Congolese Mourning in Kingangi

I stayed in the remote village of Kingangi (in Kasai-Orientale province) in March this year, while photographing part of my Leprosy Eliminated? project. I woke up on the second morning to the sound of singing. The singing itself was uplifting, raw and organic. I went to see what it was all about. Sadly, it turned out that young child of 18 or so months had died unexpectedly the previous evening.

A small crowd of women was gathered, looking inwards, all singing and dancing. But there were no smiles and no laughter. The men sat sombrely to the side. The young father, who was maybe my age came up to me. I asked if it would be ok to photograph. He had said it was no problem. I crouched down and squeezed gently through the crowd of women. The child, less than 12 hours dead was lying on the table.

The dances of the women were rocking up and down, almost like a theatrical wailing. Some of them were crying. The mother sat, clearly numb with disbelief. I took a few photos and put the camera down. I suppose it is tradition of some sort, though I never found out the details as I had a long trek that morning. The cause of the baby’s death was unknown.

The Stores of Nsumbula

Nsumbula is a remote town in the province of Kasai-Occidentale, not too far from the Angolan border in the Democratic Republic of Congo.

I was there in March for just a couple of nights photographing (for The Leprosy Mission Canada) those in the area suffering from leprosy. Walking through Nsumbula one afternoon I decided to take just one or two photos of each of the hand-painted stores and dealers that lined the main street. I didn’t think much of it at the time – often I like to just record things for the sake of looking back in 20 years time and saying, “oh right, that’s what it was like then.” But I’m just editing the several thousand photos I took in that month-long trip now, and I rather liked this small sequence of shop scenes. As with most of my favourite images these days, I think there’s significance in the details.

I think I took 26 shots in the 7 minutes it took me to walk down the street and here’s my quick edit of them.

Fashion á la Congo

I’ve taken a step back in time somewhat, to a photoshoot I did in the city of Goma in the Democratic Republic of Congo some 10 months ago. Mélanie Gouby, the journalist I was working with at the time has been slaving away on a personal project for sometime… namely Mutaani Magazine, a glossy publication for the Congolese youth, launched this month. Mutaani means ‘in the city’, and it’s targeting the educated, urban youth of the area.

Mélanie and I were out having a drink one evening at a bar with live music and heard the girl you see above… Volpi. She was in DRC’s equivalent of the X Factor or American Idol or something, and she didn’t win, but I guess is quite well-known in the usual reality-TV age group. Anyway, we met her afterwards, and she turned out to be very polite, quietly charming and pretty normal for a teenager that’s spent much of the last year competing in a televised singing contest. Not exactly Jedward…

She agreed to be photographed for a shoot, and I agreed to photograph her. 10 months later and the first issue is out after huge efforts from Mélanie and her team. Here is a sneak peek of the tear sheets from my shoot with Volpi. Possibly my only attempt at fashion… so gulp it in.

I should also mention that you can buy Mutaani Magazine – online PDF, iPad or in paper. This truly is a piece of history. Where the international media are still only interested in country’s constant conflicts and corruption, here is a source of light and hope, highlighting DRC’s “normality” and that it can and will one day have this “normality”. Buy it here.

Mélanie and Volpi chose the clothes and Nadine Lusi (Goma’s go-to person for…. well, anything) helped us scout out a decent venue (the cathedral destroyed by the nearby volcano 10 years ago). Tom McHale was the glamourous assistant who managed to bribe some local kids with some sweets to be his glamourous assistants. All of them were very good in trying to get me to stop shooting after some local smack dealers (was it smack?!? – I never stopped to ask) decided to encroach on the shoot towards the end. Turns out it was ‘their territory’. Quite enjoyable otherwise, even considering the rain…

A Day in the Life of a Congolese Surgeon

For a day in the DRC I photographed and filmed two surgeons and an anaesthetist, on an outreach for the Goma based NGO and Hospital HEAL Africa.

