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A few kilometers farther down the road, we were definitely beyond the city limit. The buildings were gone and replaced with clusters of bamboo or stick and mud buildings, chickens and dogs digging in hardpan yards, and grasses and patches of trees along the road. We had been encountering some strange small piles of dirt alongside the shoulder with tall green branches sticking up in them. These piles were every few hundred meters, and were clustered about 10 meters apart. Ahead, where the road rounded a bend, one patch of piles progressed their way into our lane, forcing us into the oncoming lane. Fortunately, there was no other traffic on the road as we rounded the bend on the wrong side. When we came through the corner, we discovered that these were the Congolese version of traffic cones, as there was a huge 1-ton truck piled with about 2 tons of sacks, goats, leaves, tree trunks and topped with about 40 people, broken down right in the middle of our lane. The driver and some passengers had the front end propped up on some tree stumps, and the entire front end was on the ground, completely in parts. The people were just sitting there, looking at the pieces and then at us as we zoomed by. A few of them waved, instinctively ending the wave by turning their hands over, palms up. Mun’dali….money.

A few hundred meters farther, we passed some kids rolling a huge truck tire down the road and carrying part of a front end. We had no idea where they expected to get it repaired, but then a few kilometers farther we encountered another broken down truck, the same model, burned out and obviously having been there for several years. There were three guys with wrenches and crowbars, tearing the front end apart. Recycle, repair, reuse. Impressive, but they still had a long way to go.

The road really started getting potholed out now; we were about 40 km out of town and it had taken about 3 hours with getting lost and the bridge delay. On the left, we passed an elegant oriental pagoda, with an ornate arch and colorful paneling, hundreds of windows glinting in the sun. Only the overgrown trees, the underbrush and the grass-choked parking lot gave an indication that it had been abandoned. Probably some sort of Embassy getaway for a far eastern ambassador, back in the good old days. We took a few quick pictures and rolled on by.

The road forked. With no road sign or map to guide us, we decided to follow the left fork, as it looked like the more used. On the left, a few kilometers later, there was a spectacular overlooking view of a fishing village on the shore of the Congo River below, so I hopped out for a quick picture. We could hear drums coming from the village. Within minutes, several dirty children emerged from the brush and timidly held out their hands. I sighed, dug into my pocket and handed each of them 100 Congolese francs, and got back in the car to head back down the road. Behind me, I saw the children waving as we drove off, and then disappear back into the brush.

After about 45 minutes, when the road dead-ended in a small fishing village on the Congo we realized our error and backtracked. There was no sign of the children at the overlook. Once we got back to the fork and were on the right road, we started encountering more and more trucks…the same 1-ton cargo haulers, all broken down. It seemed like there was one every kilometer, each one with the front end jacked up, and a wheel off. There were dozens of people sitting around each one, patiently waiting for the repairs to be done. Later, I heard that people will wait patiently for days and days, since they have paid the driver for transportation and cannot afford to buy a ride on another passing truck. Sometimes, you will see dozens of people standing with their goods, apparently having been evicted for a better-paying shipment of cargo.

After another 50 km, we came to another bridge, but this one was definitely impassable. It crossed a river about 50 meters wide, with two spans joining at a center piling. However, the spans were completely broken off of the center piling, and both sides were dropped 75 feet down into the river, lying surrealistically like two roadways bowing to a monument standing mid-river. Running parallel to the old bridge was a WW2-looking metal ‘tank bridge’, which I had seen in Israel as temporary river crossings for APCs and other war machines. We drove across this structure, rusty and rattly, as the fishermen and washerwomen on the old tarmac looked up at us, and continued on our way. The army guard who had been distracted doing something in the bushes when we arrived came running out of the woods waving his arms at us. We stopped and showed him our passports and registration, then gave him 200CF, the Congolese equivalent of 50 cents, and kept going.

