Congo

I feel like I am traveling to Africa. Right. I know. I live in Africa. But traveling to the Democratic Republic of Congo is different. Rain gear, boots, water purification tablets, a hard suit case that locks, strong anti-biotics, malaria pills…

DRC. Congo. Probably most well-known from Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. The Dark Continent. In the late 1800’s King Leopold of Belgium, thirsty for his own colony, took control of much of the country with the early assistance of the famous explorer Henry Morton Stanley. It was not the Government of Belgium who colonized DRC, but Leopold himself. A long and fascinating story, but to cut it short, he set up a company that ran the country under the guise of humanitarian assistance for the natives and the end of slavery. In sum, Leopold, while never stepping foot in the country, was extracting the resources of DRC while using the natives as free labor. When rubber hit the markets as a result of the need of tires in Europe and America, Leopold hit the jack pot. Forcing natives to collect rubber through force, killings, a famous whip made of hippo hyde, kidnappings of family members, and the signature cutting off of hands, the rubber frenzy became known as one of the greatest humanitarian atrocities of all time. All the while, because of the remoteness of DRC, people and governments in Europe and the USA supported Leopold as they were unaware of what was happening. Through exposure over the years from explorers and missionaries, the facts finally emerged in the Western World and eventually Leopold sold, yes, sold, his business to the Belgium Government keeping the profits from his exploitation. Congo has since been riddled with challenges and wars. A long tenure of Mobuto (supported by the USA because he was not aligning himself with the Russians and at the time the Cold War was being fought across Africa) had dire consequences across Congo and the following of the current leader Kabila has not resulted in great change. While other countries in Africa have made progress, DRC has gone back in time. Author Tim Butcher comments that nowhere else in the world has infant mortality been significantly higher in 2010 than it was in 1960.

The airport in Kinshasa is a mustard yellow huge cement building. Expecting total mayhem I was surprised how orderly things were. Supposedly changes made in the last year. We were met by a service company that escorted us to a lounge, while they sorted out luggage, payment for entering the country, stamps etc… the usual procedures when entering a country like DRC.

Kinshasa is hard to describe. It sits on the Congo River and looks run down, yet there is an 8 lane highway cutting though town, but on the side streets the pot holes are so large they will swallow your car. Like most African cities, there is the area of town with the embassies, old colonial houses and homes for the wealthy; then the run down areas where people live in squalor. Busy. Dirty. Loads of people—sidewalks filled, as if there is a major event everyone is trying to get to. Chaotic. Colorful. A school bus has a flat tire and is parked across, literally, across the road, so nobody can pass. Music. It’s an expensive city. One night we stayed that the Membling Hotel—a standard, but nice, clean hotel with water and electricity. You pay $280 for the night. Another $28 for breakfast. With little choices, cities like Kinshasa can get away with charging such crazy prices. The city sits on the Congo River, with Congo Brazzaville across the way.

From Kinshasa our projects are 3 hours by plane –those are the ones we can get to by plane. Our main project, the Lomako Faunal Reserve, takes 3 hours by plane from Kinshasa and then 18 hours by boat. This puts in perspective how challenging this landscape is to work in, and yet, this area we have had great success, mainly due to a dedicated Director who has worked in Congo for the past 15 years. Our focus here is to work with local communities to protect wildlife and habitat and to provide economic incentives. Like all of our projects, it’s really establishing viable economic alternatives, because without that, we do not have a chance. Why will someone stopping killing monkeys for bushmeat if they have no alternatives? Why will someone stop slashing and burning the forest if they have no alternative?

Here in the Congo our focal species is the bonobo, a great ape that only lives in DRC. It looks somewhat similar to a chimp, but less hairy, with a bare face and easily walks on two legs. Like most of the great apes, the bonobo is threatened. The landscape is vast tropical forest with winding rivers.

We chartered a 16-seat Czech plane and flew north along the Congo River and then east to a town called Basankusu. Parts of the Congo River are so big you feel like you are flying over huge lakes and it truly makes you appreciate the stories of the early explorers. Basankusu is a key area from an operational perspective because this is where the Lopori and Maringa Rivers meet, and again, access into the interior thick tropical forest is only through rivers. We have five offices in DRC simply because of the logistical issues.