The main surgeon in this – Dr Jo Lusi – founded HEAL Africa with his wife Lyn Lusi in 2000.

Many of the photographs in this move too fast to see – echoing the sheer amount of work and concentration that I saw them put into their day. They work very smoothly and closely as a team, a well-oiled machine. The intensity of their labour is balanced with jokes and they interact much like a bunch of old school mates who have known each other for decades.

It’s why they are so good at doing what they do, and it’s the reason why thousands of young Congolese can live a normal life. I felt truly honoured to witness them. I see too often in my work those raised in the West helping Africans. Though I think this passion and dedication is admirable, there is something very right about watching Africans helping Africans, especially using skills most often found only in the upper echelons on this planet.

Virunga Mountain Gorillas

Once again, I must apologise that  it’s been so long since my last post. Plenty has happened since I last posted, I’m now living temporarily back in London and I have plenty of work ahead of me for the next 7 weeks – organising, pitching, researching and enjoying fast internet and cheese.

This last week I’ve predominantly been combing through the past 9 months of photographs (almost 70,000). Pretty much all of them are stories about humans and the trials that have beset them in life. These don’t necessarily have negative ends to them (many of the stories are inspiring), however it was nice to sift through my photographs of mountain gorillas taken in the Virunga National Park in the Democratic Republic of Congo. The story I was doing was in fact on what Virunga has to offer to tourists. Personally I wasn’t a huge fan of the images I produced for it.

But the photographs of the mountain gorillas I encountered (on the two visits I made to see them) have a completely different look – calm, tranquil and a feeling that is much closer to what I remember it actually being like to be present there. Human conservation efforts have meant that these creatures, quite unique to this area of Africa (you won’t even find them in captivity outside of the DRC), are alive and for a fee accessible to the curious public. Seeing them in the flesh happily inhabiting their habitat, completely unbothered by a handful of nosy homo sapiens is one of the most wonderful experiences I’ve had so far on this earth… I’m looking forward to making some large prints of some of the following in a week or so.

Congo Colours: Landscapes and Skyscapes

Well I decided to do a simple post of just landscape (and skyscape) shots from my last three months in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Plenty more where these came from, but they will be emerging in a series of other posts and articles over the coming months. Many of these photos may match the stereotypical image portrayed in the Western mindset of the Congo – the dark, wild terror of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness – however, I’m also hoping a few stereotypes are smashed in the following 50 images.

Goma, North Kivu.

Nyiragongo volcano, North Kivu.

Virunga National Park, North Kivu.

Dungu, Orientale.

UN airport at Dungu, Orientale.

Virunga National Park, North Kivu.

Jeannot Bemba’s Mausoleum in Gemena, Equateur.

Boyambi, Equateur.

Libenge Road, Equateur.

Near Libenge, Equateur.

Doruma, Orientale.

Ubangi River at Libenge, Equateur.

The airport building in Doruma, Orientale.

Lisala, Equateur.

Lisala, Equateur.

Lisala, Equateur.

Cathedral in Lisala, Equateur.

Goma from a UN helicopter, North Kivu.

Mubi, North Kivu.

Congo River at Lisala, Equateur.

Congo River at Lisala, Equateur.

Mutakato, North Kivu.

Kimpese Road, Bas-Congo.

UN truck near Walikale, North Kivu.

Near Kimpese, Bas-Congo.

Mobutu’s abandoned residence in Lisala, Equateur.

Kibua, North Kivu.

Kinshasa, Kinshasa.

Barges on the Congo river, Kinshasa.

Huge storm, somewhere over Kasai Oriental.

Solidified lava flow by Goma, North Kivu.

Bunia, Orientale.

Storm in Dungu, Orientale.

Storm behind St Augustins in Dungu, Orientale.

Hospital in Kimpese, Bas-Congo.

IDP market in Dungu, Orientale.

UN football match in Dungu, Orientale.

Catholic church at an IDP camp in Dungu, Orientale.

Kibua, North Kivu.

Kibua, North Kivu.

