the way he
answered my question about how much I should pay him for his
help.
'I am paid by Care International, who have asked me to extend
our range around Kasongo. Travelling with you is part of my job,
so you don't have to pay me anything. If we get to Kasongo, you
can talk to the senior man there about the cost of hiring the bikes.
But as for me, I don't expect any payment.'
That was the moment I decided Benoit Bangana was a man I
could trust, but before I made any more decisions about the
security situation, I thought it wise to ask Michel's advice.
I found Michel at work in his radio station, a standard-issue UN
container at the garrison headquarters built in the ruin of a
Belgian-era cotton factory on the outskirts of town. Thousands of
workers had once processed raw cotton grown in the sweaty
Congolese interior and shipped here by lorry and train. Terraces
of brick houses had been erected for hundreds of workers, but
most of them lay in ruins now outside the razor-wire perimeter of
the UN base.
Michel was deep in thought, trying to work out how the local
UN commander should deal with an imminent public-relations
crisis. Peacekeepers in Kalemie and elsewhere across the Congo
had been caught paying local girls, under the age of consent, for
sex. Almost all UN missions suffer from the same problem, with bored, well-paid young men deployed to places where poverty is
so acute that girls are willing to sell themselves. Michel had just
come from a meeting where the large scale of the problem in
Kalemie had been revealed. He seemed happy for the distraction
I provided when I introduced Benoit and explained about the
motorbikes. Michel was impressed.
'You move fast. Having a motorbike is great news. Well done.'
`But I am still worried about security. Benoit says there are maimai all along these tracks. Do you know anyone local they might
listen to, who could help me get through?'
`There is one person I know about from Kalemie who dares to
travel regularly through the bush. He is a pygmy and he runs a
small aid group here in town that tries to protect the rights of
pygmies. The group's name is La Voix des Minorites, Minorities'
Voice, and the man's name is Georges Mbuyu. I have interviewed
him many times.'
The name sounded familiar. I looked back at my research notes
and saw that an Anglican missionary from Uganda had once told
me of Georges Mbuyu and his pygmy rights group. I had read a
report about the role Georges played in negotiating the release of
four local villagers arrested during the war by the pro-Rwandan
rebels, who were then in control of Kalemie, but the missionary
had told me that getting in touch with Georges was impossible
from outside the Congo. Now that I was in Kalemie, Michel
assured me that finding Georges could not be simpler.
Benoit and I piled into Michel's jeep and drove back through
town, past the bicycle taxis and the hawkers. We followed the
road up past the church on the headland and, just as we came
level with a derelict Belgian villa, Michel stopped. The facade
was cracked, standing on half-collapsed foundations left exposed
by numerous seasonal rains. A small man, a tad under five foot in
height, wearing a T-shirt, dark trousers and plastic flip-flops,
emerged from inside. When he saw Michel, he grinned.
The pair greeted each other warmly in Swahili and then Michel broke into French, introducing me as a writer. Georges raised his
eyebrows in astonishment and then seemed to remember his
manners.
'Please come into my office,' he said, leading me over the
broken verandah and into a bare room where most of the plaster
had either fallen off the wall or was about to. He proffered me a
rickety chair and asked me my business.
'I want to go overland from here all the way to the Congo River.
I want to follow the same route used by the explorer, Stanley,
when he became the first white man to cross the Congo. But I am
worried about security.
answered my question about how much I should pay him for his
help.
'I am paid by Care International, who have asked me to extend
our range around Kasongo. Travelling with you is part of my job,
so you don't have to pay me anything. If we get to Kasongo, you
can talk to the senior man there about the cost of hiring the bikes.
But as for me, I don't expect any payment.'
That was the moment I decided Benoit Bangana was a man I
could trust, but before I made any more decisions about the
security situation, I thought it wise to ask Michel's advice.
I found Michel at work in his radio station, a standard-issue UN
container at the garrison headquarters built in the ruin of a
Belgian-era cotton factory on the outskirts of town. Thousands of
workers had once processed raw cotton grown in the sweaty
Congolese interior and shipped here by lorry and train. Terraces
of brick houses had been erected for hundreds of workers, but
most of them lay in ruins now outside the razor-wire perimeter of
the UN base.
Michel was deep in thought, trying to work out how the local
UN commander should deal with an imminent public-relations
crisis. Peacekeepers in Kalemie and elsewhere across the Congo
had been caught paying local girls, under the age of consent, for
sex. Almost all UN missions suffer from the same problem, with bored, well-paid young men deployed to places where poverty is
so acute that girls are willing to sell themselves. Michel had just
come from a meeting where the large scale of the problem in
Kalemie had been revealed. He seemed happy for the distraction
I provided when I introduced Benoit and explained about the
motorbikes. Michel was impressed.
'You move fast. Having a motorbike is great news. Well done.'
`But I am still worried about security. Benoit says there are maimai all along these tracks. Do you know anyone local they might
listen to, who could help me get through?'
`There is one person I know about from Kalemie who dares to
travel regularly through the bush. He is a pygmy and he runs a
small aid group here in town that tries to protect the rights of
pygmies. The group's name is La Voix des Minorites, Minorities'
Voice, and the man's name is Georges Mbuyu. I have interviewed
him many times.'
The name sounded familiar. I looked back at my research notes
and saw that an Anglican missionary from Uganda had once told
me of Georges Mbuyu and his pygmy rights group. I had read a
report about the role Georges played in negotiating the release of
four local villagers arrested during the war by the pro-Rwandan
rebels, who were then in control of Kalemie, but the missionary
had told me that getting in touch with Georges was impossible
from outside the Congo. Now that I was in Kalemie, Michel
assured me that finding Georges could not be simpler.
Benoit and I piled into Michel's jeep and drove back through
town, past the bicycle taxis and the hawkers. We followed the
road up past the church on the headland and, just as we came
level with a derelict Belgian villa, Michel stopped. The facade
was cracked, standing on half-collapsed foundations left exposed
by numerous seasonal rains. A small man, a tad under five foot in
height, wearing a T-shirt, dark trousers and plastic flip-flops,
emerged from inside. When he saw Michel, he grinned.
The pair greeted each other warmly in Swahili and then Michel broke into French, introducing me as a writer. Georges raised his
eyebrows in astonishment and then seemed to remember his
manners.
'Please come into my office,' he said, leading me over the
broken verandah and into a bare room where most of the plaster
had either fallen off the wall or was about to. He proffered me a
rickety chair and asked me my business.
'I want to go overland from here all the way to the Congo River.
I want to follow the same route used by the explorer, Stanley,
when he became the first white man to cross the Congo. But I am
worried about security.
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