It is a small town. Kids play football in the grassy square, women walk with sticks on their back. Dirt roads. Hot. We stay at a dive hotel, if you can call it a hotel, basically a house with guest rooms. A bed with a mosquito net that has more holes that Swiss cheese. I have been very spoiled staying at some amazing places in Africa. This is payback time for all those lovely stays.

In the morning, we woke early and jumped in a dug-out canoe—it’s about 12 meters long and wooden, carved out of a large tree. We sit in nice wooden garden chairs and travel up the Lopori River with an outboard engine. We pass villages that are carved out of the thick rain forest. River life is busy with kids traveling to school via canoe, fisherman and wooden rafts with structures—people traveling for weeks to get to a town to sell agricultural produce. We sample some palm wine that some locals have collected from the trees.

Our aim is to see the bonobo. Twelve of them have been reintroduced by a group dedicated to rescuing bonobo orphans and reintroducing them into the wild. Looking at this thick forest I am not getting my hopes up for finding this elusive ape, but secretly praying we find them. A staff person from the reintroduction project travels with us in the boat, a young, Congolese woman dedicated to this ape. I am always impressed, especially here in Africa, when I see women in the conservation field and this woman is impressive. She is living in the middle of nowhere, working to help protect this species. People on the river tell us they have heard the bonobos, we follow their advice and have the great fortune of seeing these awesome apes. Its sounds corny, but you look in the eyes of the apes and your heart melts. Their hands our just like ours, and seeing the bonobos walk on two legs and jump around playing, preening each other is a true delight. This is an amazing story of recovery, returning the bonobo to the wild. A sign of hope for this species. We are exploring the idea of creating a tourism market around this landscape, a way to help boost the income of these communities.

Had we carried on 18 hours in the canoe, we would have reached our research site in the Lomako Forest Reserve. The declaration of the reserve was the result of years of effort, and currently we host a bonobo researcher who is helping us understand more about this unique ape and have trained a team of rangers who monitor the reserve. With time constrains we are unable to make the journey to Lomako—next trip!

We return to shore and head to the village market for coffee. I love visiting local markets as it gives you a real feel for the people and what’s happening in a town. You can get anything you need in this market—fish, vegetables, clothing, suitcases, nail polish…you name it, they’ve got it. One area of the market is bush meat including stacks of monkeys. Eating monkey and other bushmeat is a delicacy and a major problem. The going rate for a monkey is $15, but that is for us, white people. The price could be bargained down.

Our next destination was further into the forest, a small town called Djolu. Look at a map of Africa and Djolu looks like it is smack dab in the middle of the continent. The District Commissioner from Basankusu was hitching a ride on our plane (planes do not frequent these places, nor do cars for that matter—no roads). When we arrived at the airport (a small one room building) there were swarms of people. A marching band was playing. Army and police lined up on the runway and everyone waiting for the District Commissioner to arrive, he of course had to arrive last. A bugle played when he arrived, people stood, ladies hollered in joy and the DC (wearing a Mobutu like leopard fur hat and sash, carrying a whisk made of animal hair) greeted the line of officers and boarded the plane. Such respect for government officials is common. These procedures are normal in meetings etc…so it makes things quite complicated. For example, you cannot start a meeting if a senior government official is due to arrive, as they are the ones who are supposed to formally open a meeting.

Flying into Djolu the forest changes from an intact carpet of tropical forest to a patchwork of burns, cuts, and forest. You can see fire and smoke and villages in the middle of the forest. The threat in this area is slash and burn techniques that clear forest for agricultural development.

When we land, on a grassy strip, there are hundreds of people from the village who swarm the plane. The plane gets stuck in the sand, one wheel, so we have to put bamboo sticks under the wheel and we eventually get out.