Kibua, North Kivu.

Kibua, North Kivu.

Dungu, Orientale.

Kibua, North Kivu.

Kibua, North Kivu.

Peacekeepers at Binyampuli, North Kivu.

Dungu, Orientale.

View returning from Walikale from a UN helicopter, North Kivu.

Nyiragongo volcano, North Kivu.

LRA: IDPs, FARDC, UPDF and other exciting acronyms

Today’s post about Internally Displaced People (IDPs) and other results of the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) being in the Democratic Republic of Congo.

Above: The government denies that the LRA are a serious threat there. When I spoke to a few officials and Commanders of the Congolese Army I’d hear something along the lines of: “There are 8 or 10, maybe as much as 20 but no more. These attacks are just local bandits”.

Above and below: However these ’10 or so bandits’ have caused well over 300,000 people in Orientale province, an area the size of France to flee their villages and set up in clusters around places such as Dungu and Doruma. Sometimes these are not much safer, Doruma has suffered multiple attacks in the past few months where civilans were killed, abducted and food and supplies were looted.

Above: The roof of the hut of a former soldier for the LRA. He was captured at the age of 17 and made to fight for the LRA for over a year. Now he has returned to his family. At 19, he is living in a displaced camp where he is hoping to find a way to get educated.

Above: A man rocks back and forth on his stool, staring unnervingly at the ground. He is mentally handicapped, but according to his sister he has done little else since moving from his village to the IDP camp in Doruma.

Above: A man a woman clear land and burn wood at the edge of an IDP camp in Doruma while their children wait patiently.

Above: Three young men talk about their experiences with the LRA. They were all captured for a short while (1 week, 2 days, and 1 day respectively) in order to carry supplies that were looted from them. In two cases they escaped, and one was let go. “We were made to carry things to their camp. We had no shoes, and our feet were swollen and bleeding, so when they let us go, we just collapsed and slept on the forest floor.”

Above: A man in the IDP camp in Doruma fills his jerry can from the nearby watering hole.

Above and below: IDPs in Doruma and Gangala.

Above: Tengende was working for the NGO Premier d’Urgence and was hitching a lift with one of their food trucks to see his baby son who was ill. They were attacked by the LRA and he was shot in the arm and a bullet just scraped above his right eye. The driver was killed, and the other man in the truck was dragged out of the front seat. Tengende played dead and witnessed the LRA beat his friends head in with a machete. Gasoline had leaked all over the ground and Tengende was lying a in a pool of it. One of the LRA thought they saw him move as they were leaving and checked by poking a bayonet into his neck. “I do not know how, but with God’s will I found the strength not to react”.

The LRA set the petrol alight, and Tengende lay burning until they disappeared. He rolled in the grass and staggered down the road where Congolese soldiers were running towards him. He was taken back to Doruma and treated for burns on his right arm and all over his back. Luckily they were treated early enough so as not to cause long-term damage and they just resemble large skin patches.Premier d’Urgence refused to send him to Dungu to get surgery on his eye because he had not formally requested to go with the truck. He is blind in his right eye. All the LRA took were two sacks of rice.

Above: Catholic church at an IDP camp in Dungu.

Above: USAID provides basic food supplies once a month or so various IDP camps. This food is generally sold or used up after a week.

Above: Esperance, 18 was captured in December 2008. Her father was killed on the same day. She escaped only two months prior to this post, in a UPDF attack on the LRA camp. She was forced to marry one of the commanders, and now lives with her mother and siblings in an IDP camp just outside Dungu. “I can’t go to get water on my own anymore, and even then, only when it’s very close. I’m scared that they’ll take me again, I don’t want to go back to them.”

Above: Esperance watches her younger brothers playing outside their hut.

Above: Despite the fact Esperance is now back safe with her family her mother is still very concerned for her well-being. She is a young woman who has spent over two years among soldiers and slaves, looking to get educated in an IDP camp, and scared to be on her own.

