for us to once again to be reminded of the realities of this vast continent we are travelling through. From there we continued to Boko and then, from Boko we drove – or should I say, crawled on probably the worst road in the entire Africa. And if you doubt that statement or think me exaggerating, go check the map and you will see that the road on every map, even the most detailed one, stops in Boko. After Boko there is simply a blank space. And if you still doubt my story go look at the photographic proof I took of our epic journey!

If I told you that it took us 4 hours to travel 2.5 kilomtres and almost 8 hours to cover the whole 20 kilometres of this stretch, you may understand a little better. If I then told you that we walked big distances with our picks and shovels and axes, digging, chopping, filling holes, laying steel sand mat bridges and scraping down too high ridges, widening the road in places so that the truck can make it through and using our precious fire wood logs to strengthen areas that looked like it was ready to collapse and take the truck with it into a ravine, you may be getting the picture. Everyone pitched in. Everyone worked. We did not quite sing a chain-gang song nor whistle the tune from The Bridge over the River Kwai, but we did smile and we did cheer every time Mark drove the truck over a previously impassable area and completed another metre, and we did feel proud to be part of a tremendously spirited team of people. And after a very arduous day, we finally reached the border town of Ndanga.

This was also the first time that we have had to ask the villagers if we could sleep on an open space in the heart of the village. By the time the immigration and customs official had filled in every single detail of every single passport into a school exercise book, - even though we had provided him, as we always do, with the details on a photocopied manifesto. There is typically no electricity in this village so Mark provided the torch by which this was done, and we sat there well into the pitch darkness. We never quite knew who or what function his side-kick had, but this man was not happy with the US military-issue canvas tog bag, sleeping bag and sleeping mattress in our truck. Randy's old army kit has been the envy of some of us earlier in the trip in the freezing cold weather when it proved we had completely inadequate sleeping gear, and even then no one thought that this might cause a problem; and anyway – who would have thought that somewhere, on some border post in some central African country an immigration official is going to have a cadenza when he sees USA military gear.

We had to lie.

No. I had to lie as I am the only one with a smattering of French in a sticky situation in a country that does not feel comfortable with any military presence anywhere near them.

“Oh that? That was bought in the market in Marrakesh”, I lied with a straight face, surprising even myself at how calm and convincing I was, and at the same time hating, hating, hating the moment – as I really do pride myself in the fact that I do not lie.

“You know the army surplus stores? They are all over and sell all sorts of army surplus goods. And one of our group bought these at one of those,” I said, suddenly noticing that on the tog bag, in black official-looking stencilled letters, it says clearly R.D.WARD NO. 00000. Please don't notice that and if you do please don't ask me how he managed to buy a tog bag that even had his name and army number on it! Please! I said to myself. And someone listened, for he did not, but, for the rest of the evening, he kept on coming to the perimeter of our camp site and just stood there and looked...

And it seemed we were doomed to not be welcomed into the DRC, for our crimes did not stop with Randy's illegal and highly suspicious Moroccan markets military kit.



While Mark and I was trying to speed up the process of recording the passport details, the very proud moment in every village in these parts of the world came to pass: the lowering of the country's flag. As is the custom in every country, when you are in the vicinity of a flag being raised or lowered, you show respect and stop for the brief moment.

If you notice that every single person in the village, in other words every other person in your small world at that time, has stopped what they were doing, and stood to attention, it would be a clear signal to you to do the same.

If the head of police of the village – and you would know who he is as he is the only man with a full black police uniform, badges, medals, stars, side arm, black polished boots – looking like a policeman and nothing else – if he should tap you on your shoulder when you had not stopped walking and whistling a happy tune, and should tell you that if you looked around you you would see what is required of everyone, you would immediately cease what you were doing – namely walking and whistling, and at least immediately stand still and look respectful – if not actually stand to attention like every other soul around you.

