National Geographic Channel - Closing days in the Congo

Printed on August 27, 2007 National Geographic Channel

Closing days in the Congo

By explorer

September 12, 2008 10:25 AM

Below are the final excerpts from Justus Rinnert's expedition to the Democratic Republic of Congo.

Justus Rinnert

Pilot, Aviation Without Borders

First Contact with the Outside Dr. Nono and his staff arrive and with their little motorcycles whisk us out of this male misery of green rags and sun-baked armory. We have brought some supplies along with us. During a healthy meal of fufu, cassava leaves and grilled river fish we listen to them in awe. About the looting ram-page that went on. The fear ingrained in the local population. About the soldiers requisitioning everything, from foodstuff and equipment to women who are forced to follow their masters everywhere. Or about the major who got sick, who had ordered the MSF doctors to come and look after him, and then got so upset about them showing up late, that he threatened never to let the Cessna land again - there by cutting himself off from much needed healing. After the meal, Jacques and I insist that we must depart. We leave for the airstrip to prepare the plane for take-off.

***

His Face Trembles
The midday sun is beating down on the airfield. A stone's throw away on the veranda of the decrepit colonial terminal building, the soldiers are hiding from the heat. Their eyes are fixed on us. I make out the outline of a young soldier who has got up and is now walking slowly towards us. He has bare feet, is wearing a green T-shirt with army fatigue pants. As he starts to speak I notice some marks on his cheeks and forehead, his face trembles. He is about to cry. He is sick. What does he want? Clearly, he can't be asking for money or a lift out of here in front of everybody. He is putting words together one by one. His French is simple but becomes increasingly more fluent. Ready to mock him in the routine distrust I have of any military person, fortunately I check myself. He begs us to listen to what he has to say. He wants to talk. These are his words:

"I was a student. I was about to finish secondary school. I joined the rebels." "Were you forced?" "Yes" and then a quick "No!" "How old are you?" "I am twenty. I am from North Kivu. I have been mixed up in this war for fifteen months. The last five months we spent in the bush. They made so many promises. I have never received any money. The Ugandans receive one, two hundred dollars a month. The Congolese don't even have anything to eat. The Congolese have nothing. Not even a doctor to look after them. The last one got sick and died, when we were in the bush. There's no food. We were always promised money and food once we reached Basankusu." While his words keep coming in a slow and regular stream now, I turn my head and catch a glimpse of the rest of the soldiers who from their distance look across to us with their intense gaze, a silent and motionless wall. "By now, I could have had a job, even a family maybe. The rich shop owners in Kivu have cars. They travel everywhere. Goma, Kampala, Nairobi. They have money. The ordinary people have nothing. They are poor. Congolese people have nothing. Not even anybody to listen to their story. What am I going to do? I could have finished school by now. I don't want to be forgotten. You and your human rights organizations, you should listen to the stories of the Congolese people. What shall I do? I don't want to be forgotten. You have to remember me." Not even troubling to finish his final words, he turns around and, with his back to us, resumes his sickly steps to go back to the silence of his comrades. Ten minutes later all I hear is the humming of our engine at seven thousand feet as we head back, watching the endless green carpet below us. I can't help to think about him and I don't even know his name.

Categories: "Congo Bush Pilots", Africa

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