After this crossing, the road began to climb a steep hill with many switchbacks and blind corners. We had grown accustomed to dodging the potholes and numerous broken-down trucks, and were surprised when we came around one corner and encountered a truck that was moving slowly along our lane, surrounded by 20 passengers all jogging alongside. My first thought was that they were walking to take a load off of the truck engine and tranny as it climbed the big hill. However, alongside the road we saw several trucks that had driven off the road, crashing deeply into the woods or off the cliff. I realized that the passengers knew that truck brakes could fail, and it was safer on a hill to be running alongside the slow-moving behemoth than to be riding on top as it careened off the cliff or rolled over from the embankment. All the wrecked trucks had been stripped of front-end parts.

At the top of the rise we found ourselves on the central Congo Plateau. The road ran straight to the horizon, short grass framing the dirt and tar 2-lane road as it disappeared into the distance. There were a few people each kilometer, walking, carrying gigantic loads of firewood or vegetables or lugging 20 gallon water jugs, all balanced on their heads. We passed through a village with a dozen or so stalls set up on the street side with colorfully garbed women selling white flour in burlap bags, grubs, vegetables, liboke, fu-fu or chiquane (a gummy, white Congolese staple food), sugar or honey covered with swarming wasps, Coca Cola, fruits, meat and various canned goods, stacked in neat pyramids. The market was set up for the trucks that passed through, and obviously the people riding on the trucks were supplying the stalls with their wares. On the edge of town, makeshift garages were set up in bamboo huts with welders, compressors, tire jacks and truck parts: the Congolese version of an all-purpose truck stop. Recalling the stripped-down wrecks on the hillside, I had no doubt where the parts came from. Folks stared at us as we rolled through, and I was tempted to suggest stopping to buy something to eat, but didn’t.

Within another 20 miles, we saw a road sign in the distance. Approaching it, it announced our arrival at Bombo Lumene Park, and directed us 5 km down a dirt road running straight across the plateau. We drove down the road and arrived at a small grass clearing with three log cabin buildings that had seen better days. We met the manager who told us the animals had been killed and eaten years before, and obtained a price list for visiting and accommodation, and because of the lateness of our arrival, only had time for a quick hike down to the Lumene River to see if it was fishable. It was, unfortunately, in flood stage, and the thin rope bridge used to cross it was washed out. The manager told us that there were tigerfish in it (little m’boto, not the giant type in the big river) however the best fishing for them was at low water, although he did not know anything about fly fishing. He said that he had maybe three visitors a month, and we promised to come back in the fall, and started our journey back to Kinshasa just as the rain started to fall.

The drive back was uneventful: we rolled through the market town, drawing stares from the people in the stalls again, then rolled down the big hill, mindful that we might encounter people on foot jogging beside cargo trucks. At the fallen bridge, the guard recognized us and waved us through with a smile. Back at the fork in the road, we laughed about our wrong turn, and continued on the road to Kinshasa. About 25 km from town, we approached a two lane bridge across a large river that we did not remember, and slowly drove up to the crossing. The oncoming lanes looked sort of familiar, but our lanes looked unused and it appeared that there was a pile of dirt on the far side. We crossed slowly, saw the policeman guarding the far lanes and remembered crossing over on the outbound leg of our trip because there were some significant speed bumps there. However, some soldiers suddenly stepped out in front of us, and indicated for us to open our window. In broken English, the soldier explained that THIS side of the bridge was closed, and we had trespassed. We explained that we had just crossed over a few hours earlier, but he indicated that we had crossed on the OTHER side, which was under the control of the police, and that they can make whatever rules they choose, however THIS side was controlled by the army and now we had a ‘problem’, and needed to pay them something. We looked at the policeman, expecting him to come over and intervene, but he just watched from his side. Reluctantly, we paid the soldiers a few hundred francs each, and were allowed to proceed.

A short while later, we crossed the dirt causeway, cruised past the airport and were back in familiar territory. The two guys vowed to make the journey again in the fall when the river was lower, and the women laughed and said "have a good trip!"

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Living in Congo, Part IV - Military Danger. Riverman Buck's continuing adventures teaching and living in Africa. 5/04