Above: IDPs are crowding market places in their new settlements and looking for different ways to make a living. Their presence is naturally effecting current residents, many of whom do not make as much money as before. This IDP has, for a good price just sold a sack of beans he carried from his village when he was displaced.

Above: This IDP is selling charcoal in the market place. Her husband was killed and two sons captured by the LRA. All around her is evidence of unemployed youth, many of whom have just finished their education.

Above: This IDP is making a living as an ironmonger. His resourcefulness has come in handy and he has made a tool to continually blow air onto his hot coals so that he can heat and forge metal. Sometimes he makes simple things like axe heads, but using these same methods he can make more complex contraptions like shotguns too.

Above: It’s not just IDPs that are trying to scrape money together. This woman in a soldier in the Congolese army (FARDC). The FARDC is infamous for poorly paying it’s troops if at all. She is selling charcoal in her time off just so she can feed her family. Her husband is a policeman who’s recently been transferred here. His story is the same.

The FARDC is now considered to be one of the greater threats in Orientale (well actually not just in Orientale…). Bizarrely, it is an army sent in to provide security by the same government that denies the LRA are a threat. The soldiers have very little will to actually be useful to the local populations they’re based near, and since their first priority (as with most humans) is to make sure they are fed, they have few options but to abuse their power (which is an AK-47 with perhaps one loaded bullet) and bully and threaten people into providing money or food for them. But not only are they just not doing their job, they’re actually a real danger to the societies they’re posted by.

Above and below: With the FARDC’s arrival in Doruma HIV/AIDS prevalence has shot up to 23%. The average in the DRC is 6% (however this is according to the ever so reliable government). Both of these babies were recently born HIV positive. Their mothers are unmarried and didn’t want to say who the fathers were. Medecins Sans Frontieres (MSF) have said that to battle this problem in Doruma would far exceed their budget. At the moment they only have the resources to deal with trypanosomiasis (sleeping sickness).

Above: When attacks first occurred self defence groups (SDGs) were quickly formed by the locals to protect themselves, their families and their crops from murder, abduction and pillaging by the LRA. However the FARDC banned them from doing this (at least alone) when they arrived on the scene. This hasn’t stopped them entirely. It is these local self-defence groups that the government blames for many of the (quite obviously) LRA attacks.

Above: They meet twice a day to discuss what they can do. There are always a few that stay guard around the towns and IDP camps, on the off-chance of an attack. This particular meeting was called because the LRA had been spotted earlier that day just 12km from Doruma.

Above: A few men from the SDG march out in the early evening to track down the recently seen LRA. Since the FARDC refuse to acknowledge the problem and have no motivation, the SDG has little choice. “When we go in we are thinking of our brothers, sisters, and children that have been killed or taken. We go in with anger and revenge. That is what keeps us going.”

Above: The SDG make their own ammunition as well as the shotguns. They can be dangerous, and one shotgun cartridge went off in this mans left hand, taking off the tip of the little finger. However the LRA fear the SDG’s guns, which can kill an elephant and take down 8 men abreast at once due to the spread of the shot. The cartridges are a mixture of lumps of metal and matchstick heads. One former abductee said: “We really feared the self-defence groups. They would put their lives on the line. The FARDC weren’t feared, sometimes we would attack their patrols if they had something we needed.”

Above: Not all members can afford or get the resources to make shotguns.

Above: The main characters of Doruma’s SDG pose in the early evening.

Above: It is not hard to see that motivations like anger and revenge in the minds of untrained men with deadly but dodgy weaponry is going to have consequences somewhere down the line. However MONUSCO (the UN peacekeeping force in the Congo) does little but sit tight in their compounds in relatively secure areas, the UPDF (Ugandan People’s Defence Force looking to kill the LRA leaders) comes and goes with little communication to anyone else, and the FARDC is a detriment to society. These small self-defence groups are brought together just to do something for their people.

Above: The president of Doruma’s SDG (middle) sits back during an evening meeting where it was reported that the LRA had now been spotted just 6 km from Doruma.