But, one of our group could not see the rationale of all this, purported not to be able to understand the French speaking policeman and instead starting debating with him, in a loud voice, about what he thought he should be doing – or not, and sorry mate but I had no idea, and sorry mate how should I know your rules. It was an embarrassing fiasco – or so the policeman explained to me the following morning as the truck's engine is already purring and the last of the group had already climbed on board and there I am, having to apologise for every person who has ever not respected simple and straightforward and common flag etiquette and protocol.

But an apology was not what he wanted. He wanted to do his job and his duty – which was to arrest the guilty party and put him in prison for up to 9 days without a trial – as he pointed out on his copy of the country's constitution, article 1b. Yes, clearly spelled out at the top of the constitution it states that anyone who does not stand to attention when the flag is raised or lowered goes to prison for up to nine days without trial. Need I say more? Need I tell you how embarrassed I was for my fellow-traveller and how angry I was and how much I resented having to apologise for someone else who is not even my responsibility? And once more I would be ever so slightly consoled if I had thought that this had provided a lesson that had been learned; that respect for others and others' cultures and customs and property is a universal value. I really would.

From there we travelled on. More bad bad roads. More dust. More spectacular scenery – and into a hinterland with no roads where you see the stark reality of an undeveloped country – or, as is the case with the DRC, a country that once was highly developed and with an economy richer than any other in Africa, but which has, because of debilitating and crippling wars, regressed to the 'undeveloped' country it is today. Where there are no roads, there are no amenities, no electricity, no shops, no transport, no schools, no communication, no medical care, no medicines, no basics, no clean water – not even wells in the villages, nothing but despair. The young President Kabila is promising and planning huge development in his country, but when we saw people living out there in the mountains where there is nothing, nothing and no roads by which something, anything can be brought to them, you have to feel sympathy with anyone who has high aspirations to restore the country to anywhere close to its former prosperity.

And the irony of it all is in this simple factual statistic: 15 years ago the DRC had 15000km of tarred roads. Today it has less than 1500 tarred roads. What hope is there for the children of a country where their grandparents had electricity, but they use candles to read by; where their grandparents rode in buses, on tarred roads to town to do their shopping, but the grandchildren have to walk on footpaths over long distances to sell their mother's meagre crops; where their grandparents had clean water that came out of a well maintained well, but they have to walk miles to the river with their buckets to collect contaminated water; where their grandparents went to university after school and earned degrees and practise professions, but they cannot even finish third grade because there is no school and no teacher anywhere in their region. It just does not seem right, does it?


Yet, after another impossible drive, we caught our first glimpse of the Congo River again and then finally reached Loisi where the ferry crosses the river and where we could link up with the road to Matadi – and yet another Angolan consulate!

Update Gabon to Congo to DRC: Part Six. Dodging bandits, bullets, potholes and dust

There was a good reason why Mark had never intended to go to Brazzaville. As mentioned this is the only road between Congo's two big cities , and other than the section already finished by the Chinese, the rest of it is not a very good road – to put it mildly! – and not a safe road. I am aware that a few people in the group pooh-poohed this last warning. After all – we come from big western cities where, if you were to believe all the alarmists, it is unsafe to walk at night or venture out alone, and after all, we have survived these 'bad' places, haven't we? What can be so dangerous about a road through a country? We are a big group of young, strong people in a very big intimidating truck. Who can do what exactly to us?

Perhaps it is the fact that up to now we had really never had any occasion to be wary of our safety here in the heart of black Africa. People have been friendly and smiling and so what that two of our group had been mugged in Bamako and so what if one of our tents was burgled – while the occupant was sleeping inside, in Pointe Noire on the beach, and so what if some people wave their fists at us when we pass or shout angrily at “Les Blancs!” We're OK, aren't we?

Perhaps it is because most of the members of the group were never even aware before they came on this adventure that there were countries called Cameroun, or Gabon, or that there are in fact two distinctly separate countries with the word 'Congo' in their name – let alone being aware that these countries all have a violent history of civil unrest and war and bloody massacres of people simply because they spoke the wrong dialect.

