A Tale of Two Cities. . . In the Congo

As I type this entry I am on a forty-passenger launch traversing Lake Kivu south to north listening to the Dixie Chicks and Alan Jackson on my iPod and, until just now, reading a Cormac McCarthy book, Blood Meridien. Both seem to fit this environment in their own way. The cities of Bukavu and Goma should have much in common, both being on the lake and within the borders of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, but the contrasts are stark for reasons both natural and man made.

Goma, on the northern shore of Lake Kivu, is the capital of North Kivu province and is for all practical purposes, a besieged city of about 500,000 locals and tens of thousands of expatriates. Rebels, both home grown and foreign-born, dot the landscape around Goma and control the major roads leading in to the city. The city itself is filled with white sports utility vehicles bustling hither and yon and bearing a myriad of nongovernmental organization logos and fluttering pennants tied to HF radio antennae. United Nations vehicles are the most visible single presence, which is not surprising given the scale of the task they have been given by the UN Security Council. Delegations of “disaster tourists” move about the city in convoys performing an endless litany of assessments and studies. Every third lakeside villa seems to have an NGO logo, and restaurants and hotels are consistently full of healthy expatriates drinking Primus, Mutzig, and Tembo beer. Sitting lakeside with one’s back to the city and facing a quiescent Rwanda just across the river, it is hard to imagine that a complex humanitarian problem is unfolding just meters away.

As one moves away from the lake and enters the popular quarters, the scenery changes to small shops and ateliers and a warren of shacks constructed of cinder block and volcanic rock. Evidence of the 2005 eruption of the nearby volcano is everywhere once one leaves the shores of the lake. The lava flow still runs right through town and across one end of the airport’s runway, rendering one third of it unusable. Driving on the lava flows is the worst ride I have experienced on the continent, and that says much given my previous travels here. The streets are full of people, all but the most destitute well dressed and amazingly clean given the ubiquitous black mud resulting from the heavy rains and volcanic soil. Public transportation in Goma consists mostly of motorcycles, which one can ride pillion-style to almost any part of the city for fifty cents. The ride is worth doing once, but dodging the crevices, potholes, mud, and SUV’s makes for an uncomfortable and dangerous experience.

Bukavu, on the other end of the lake, looks quite similar at first glance, but is a world apart. Although there are ample rebels present in the areas around the city, active combat has been sporadic at most and all sides concerned appear content to make money from the ample mineral and forest wealth in the area rather than ruining a good thing with combat. Goma exhibits a palpable level of stress as a result of the proximity of active fighting and the host of evils that attend it: rape, looting, random violence, disease, forced recruitment. . . the list goes on and is a chronicle of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. I use the masculine purposefully, as women in the region, save for a few extremists left over from the 1994 Rwandan genocide, are the victims and just want to be left alone to their families, their work, their communities, and their churches.

Anyway, Bukavu is a city of trade; waypoint for the gold, tin, coltan, charcoal, and timber that attract government entities, rebel groups, and businesses from across the globe. Although its roads are in pitiable condition, as most elsewhere in the country, they are choked with local traffic with only the occasional UN or NGO vehicle evident. Restaurants in Bukavu abound and cater to all types of customers, not just wealthy expatriates. Barges arriving at the various ports discharge a wide variety of wares, which are unloaded by hand and transported to markets in the city in a variety of ways: on the backs and heads of young and old, male and female, on wooden carts, and in vehicles in varying states of disrepair. The rich volcanic soil in the area makes this the DRC’s breadbasket, but one that is too far from Kinshasa to benefit either the residents of the city of eight million or the farmers who grow a wide variety of high quality produce. Cabbage heads the size of basketballs, beautiful vine-ripe tomatoes, bananas, pineapples, and all kinds of produce, all of it organic, are available in Bukavu for a pittance but cost the denizens of Kinshasa a mint. A rail line to Kisangani, last navigable point on the Congo River, and dredging and marking the river between it an Kinshasa would open up amazing possibilities, but the cost and complexity of such an operation would rival the Panama Canal and is simply out of reach for the time being.

Boat ride’s over, so I’ll close the blog here. Once the instability in the area dies down and normal air service resumes in eastern Congo, both cities can easily support a healthy tourist industry. The scenery is amazing, and in the space of one week one could easily visit a lake of lava, see highland and lowland gorillas, ski or sail on Lake Kivu, and enjoy the pleasant climate, fresh organic food, and the company of the invariably friendly, open locals.

Pax,
Scott Womack