- La
Compagnie des Chemins de Fer des Grands Lacs, or CFL - had
been the biggest employer in the town, and this was where the
employees drank, ate and socialised.
I walked inside to find a wreck. A wooden bar ran along one
wall and a tall Congolese lady stood behind it.
'Do you have anything I could drink?'
`No.'
'Do you have anything I could eat?T
'No.'
Before I left, I spotted a pile of crockery on a table. The top one
caught my eye. It was marked with the livery of CFL, a swirling
red-and-white pennant, a relic of an age when customers and staff
would have eaten off company crockery.
Back on the main street, we returned to our rendezvous to find
a grubby-looking man talking to Michel's security guard. His eyes
were bloodshot and his breath smelled of alcohol.
,if you want a motorbike, I am your man.' He could barely stand
he was so drunk.
My response was a bit tetchy and impatient.
`If I am going to allow my guide to ride with you on your bike,
I need to see it.'
`I have thought of that. Follow me.'
The man, Fiston Kasongo, then led us down a track away from
Kalemie's high street to the abandoned railway, where he had
hidden it bike in some long grass.
`There is my hike. It is a great bike.'
I could see Benoit was not convinced. Benoit had a pair of
Yamaha off-road hikes. They were only 100cc, much smaller than
the 900cc bike I used to ride in London, but Benoit assured me
they were the best hikes for Congolese tracks; light enough to lift
over obstacles and strong enough to cope with the huge distances
and awful trails. The hike Fiston was offering had a brand name
- TVS Max - that I did not recognise, and was much less sturdy.
Benoit tapped me on the shoulder and took me off to a safe
distance so that he could raise his concerns.
'I have never seen that make of bike before. It does not look
good enough to me.'
I was beginning to feel sceptical, but Georges then joined in.
The bike looks okay for me. I am only going to come with you
for a day or so, not the whole journey. In the past I have walked
this same distance, so if we have any problems I can always walk.'
If 'Georges was game, that was enough for me. Benoit nodded
slowly and I returned to the swaying Fiston. A price was then
settled upon. I asked Fiston how much he wanted per day. He
hesitated for a moment and said $125. Benoit's eyes flickered
disapprovingly, so I offered $50. Fiston did not hesitate for a
second, agreeing enthusiastically to the price. He shook my hand,
promised to meet me at the IRC house and, before leaving on his
bike, asked for a down payment to allow him to buy some fuel. I
gave him $20 and he disappeared, weaving along a footpath
through the high grass in a cloud of blue exhaust smoke that
spoke of an engine in distress.
I spent the next three days preparing for the journey. First, I had
to get permission from both the local district commissioner and
military commander. Even in a large town like Kalemie where the state fails to provide any teachers, doctors or policemen, it still
insists on pieces of paper to authorise the toings and froings of
foreigners. I was wary about making too many introductions as I
feared the authorities would whip up greater problems, but
Michel assured me that the commissioner, Pierre Kamulete,
would not cause trouble. Michel volunteered to make the introductions, so on my second morning in Kalemie he drove me and
my team - Benoit the biker, and Georges the pygmy - up past the
main church and along to the ruins of the old colonial governor's
house, which now served as the commissioner's office.
We sat on an old school bench in the hall outside the commissioner's office, along with a few other supplicants waiting for
an audience with the commissioner. When our turn came we all
trooped into a large room, at the end of which stood a big desk
with M. Kamulete sitting behind it. The desk was bare apart from
a piece of paper torn from a school
Compagnie des Chemins de Fer des Grands Lacs, or CFL - had
been the biggest employer in the town, and this was where the
employees drank, ate and socialised.
I walked inside to find a wreck. A wooden bar ran along one
wall and a tall Congolese lady stood behind it.
'Do you have anything I could drink?'
`No.'
'Do you have anything I could eat?T
'No.'
Before I left, I spotted a pile of crockery on a table. The top one
caught my eye. It was marked with the livery of CFL, a swirling
red-and-white pennant, a relic of an age when customers and staff
would have eaten off company crockery.
Back on the main street, we returned to our rendezvous to find
a grubby-looking man talking to Michel's security guard. His eyes
were bloodshot and his breath smelled of alcohol.
,if you want a motorbike, I am your man.' He could barely stand
he was so drunk.
My response was a bit tetchy and impatient.
`If I am going to allow my guide to ride with you on your bike,
I need to see it.'
`I have thought of that. Follow me.'
The man, Fiston Kasongo, then led us down a track away from
Kalemie's high street to the abandoned railway, where he had
hidden it bike in some long grass.
`There is my hike. It is a great bike.'
I could see Benoit was not convinced. Benoit had a pair of
Yamaha off-road hikes. They were only 100cc, much smaller than
the 900cc bike I used to ride in London, but Benoit assured me
they were the best hikes for Congolese tracks; light enough to lift
over obstacles and strong enough to cope with the huge distances
and awful trails. The hike Fiston was offering had a brand name
- TVS Max - that I did not recognise, and was much less sturdy.
Benoit tapped me on the shoulder and took me off to a safe
distance so that he could raise his concerns.
'I have never seen that make of bike before. It does not look
good enough to me.'
I was beginning to feel sceptical, but Georges then joined in.
The bike looks okay for me. I am only going to come with you
for a day or so, not the whole journey. In the past I have walked
this same distance, so if we have any problems I can always walk.'
If 'Georges was game, that was enough for me. Benoit nodded
slowly and I returned to the swaying Fiston. A price was then
settled upon. I asked Fiston how much he wanted per day. He
hesitated for a moment and said $125. Benoit's eyes flickered
disapprovingly, so I offered $50. Fiston did not hesitate for a
second, agreeing enthusiastically to the price. He shook my hand,
promised to meet me at the IRC house and, before leaving on his
bike, asked for a down payment to allow him to buy some fuel. I
gave him $20 and he disappeared, weaving along a footpath
through the high grass in a cloud of blue exhaust smoke that
spoke of an engine in distress.
I spent the next three days preparing for the journey. First, I had
to get permission from both the local district commissioner and
military commander. Even in a large town like Kalemie where the state fails to provide any teachers, doctors or policemen, it still
insists on pieces of paper to authorise the toings and froings of
foreigners. I was wary about making too many introductions as I
feared the authorities would whip up greater problems, but
Michel assured me that the commissioner, Pierre Kamulete,
would not cause trouble. Michel volunteered to make the introductions, so on my second morning in Kalemie he drove me and
my team - Benoit the biker, and Georges the pygmy - up past the
main church and along to the ruins of the old colonial governor's
house, which now served as the commissioner's office.
We sat on an old school bench in the hall outside the commissioner's office, along with a few other supplicants waiting for
an audience with the commissioner. When our turn came we all
trooped into a large room, at the end of which stood a big desk
with M. Kamulete sitting behind it. The desk was bare apart from
a piece of paper torn from a school
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