And no one in this group apart from me is old enough to remember the late fifties and the early sixties when there were pictures on the front pages of daily newspapers of piles of bodies brutally murdered with machetes, of white people fleeing or being airlifted with only the clothes on their backs, of Indian traders literally chased into the ocean to drown, nuns raped, pregnant women having their beliies ripped open, of soldiers asking villagers who were supporters of the deposed president or of the opposition party or the wrong tribe whether they wanted 'short sleeves' or long sleeves' – meaning do you want us to chop your arms off at the wrist or at the elbow. Ah! But that is so long in the past, what has any of that to do with us? We are not involved in their politics. We are tourists and only passing through, they think...


But at closer inspection, they start realising that these kinds of things did not only happen a long time before their birth. They have been continuing for the past bloody 60 years, and as recent as two-three years ago, there were still civil wars going on in some of these countries we are driving through. They start noticing the machine gun chains of holes in the walls of buildings, the burnt out houses and shelled schools. They realise that the old man with no arms or the old woman with one eye might well be casualties of the war. They notice the many street children, the empty villages we drive through, the abandoned farmlands. They actually meet street children and youngsters who were orphaned in the war – like Djene and Chris who, as recent as 1997-1998 when the war was still raging in this country, both witnessed the brutal killing of their mothers and eventually made their own way from Brazzaville or Kin to come live on the beach in Pointe Noire – children who fend for themselves, live off the goodness of the people around them who accept them for what they are – street children, and who tell the stories of how they saw their mothers raped and murdered in front of their eyes. Some write this off as stories to attract attention. Others listen a little closer and start realising that this 15 year old has seen more horrors than we even knew existed in this world.

And then we reach Nzinzi – about two thirds of the way to Brazzaville, and for the very first time in the thousands of kilometres we have done, and the hundreds of police checks where we have stopped and handed in our manifesto and passports and waited to be allowed to continue, we accidentally do not see the police, nor do we hear the whistle, and a few minutes later we have a pick-up truck chase us down, an armed, very rough looking man in bare feet, torn T-shirt, rolled up denims, hanging from the side of the truck, brandishing an automatic weapon, flag us down and shouting at us to stop immediately - just as the driver of vehicle swerves in front of our truck and, in a cloud of dust, screeches to a halt, forcing us to stop.

My first thought was that this is a Ninja. Ninjas are the rebels that are remnants of the civil war who were disillusioned with their leader, former president Pascal Lissouba not winning the war and who stayed behind in the Pool Region – a vast area in the south of the DRC where the last civil war mainly was fought until the late nineties. They still have their uniforms, they still have all their arms and apparently enough ammunition to last another decade, and they make their living as bandits. They ambush vehicles on this stretch of road of about 200km, hold people up and take everything they have and if there are women on the vehicles they get raped as a matter of course.

When President Denis Sassou-Nguesso won the city of Brazzaville – with the help of the Angolan army – and formed his new government, he realised that he had to make a few wily moves in order to stay in power. He is from the north and Brazzaville is in the south and to hold on to your position of power in a city which is the stronghold of your enemy, calls for clever manoeuvres. He called in the leader of the Pool rebels, Pastor Ntumi, and offered him the position as cabinet minister of a minor portfolio in the government. Ntumi accepted and brought with him the majority of his rebels – who all were given jobs and homes in Brazzaville. But, a few hundred rebels refused to sell out and remained in Pool – and they today continue to terrorise anyone who passes through.

Although this gun-toting bozo who stopped us very closely resembled a gun-toting rebel, it turned out he was in fact a member of KIMIA – the peace keeping militia who are trying to ensure safe passage for all people who pass through the Pool Region. The fact that our bozo is now part of this worthy group of soldiers – which turned out the be the case when he went to have a shower and change into a proper neatly pressed uniform and polished boots, was probably a good indication that there really is never much difference between a terrorist and a freedom fighter. Put him in the right uniform that instils confidence and everyone is comfortable and happy.

Apparently there had been a major attack on unaccompanied vehicles only four days before. A group of trucks came through very early in the morning and did not want to wait for the convoy to form, so set off on their own – and was duly attacked in an ambush.