Above: The UPDF suddenly showed up the next evening in Doruma, having heard reports the LRA was close by.

Above: The FARDC major had refused to give this UPDF commander (with the map) any information of the recently seen LRA. So when we met up with the commander we brought along the vice-president of the local SDG so he could point out where the LRA had been seen the previous night.

Above: The UPDFs map of Orientale province with red dots to show where the LRA have recently been spotted. Rather different from the mental map the FARDC major tried to give us (no red dots).

Above: The UPDF commander thinks he has a seen a pattern with the sighting and hopes to intercept an LRA group that appear to be heading towards the Central African Republic (CAR) where their leader Joseph Kony is thought to be in hiding.

Above: Generally the UPDF troops were happy to be photographed. This friendly individual called himself BmaxB (I guess you spell it). Apparently this friendliness could have been related to my nationality: “The British are my favourite whites”. The commander even offered me 5 kilos of beans to take home. A rather stark contrast to the FARDC which often just take food from the locals.

Below four photos: Suddenly the order came for the troops to move out. In less than five minutes 95 troops had packed themselves into one truck, in the most dazzling display of military efficiency (though perhaps not discipline) that I have yet seen in the Congo.

Above: And just like that the UPDF disappeared again.

In all my interviews with various former abductees, it seemed that most of them had escaped during UPDF attacks. One boy who had served as an LRA soldier said “At first we feared the UPDF the most because they would kill anyone in the camp, even women and children, just to get to the Ugandan LRA commanders. But now it is just commanders that fear them. Many children escape the LRA during the UPDF attacks.”

Above: This was the closest shot I could get of the FARDC; the bottles left over from the Major having a drink with three officers. I took this photo at 7pm.

The US has now sent in military advisors to help these armies (MONUSCO, UPDF, FARDC). However in my opinion, unless they advise the Congolese government to pay their troops better and on time, the FARDC are going to continue to hold back any real progress in these areas – however MONUSCO and the UPDF change. With November elections looming it seems the government finds it cheaper and easier to deny the matter than spend money defending the lives, rights and homes of some of the poorer individuals in their country.

LRA: Interview with a young abductee

For the past three weeks I have been in Haut-Uele, Orientale province in the northeastern part of the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). It has been plagued by escapees of the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) – a group of Ugandan rebels led by one Joseph Kony. Over 25 years ago this former choir boy formed the group with the plan of overtaking the Ugandan government and ruling by the 10 commandments.

Now dispersed across northern Uganda, the newly-independent South Sudan, Central African Republic  (CAR) and the DRC, they have been causing widespread destruction – massacres, rape, abductions, mutilations, lootings, and caused hundreds of thousands of people to flee within their own country – Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs).

Contact with them is impossible, there are three official armies after them (FARDC – Congolese Army, UPDF – Ugandan People’s Defence Force sent simply to kill/bring back Ugandan rebels, and MONUSCO troops – UN peacekeepers), and no one is even sure of the numbers. I recently spent time with the UPDF – I’ll be posting more about the military roles later, but I thought I’d quickly add a photo of myself with a group of their guys. Compared to the FARDC they were extraordinarily friendly and more than happy to be photographed.

There are a plethora of problems in the situation, many linked to denial by authorities and the general situation of the country, and I will be talking more about them in time, but for this post I will simply post a recent interview with a recent abductee.

His name is Faustin Mboligbihe, meaning “God has heard” in Kisande. He was with the LRA for over a year and is now back with his family in an IDP camp outside the large village of Doruma. I went with Pere Ernest, one of my guides, local experts in the situation and translators in the area. He was not at his hut and his grandmother told us he just goes off without telling anyone. We walked through the settlements for 10 minutes and found him not too far away, playing on his own with a stick.

He agreed to be interviewed and came back to his hut with us. He is eleven years old. He sat partly in the dark, in a ragged t-shirt, turning sharply every now and then to the clink of pots and pans outside. His eyes and face showed no emotion, and it was impossible to read how he felt about the situation.