Our office is 4k from the airstrip so we jump on the back of motor bikes to get to our office. Riding a motor bike in these little towns is like having a limo. They are the best way to get around on the narrow, sandy trails, but very few have them. We have about 12 staff in this office, including an attorney, a mapping specialist, a community officer, drivers, financial assistant etc… The office has no phone connection but we have internet through a satellite, and it’s actually quite good. In the afternoon we visit a women’s project that we are helping with improved agricultural techniques. They welcome us with amazing song and dance and walk us through their program.

The next morning we travel 20 km east via motor bike, a 45 minute ride. The bikes all have drivers and so I am sitting on the back holding on for dear life. There is no other way to get around. We travel along a single track trail through the thick forest to get to an area that we have been working on a zoning project. I firmly grip the bike as we wind through the forest, crossing thick sandy areas, mud flats, and rickety bridges. At times I just close my eyes, hoping we do not crash and burn. Passing through tiny villages, kids come screaming and jumping in delight, and people wave. They are poor, remote, without power, sanitation.

Firmly believing that with good planning, the forest can be protected and community livelihoods improved, we are working with local communities on a zoning plan. The community helps to map agricultural zones and in exchange for assistance with agricultural development and intensification, they agree to stop farming in the forest interior, stop the slash and burn. MOUs are signed, GPS points taken, maps produced, agricultural assistance provided and the project is rolled out. We meet with the first village who signed the MOU and listen to how they view the program. Our target is to expand the program to cover a much larger area and eventually help them generate more income through the sale of carbon credits and better linkage to markets.

One of the greatest challenges for all these villages, and many of the villages we work with across Africa, is access to markets. Take for example this village we are meeting with, they are 20 km from the main town, and even then to get to a larger market it’s a one and a half hour plane ride (which does not come to this village) or a one month journey by boat, assuming you have the boat and ability to get there and keep the produce fresh. We have a boat—a barge—and we provide access to the market twice a year (in tandem with the food production cycles.) We bring traders from Kinshasa, up river, they buy the products from the communities with whom we work and then return to Kinshasa to sell the produce. It’s a fairly straight forward concept, we provide access to the market, communities produce food in a conservation friendly and sustainable manner, we get them higher prices in the Kinshasa market, but of course like most projects in Africa, it is riddled with complexities. For example, river levels have to be right, on the last trip the boat got stuck in the sand….but such is work in Africa.

There are always two ways to look at things, and DRC is no different. After years of war, the country has suffered immensely. Development is 50 years behind Kenya, infrastructure limited, education levels low and the ability to operate programs severely challenging. People say “I wonder what the potential for DRC is?” and the response “Just look back 50 years.” However, DRC with its vast resources has a chance to get it right. Again, with proper planning, we hope that in 50 years, DRC be a place where its people, land, forest and wildlife thrive.

Maasai Faces

Maasai Ceremony

Saturday am. We awake at 4.30 am, picked up a friend and drive south. We were attending a Maasai ceremony. It had rained the night before so once we turned off the main road it was a mud bath—thank goodness for 4 wheel drive. We made it to a remote, lovely spot—to a Maasai boma and there was a sea of red—the Maasai. The ceremony was the graduation of Maasai Warriors to the junior elder class, this only happens every 12 years. Maasai have various age classes that they move through in their life—and today they move from one to the next. We were very fortunate to be able to witness the ceremony.

The event was rich with tradition and there is so much attention to details and symbolism. In the morning a sacred cow is selected—one without any blemishes or scars. The cow is led into the centre of the boma. The warriors surround the cow and sing, their guttural song, which puts the cow in a trance. The cow is then slaughtered and the blood drank. The warriors can only eat the right side, so they are cooked separately. The skin of the cow is stretched out do dry by the women. Each woman has a sacred stick they use to peg the skin to the ground. If a woman is not faithful, they are not allowed to peg their stick on the skin. If they are found unfaithful, they go back to their father and get nine cows to present to their husband to seek forgiveness. As the skin is pegged and the meat cooking on the fire, there are hours of dancing and singing. The warriors are covered in red ochre (the red paint) which shines in the sunlight and they are all elaborately dressed with beads and red shukas. Senior guests are welcome with song and dance. Once the meat is ready, the group of warriors gather, they kneel and 9 elders give them a blessing. Then they are led into a hut where they are fed by the women meat. The meat has been carried into the hut by the women on leaves, the women are not to touch the meat—this is the first time the men will eat with the women—ever. The men hold their heads high with great pride.

