Bantu tribes, who arrived here about 1,000 years ago
before persecuting and subjugating the pygmies, blurred what
had once been a clear distinction. I could not tell if Mikejo was a
pygmy proper, or the offspring of some ancient merging of central
Africa's oldest and newest bloodlines.
The mai-mai of eastern Congo are known for their cruelty,
violence, even cannibalism, but in this old man defending his
village I saw something less threatening. With his venerable gun
- it was highly unlikely he actually had any live rounds - he was
simply defending his bush home. He belonged to mai-mai who
act like a Congolese version of Dad's Army, trying to protect their
villages from armed attack by the many outsiders who have run
amok here for the last forty years. These local mai-mai do not
cause major problems because they rarely move far from their
home villages. It is the ones who wander who cause the chaos.
The nomads survive by plundering whatever they can find. It is
these mai-mai marauders who are responsible for the lawless
cycle of murder and reprisal that has paralysed this region for so
long.
Benoit was anxious to get on and, with a nod from Georges that
indicated the danger had passed, he restarted his bike and
careered off down the track. We followed, but we had not got far
when we had our second flat tyre, this time on Fiston's bike
where I was riding pillion. I felt the rear go soggy, causing us to
slew to one side, and then we were down to the hard rim,
bumping to a halt.
After the calm of the first repair, this second one was much
more tense. Fiston showed no knowledge about how to repair his
bike and had no tools or repair kit. Benoit and Odimba took
control. But when they opened up the rear wheel of Fiston's bike,
they lost their cool.
'Look at this inner tube, Fiston,' Benoit said sharply.
`There are more patches on this tube than the original tube. It
must have been mended twenty times. And look here at the side
of the tyre. It is worn away from being pulled on and off the
wheel. It's almost useless.'
As Benoit tried to work out how to stick a patch on an existing
patch, Fiston stood in glum silence. It was clear he did not really care. All he wanted to do was get back safely to Kalemie, and a flat
tyre was no bad thing as it would bring about his return journey
quicker.
I found the whole situation bewildering. I had been planning
this journey in my head for years, trying to anticipate and
deal with every conceivable problem. I had never thought that
the success of the whole trip might turn on a perforated inner
tube.
It was the first time I had heard a tone of anger in Benoit's voice.
It was contagious and I began to fret. My early morning excitement had long gone and I was trying to calculate the impact of
these delays on our journey. After Kalemie, my next safe haven
was in the town of Kasongo, where Benoit's Care International
colleagues were based, but that was still almost 500 kilometres
away. With marauding mai-mai in the area, Benoit knew that to
dawdle was dangerous. He had hoped that if we got away early
enough we could possibly reach a ruined mining town called
Kabambarre, 300 kilometres from Kalemie, tonight. Benoit was
confident he could find somewhere safe there to spend the night.
With these breakdowns, it was looking increasingly likely we
would have to overnight in the bush.
There was now one other thing to consider. Georges said the
news about the mai-mai group at Mulolwa chimed with what he
had already heard on the rumour mill back in Kalemie. This
group had some ruthless, godless gunmen and he was anxious
that if we were to get through safely, it would be important to
catch them at the right time of day.
`These guys get drunk and stoned by the afternoon, and you
don't want to he negotiating with them in that state. We must get
there as early in the morning as possible for the best chance of
getting through,' was his
before persecuting and subjugating the pygmies, blurred what
had once been a clear distinction. I could not tell if Mikejo was a
pygmy proper, or the offspring of some ancient merging of central
Africa's oldest and newest bloodlines.
The mai-mai of eastern Congo are known for their cruelty,
violence, even cannibalism, but in this old man defending his
village I saw something less threatening. With his venerable gun
- it was highly unlikely he actually had any live rounds - he was
simply defending his bush home. He belonged to mai-mai who
act like a Congolese version of Dad's Army, trying to protect their
villages from armed attack by the many outsiders who have run
amok here for the last forty years. These local mai-mai do not
cause major problems because they rarely move far from their
home villages. It is the ones who wander who cause the chaos.
The nomads survive by plundering whatever they can find. It is
these mai-mai marauders who are responsible for the lawless
cycle of murder and reprisal that has paralysed this region for so
long.
Benoit was anxious to get on and, with a nod from Georges that
indicated the danger had passed, he restarted his bike and
careered off down the track. We followed, but we had not got far
when we had our second flat tyre, this time on Fiston's bike
where I was riding pillion. I felt the rear go soggy, causing us to
slew to one side, and then we were down to the hard rim,
bumping to a halt.
After the calm of the first repair, this second one was much
more tense. Fiston showed no knowledge about how to repair his
bike and had no tools or repair kit. Benoit and Odimba took
control. But when they opened up the rear wheel of Fiston's bike,
they lost their cool.
'Look at this inner tube, Fiston,' Benoit said sharply.
`There are more patches on this tube than the original tube. It
must have been mended twenty times. And look here at the side
of the tyre. It is worn away from being pulled on and off the
wheel. It's almost useless.'
As Benoit tried to work out how to stick a patch on an existing
patch, Fiston stood in glum silence. It was clear he did not really care. All he wanted to do was get back safely to Kalemie, and a flat
tyre was no bad thing as it would bring about his return journey
quicker.
I found the whole situation bewildering. I had been planning
this journey in my head for years, trying to anticipate and
deal with every conceivable problem. I had never thought that
the success of the whole trip might turn on a perforated inner
tube.
It was the first time I had heard a tone of anger in Benoit's voice.
It was contagious and I began to fret. My early morning excitement had long gone and I was trying to calculate the impact of
these delays on our journey. After Kalemie, my next safe haven
was in the town of Kasongo, where Benoit's Care International
colleagues were based, but that was still almost 500 kilometres
away. With marauding mai-mai in the area, Benoit knew that to
dawdle was dangerous. He had hoped that if we got away early
enough we could possibly reach a ruined mining town called
Kabambarre, 300 kilometres from Kalemie, tonight. Benoit was
confident he could find somewhere safe there to spend the night.
With these breakdowns, it was looking increasingly likely we
would have to overnight in the bush.
There was now one other thing to consider. Georges said the
news about the mai-mai group at Mulolwa chimed with what he
had already heard on the rumour mill back in Kalemie. This
group had some ruthless, godless gunmen and he was anxious
that if we were to get through safely, it would be important to
catch them at the right time of day.
`These guys get drunk and stoned by the afternoon, and you
don't want to he negotiating with them in that state. We must get
there as early in the morning as possible for the best chance of
getting through,' was his
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