Pere Ernest conducted the interview – I played no role other than filming and recording. Pere Ernest’s words are in italics, Mboligbihe’s are in bold unless stated otherwise. The translations are as close to literal as makes sense. It is also worth bearing in mind throughout the interview that Mboligbihe is just 11.

Pere Ernest: What’s your name?

Faustin: My name is Faustin Mboligbihe.

How old are you?

I don’t know my age.

Faustin’s mother (from outside the hut): You are eleven.

I am eleven years old.

How did the LRA abduct you?

They abducted me early in the morning, before light.

Where was it?

In the house.

Were you alone?

No we were two.

Did they go with all of you?

No they left the other one.

Which year was this?

The time of growing rice. They went with me and applied their medicine on me. Then we lived with them for a time and then we were attacked by the UPDF. We fought and then after that I stayed with them for a long time and afterwards I came out at Dunde.

Was it in Dunde that they captured you?

No they captured me in Bwere (Bangadi).

How long did you stay with them?

I stayed a long time, but I’ve come out recently.

When you were with them what did you see?

What I saw was they were just killing people.

How were they killing people?

With sticks (like clubs).

How did they do it?

They were hitting their heads with it.

Were other children also beating people’s heads?

Yes.

Since you have come out, what’s coming to your mind?

My head is getting angrier and angrier more often.

How does it get angrier?

When somebody tells me to do something, I just get angry at them.

Do you still do what they ask anyway?

Sometimes I do.

When you came out where did they take you to?

They took me to COOPI (Italian NGO) then they took me to the hospital.

How many weeks did you stay with COOPI?

I didn’t pass one week there.

What did they give you?

They gave me one shot and two t-shirts with a pair of sandals. After that nothing.

In the bush how were you living?

We were eating once a day and once at night.

Where were you getting the food from?

The food was looted.

Were you participating in looting too?

No, them they were looting, us, we were carrying.

Were they many?

I didn’t count them, they abducted me in one group and then to make numbers we joined another group. Another two groups joined us later – four groups. There were many.

You were just wandering in the bush?

Yes.

How were you sleeping?

In the evening we found a place to sleep and when the morning comes we would move on.

The witchcraft they put on you, where did they put it?

They put it on my forehead, in my palms and on my back.

They told you it was for what?

I don’t know.

They didn’t tell you?

Yes.

How did you come out?

I crept away at night.

How?

They had crossed the main road with me and we slept the other side of the road. Then I crept away and came back on the main road.

They didn’t follow you?

No they didn’t follow me because they knew soldiers were around.

As you came back to the main road what did you do?

I was following it Northwards, then I found the FARDC. They took me to Diagbio (a village) and said I should show them where I’d come from. So we went. I passed two days in Diagbio. Then they took me to the (Doruma) airport. I stayed there two days too then they took me to the hospital where I stayed for one week before going back home.

When you came back home do you see anything that you are not happy with?

Nothing.

What do you want to be done for you?

I don’t know.

Are you studying?

No.

Do you want to go back to school?

I would go.

In the bush with the LRA, were there a lot of children? What were they doing?

Just carrying things.

Were they just carrying things without carrying guns?

Some were carrying guns.

And you, were you carrying a gun?

No, just carrying things.

And the children, were they killing people?

Yes, they were killing people. They are telling you to kill, and if you don’t kill, then they will kill you.

How were they killing these people?

They were hitting their heads with the sticks.

And were you seeing it?

Yes, I was.

And you, did you kill?

They asked me to kill. And I killed. If I hadn’t they would have killed me.

<long pause>

They were speaking which language?

Acholi.

Do you understand Acholi?

Yes.

How did they say “good morning” in Acholi?

Tchi.

And “how are you”?

Seneeh.

How do you say “no problem”?

Tie Mabe.

Do you know to speak Acholi?

Yes, I do.