The ceremony was four hours from Nairobi. It is astonishing that so close to Nairobi this culture endures, against all odds. The mixing of tradition with contemporary life is evident in the white USA socks and NIKE sneakers that some of the women wear, or the safari boots that the men wear and the mobile phones everyone carries, but despite the blending of new and old, they maintain the tradition. A true privilege to witness the graduation.

Grumpy

There is a woman at the end of our street who we call grumpy. Actually, her real name is Margaret, but as the name suggests, she is a bit grumpy. She and her friend sit at the end of our street selling produce: carrots, potatoes, onions, tomatoes. It’s hard to judge age here in Kenya. Life is tough and people age quickly, so I cannot even guess Grumpy’s age. She has a classic round wrinkled face and one tooth. Right, one tooth. She wears a colorful kanga (a wrap that is tied around your waist like a skirt or wrapped around your shoulders like a scarf) and a worn t-shirt. She usually has a scarf tied around her head. Her reputation as a grump comes from her tough sales pitch. As you drive by, if you do not buy anything from her, you try to avoid her grumpy look. A friend of mine claims she even threw a potato at her car for not buying her produce. We try to buy all our vegetables from Grumpy, not because we are worried that she will throw something at the car, but because like most Kenyans she is probably supporting about 15 other people. It feels good to support her as opposed to the big supermarkets. Actually, because I buy from her, she even gives me a smile every once and a while, and shrugs her shoulder when I tell her we are still working on the bag of carrots we bought the other day.

“Grumpy is a rip off,” says a friend. Yes, ok, so I pay $1.00 for a big bag of carrots, as opposed to .35 cents, but seriously, does it matter, am I really rocking the economy? We have not seen Grumpy in a while. Her friend said she is sick at home. The neighborhood is not the same without her and we wish her good health.

Blending of Cultures

Nanyuki is a small town that rests in the northern shadow of Mt. Kenya. It is a spectacular blend of settlers, Samburu, and agriculturalists. The land to the north includes community land for pastoralists and large ranches mainly owned by white Kenyans, Kenyan cowboys as they are called, and foreigners. We are at the Nanyuki Sports Club, an old institution in town. The British Military is based here in Nanyuki. This is their last stop before being shipped off to Afghanistan—it provides a good desert combat training site. In the morning they are training in the fields outside the club. It’s a rich assortment of culture. The Samburu man in his red shuka, beads and tire sandals—a goat tied to a string, coming to market for sale; the agriculturalist in her colorful kanga wrapped around her waist selling produce from the slopes of Mt. Kenya; the Kenyan Cowboy driving his landrover in his short khaki shorts, button down shirt and safari boots; and the military folk in their green camo uniforms, black boots and buzz cuts. It’s the co-existence and blending of these contrasting cultures that make this town rich.

They Call Him Bob

To the World he is known as Mugabe. Robert Mugabe. But here in Zimbabwe they call him Bob. Probably one of the most well known African leaders whose grip on power is world renowned, he has served as President since 1987.

I am traveling in northwestern Zimbabwe with Zimbabwean colleagues who have experienced their country through war, rebound and turmoil. A beautiful country with fertile soils, winding rivers and diverse landscapes. The former bread basket of Africa. We drive through rural towns and it is as if you have stepped into a history book. Lovely roads lined with jacaranda trees. Abandoned homes. A country that once flourished. Bob is committed to running again. One more go. He will win. He will use his old tactics, violence. In the small town of Vic Falls during the last election Bob got 23 votes, MDC’s Morgan Tsvangirai 3600. The final election numbers have never been released. They never will be. After the coalition government was formed with Tsvangirai, a man who has risked his life for his country, things stabilized a bit. The switch to American currency last year helped steady the country after record inflation crippled the economy. The coalition government is tenuous at best. Investors have come back to Zim in the hopes things will turn around. We all hope.