On The Congo and Hippos

Sunday July 11^th

I rode out on the ribbon of tarmac in the morning to the Congo border. The very name “Congo” stirs excitement in my mind: Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness”, Jane Goodall’s dense jungle, replete with gorillas and monkeys. The hideout of Chez Guevara and his rebels. More recently gun smugglers. Neat stuff.

As usual, Sunday morning brings out runners in large groups. They look silly as the warm up: a circle of say 50 men all shaking out their morning limbs or doing push ups over a ditch (not really sure why they do this yet it may look manly to some.) I bike past runners cheering and chanting and swerve cyclists with giant loads of rice or lumber perched precariously on the steel bikes. I ride through Gitanga where I’m forced to slow down. The poor town stretches for miles. Past run down shacks that proudly say “Boulangerie et Gallettes” or “Coiffeur pour les Femmes”. I meet the self proclaimed “chief” of the village who jogs beside me for a time. He speaks perfect English.

I arrive at the Congo border. A yellow barricade and a sign that reads “Democratic Republic of the Congo” with a yellow barrier across a shaky bridge is the only resemblance to a border.  Men hang around joking and pointing at me. I share an orange with one and the jokes seem to get more hilarious. A blue clothed official wags his finger at me when I produce a camera. I take a photo of the Congo anyway.

Hungry, I get back to The House as Anna is just finishing breakfast of a pineapple slice and tomato omelet.  A 40 km ride before breakfast – perhaps I won’t descend into obesity as I envisioned.

Following breakfast we decide to share a taxi to the Ruzusi Nature Reserve in the hopes of a) finding it open (all parks have been closed for years and b) seeing some crocodiles and hippos we’ve heard hang out here. Josef, a taxi driver is an older man who seems reliable. (Never trust the young.) So we are off. The rickety jalopy has 280,000 km and is definitely ready for the heap. Wires poke out the dashboard and doors and windows have long since ceased operating. Josef is amiable and obliging. We hesitate over the entrance fees to Reserve; approx $90 for a boat ride and $15 each for a walking tour. We opt for the walk, wondering if we really will see wildlife. Everything seems so tired and worn out. A jumbled pile of crocodile and hippo skulls adorn a table. A faded map on a fence post and a battered sign reads WARNING / DANGER (of what?). A bored Burundi woman takes her time drawing lines on a page for us to sign our names, country, intentions and observations. We sign in finally, wondering why she could not have drawn up these lines before hand. 

A young guide and a guard with a lethal weapon accompanies us – I suppose to shoot that croc or hippo if we were to be attacked. So all this looks hopeful after all. The route is lovely with high grass and eucalyptus trees fringing a brown and lazy river. Suddenly two antelope spring across our path – within seconds they are gone and we catch a fleeting glimpse of dappled bodies and lithe legs built for speed. Wow.

The next stop is for the hippos. Obese, mottled gray and round as if their bodies certainly were created first and the tiny ears, piglet tail and midget legs were an after-thought. They lie lazily in a large family in the shallows, the babies occasionally yawning in the heat and tossing their out-of-proportion heads. I am thrilled. Still hard to believe these benign looking creatures kill more humans than any other African animal. No crocs in sight. All well. I certainly got my money worth.