Are you afraid that they will come and kidnap you again?

Yes I am.

What makes you fear most?

When I hear about them I am scared.

Is there anything else you want to tell me?

<pause>

I don’t have soap to wash my clothes.

How much is it?

I don’t know.

OK, thank you for speaking to us.

(Pere Ernest gives him 1000CF – just over 1 USD – to buy soap).

It is also worth noting that Pere Ernest presses the point about speaking Acholi as that is the Ugandan language used by the LRA. You would only know it well (as Mboligbihe does – he can speak it almost fluently we discovered afterwards) if you had spent a good deal of time with them.

Mboligbihe’s family prepare dinner without him. He often just wanders off for long periods of time without saying anything.

Pere Ernest is worried: “He’s dangerous. He’s had no therapy and because he’s already killed at such a young age he needs help coming to terms with that. It needs to be dealt with properly, and at the moment he’s an angry young boy living in an IDP camp where tensions are often high due to their poor standard of living and being far from home. He’s a walking time-bomb, and there’s no-one around that will help him.”

The night I spent in a Congolese Jail…

So last Thursday night I slept in a Congolese jail. It wasn’t part of my photographic schedule or anything, and this isn’t a photographic post. Nope, it was because I was arrested.

Last week I was in Lisala, a beautiful town on the Congo river, photographing the leprosy in the area. I’d expressed interest in photographing some younger leprosy patients and Boske, one of the staff at the TB/Lepre offices there had suggested a village a couple of hours drive outside of Lisala. A combination of events led to me leaving my passport behind in Lisala.

Firstly, I was expecting to be picked up at 8am, but was picked up at 7.30am and had to throw thing in my bag very quickly. It was later, just as we were leaving that I realised I’d left my passport and documents behind. However I didn’t mention this as we were on motorbikes, my driver didn’t speak English, and I thought it wouldn’t matter because we were going into the bush and I often leave my passport at my hotel if I’m just heading out to see a couple of patients. Generally I’m not a naïve traveller, in the last three years across Africa, I’ve never had a problem like this.

After four hours of driving we stopped and my interpreter informed me that we would stay the night near where the village is. I pointed out that as no one had told me about this, I hadn’t packed any overnight clothes and was hoping to do some work this evening in my hotel. It was a drawback, but it is the sort of poor communication I’ve come to expect at times in Africa.

Anyway, the day went quite well, I photographed the patients and then we went to the town for a drink and some food. The town is Bumba, the next major port down from Lisala on the Congo and over 150km away. Naturally, the moment I got off the motorbike security came up to ask to see my passport. “It’s at my hotel in Lisala”.

That didn’t go down very well. They demanded to see the passport so the ALM staff I was with took me into the bar away from the security. So they went and got the ‘chief’, the ‘big man’, who in this story is a very corrupt and selfish man with the single aim of pocketing large amounts of money from anybody that looks like they might own a wallet (white man = money of course). He was tall, wore expensive black shades, a glitzy gold watch, white pointy shoes, white trouser and a tight white shirt that accentuated his arms and his proud little pot belly, just to show that he was important enough to get other people to his hard work.

I was taken to the station, but reassured by those with me that everything would be fine. As a foreigner, not carrying my passport and documents (which are immensely unnecessarily complicated) is “an infringement”.

Negotiations didn’t go well. I’m not entirely sure what happened as my interpreter tended to wander off every now and then and was pretty useless at translating anyway, preferring to respond to my enquiries about the heated conversations with reassurances rather than telling me what was being said. Anyway suddenly the chief had had enough and ordered his men to drag me off. Noone had said it, but there was only one place they would be dragging me off to.

The ALM staff protested and tried to drag me in the other direction, which I don’t think was the most sensible action. The police here enjoy any chance to exercise their power over others and clearly a tug of war contest was another opportunity.  Me trying to explain had done no good… I’m pretty sure my interpreter never got my calm words across, and I don’t think the ‘chief’ really cared anyway. He had a chance to exercise a bit of power. I walked with the guards surrounding me through the town to the prison, the chief riding past slowly on his motorbike, careful to remind me of what an arse he was.

