Tales
from the riverbank
The novelist Joanne Harris
visits the Congo
"In the Congo MSF’s energies are concentrated on fighting sleeping sickness, a foul disease which, although almost eradicated in the 1960s, has returned on an epidemic scale, killing about 66,000 a year throughout Africa."
Before I began this piece I tried doing a little research outside my local supermarket. I stopped 20 people and asked them to say the first thing that came into their head when I mentioned the Congo. Eleven remembered the slogan of a 1980s fruit drink; three said it was in Africa; two said it was a river; two thought there might be a war there; one looked confused and one said, ‘The what?’
My friends and family hardly scored better. When I told them last year that I was going to Congo-Brazzaville, reactions ranged from, ‘That’ll be nice’, to, ‘You’re completely mad’, to, ‘Why?’
Well, that one’s easy. I was invited by Médecins Sans Frontières, the international aid organisation, in order to raise awareness on projects in the region. I like MSF. It doesn’t build churches. It doesn’t pass judgement. It doesn’t advertise, campaign or harass. It doesn’t waste money on administrative costs. It won the Nobel Peace Prize, but its members don’t go on about it.
In the Congo its energies are concentrated on fighting sleeping sickness, a foul disease which, although almost eradicated in the 1960s, has returned on an epidemic scale, killing about 66,000 a year throughout Africa. Ultimately fatal, it can be cured, although until recently the only treatment was an antiquated arsenic-based compound, melarsoprol. MSF’s plan is to screen everyone in high-risk riverside areas – an awesome task given the difficulty of access – and administer treatment where needed.
That’s why I’m here now, at the airport, with my rucksack, mosquito net, malaria pills, enough survival equipment to make Ray Mears pale with envy, and a ticket in my pocket for Congo-Brazzaville. I’m not alone; with me I have Petrana, the press officer from London, and Tom, our photographer. We are due to stay in the country for two weeks.
and holding child's hand
First, some facts. The Congo is a French-speaking west African country about the size of Germany. Most of the population (just under three million) live in the capital, Brazzaville, or its coastal counterpart, Pointe-Noire. Its leader is Sassou Nguesso, who took power in 1997, having toppled the elected president. Much of the interim has seen conflict between government militia and rebels, with whom an uneasy peace agreement has now been reached.
When we arrive at 6.30pm, night has already fallen, and the air is thick with mosquitoes. We are met by Paul, the chef de mission, who drives us to the MSF house, which is basic, but comfortable. There is a solid wall around, with a guard at the gate. Paul, despite his relaxed manner, is very conscious of security, and tells the story of an MSF mission in Angola where five staff were murdered during the night – the only survivor being the one who had remembered to lock her bedroom door. It’s hard to imagine that happening here – but then, perhaps that’s what they thought, too.
We have dinner with Sarwat, Paul’s wife, who also works with MSF, at a restaurant in town. The food is good, the atmosphere friendly; it’s hard to believe that only last year this city was terrorised by warring groups of militia firing at each other from shooting platforms high above the streets. It could happen again tomorrow, says Paul. All the same, I sleep well under my MSF mosquito net – but I do remember to lock the door.
I awake early to the sound of drumming and clapping from the nearby church. We have coffee and croissants on the terrace of a little pâtisserie – French influence is still strong here, and we might almost be on the boulevard Saint-Michel, except for the mango trees and the boy by the roadside selling fat white grubs out of a wicker basket. Brazzaville seems like a crossroads between worlds: bombed-out buildings stand alongside elegant glass towers; suited businessmen mix with ragged street children, expensive European cars with the battered and psychedelic taxis that constitute 90 per cent of the city’s traffic.
Today we begin the journey to Mossaka, where MSF has its new sleeping sickness programme. It will take two days, one by road, one by river. Sarwat is with us, and the driver, Marcel, who will deal with roadblocks. We are soon out of Brazzaville; the shops of the city centre give way to roadside shacks selling tomatoes, peanuts, pineapples or the leaf-wrapped parcels of manioc – the dried, cooked and reconstituted root of the cassava plant – which is the staple diet of the Congolese.
The tarmac road soon becomes dirt. We see huge, overloaded trucks crawling along in clouds of dust, while the passengers – 40, 50 at a time – cling to every available surface. The villages have extravagant names – Chicago, Nazareth, Hollywood City – and the houses are corrugated huts with roofs of palm thatch. People wave and call ‘mendele!’ – white man. There are sandtraps on the road, and roadblocks every few miles. People are expected to pay here, explains Sarwat, sometimes for work done to the road surface, sometimes for safe passage through rebel territory. Occasionally, there is trouble. Not long ago Sarwat was kidnapped at gunpoint by a group of ‘Ninja’ rebels when she refused to let them commandeer her vehicle.
They took it anyway, and dumped it – and her – unharmed once their business was done. Sarwat speaks cheerfully of the incident; these things happen all the time. At first I hold my breath as we approach the roadblocks, but as the day goes by I hardly notice them any more.