We were not that stubborn and Mark very much carried his responsibility of the group and the truck squarely on his young shoulders, so, we turned back to Nzinzi and waited in the queue with about a dozen other trucks, big and small, vehicles of every denomination and persuasion, almost all of them laden to the hilt with goods and people, goats and cows, logs and oranges, all hoping to get to the other side of this region in one piece and unscathed.

Once there was a large number of vehicles and one armed guard in each vehicle, the military convoy, with us in their midst, set off. Our guard was a charming young man called Romarque who brought with him a plastic bag with four peeled oranges to share on the journey. It was also him that explained about the rebels and about KIMIA – of which he was justly very proud.

The fact that he was sitting with his chin resting on the end of the barrel of his Kalishnikov did not sit too well with anyone, but he got us safely to the next checkpoint and said his fond farewells

At this point it was getting late and, when Mark explained that we would not be able to do the distance before sunset and that we camp in the bush – which would probably not be a good idea in this region, it was agreed that we would spend the night at this check point – no more than a military camp and a school – and we slept sharing the starry skies with our guardians checking in on us at regular intervals. The next morning when we got back to the main road, there was already a dozen or so vehicles waiting – their passengers having a quick mug of coffee or a glass of Pastis, more people arriving with luggage and bundles and begging to be given a lift. Our new escort, Prince, introduced himself to us and once everyone was back in the convoy, we were again on our way to Brazzaville.

There was one more stop – where Prince got off – to the relief of Mark, as Prince apparently loved Mark's iPod music at full blast and used his loaded rifle to stomp the rhythm of the more lively songs on the floor of the truck. We stayed with the convoy for the next stretch to Kinkala but did so without a soldier accompanying us and arriving safely there, everyone knew that we were out of danger and the relief was palpable.

Perhaps one or two of the boys were slightly disappointed that we had not seen any action, I was exhausted from trying to work out how we would get Emy, Suzanne, Elisa and Tash in under the floor where we keep the barrels of flour and rice in case we did see rebels,

and Mark was hugely relieved that the truck had held up on the bad roads at the much faster speed we had been pressurised to keep up in the convoy. And the entire group shouted with joy when they were at last allowed a much much needed toilet stop!


Soon after Kinkala we hit a tarred road for the rest of the 77 kilometres into Brazzaville – and we flew! The wind was not quite enough to get the days and days worth of red dust out of our hair and pores and clothes, but it went a long way to lifting our spirits and the laughter and chatter in the truck after a tense few days was magic! Our first sight of the majestic – the magnificent Congo River was awesome and for once we all defied Mark's very strict warning that NO PHOTOGRAPHS are allowed anywhere, and we all sneaked our camera lenses over the edge of the truck and snapped away – the river was just too beautiful not to capture the moment on film!

We drove into Brazzaville still laughing and talking about the experiences of the past few days and amazed at this city which we were never supposed to see on this trip. I am not sure what I expected, but whatever it was, Brazzaville was something else altogether!

How to describe it?

Lots of modern high rise buildings like the uniquely spectacular Tour Nabemba towering over shelled and burnt out war casualties. Wide tree lined boulevards with litter strewn potholed alleys leading off them. French in feel, French in character, African in everything else. Masses of colour and noise and people and cars moving at speed. Busy-ness. Movement. People walking with purpose. Large groups of women all dressed the same in their church logo, singing and dancing and holding up the traffic. Men in suits. Women carrying baskets on their heads. Trains coming and going.

Blind people leading each other in long strings. War victims limping on crutches, rolling on wooden platforms, walking on their hands. Children leading old people. Beggars. Funeral wakes that go through the night and continue well into the next day – praises of the dead sung and drummed and preached. Drumming that never ceases for a moment. Jazz music that sounds Brazilian or Brazilian music that sounds African. Portuguese nuns called Soeur Benoite and Congolese nuns called Soeur Mireille. Cold showers and dark bathrooms where the mosquitoes are big enough to carry away small children. Book stores with good books! A chaotic port where the cranes drop pallets and the workers loot the spoils, where the one large ferry across the river to Kinshasa broke down a long time ago and no one bothers to fix this single link with its neighbour.