I was still being reassured that I wouldn’t go to prison by my interpreter, but my faith in his word was waning somewhat. It was waned after a total of about two hours from the initial arrest when in the dark I was told to step into the prison, to ‘have seat’ for ‘my protection’.

It was a small, old brick complex, with two sets of iron gates leading to a courtyard where a few armed police in loose uniform sat smoking around a fire. I was led past to a slightly ramshackle door and shown my cell. I was quite complacent initially, it was large, there was no one else in it, it had gently sloping sides with a sleeping mat on one side. The guard flashed his torch at it and I went and laid down. I thought; this isn’t so bad. I’m not hungry or thirsty, my camera (main priority of course) is safe, and I have a phone with me that even has a light on it.

That latter comforting thought was dashed when the guard came in 5 minutes later demanding my phone. Obviously I couldn’t have expected to keep it and told him in French to give it my friends outside, who I could still here arguing. Ah well. I lay back down again. I hear the arguments stop outside and it seemed like the staff had gone away for the moment – I was confident they would be doing everything they could to help me out, so I wasn’t worried. A few minutes after they’d left the guards opened my cell and called me over once again. I approached cautiously. They started pointing making demanding noises in French.

It was at this point that real worry started to crawl all over my body. A young man not in a uniform was trying to help me and explain what they wanted, there were a lot of people, most in plain clothes laughing and demanding, but the guard had a malicious look that was instantly obvious even from behind his torchlight.

Clearly he wanted ‘a gift’, l’argent was mention a few times, but I showed them that I had nothing on me. Now in my back pocket I had my memory card wallet which I could not afford to lose at any cost. They started demanding a gift, pointing at my shorts. At one point I feared the worst and did my best to express my shock and horror at what they might be implying. Luckily their reaction of equal shock and surprise confirmed they were just looking for something they could take home with them. He indicated my belt and my boots. Now my belt I didn’t mind losing, but my walking I really didn’t want to, they were extremely useful and had lasted very well for about 7 years. I thought that if I argued for both the items I could get away with just giving up the belt. I argued quite hard, trying to explain in my broken French that I was a missionaire and trying to help their country without pay. I hate referring to myself as a missionary – I don’t consider myself one at all, but since I was working at the moment for free for American Leprosy Missions, I hoped I could get off lightly. Anyway, it didn’t work. I understood that the guard was saying it was his ‘right’ to have my belt and shoes.

Clearly the small crowd was starting to get irritated at my stubbornness and suddenly became very threatening. One picked up a rock and made gestures to indicate quite how serious he was. Equally one of the boys hit me on the head with a water bottle and they suddenly dragged my by the shirt and shorts outside the cell. I was getting a bit panicky and thought it was probably ok to lose my cool a bit. I slowly took off the belt and the guard grabbed it and yanked it out of my shorts. He then pointed his gun at my shoes, but I didn’t want to give them up still and pleaded not to, trying to inch back towards my cell. At that point one of the guards that had stayed back a bit had lost it with this arrogant white man and smashed his rifle against the war inches from head and started kicking my with his boots holding my shirt and punching me in the side, deafening me in the ear. Adrenaline surged through my body and I shakily tried to undo my laces as he kicked my hand shouting God knows what down onto my head. He tore them away from me and then both guard were demanding that give them my socks as well. I pulled them off and, backed into my cell, by now pretty terrified

The door slammed darkness upon me and I stood shaking for a moment, before remembering my memory cards and tucking them behind the elastic of my boxer shorts.

I lay down on the straw mat on my side, half trying to fathom how it had got to this, and half trying to think of something positive, doing neither successfully in the process. My heart sunk as the door was opened once again and the guards gestured me over. I walked slowly, showing them I was clearly scared and feared them and that they had won. They said nothing and gestured me into a door next door.

It was a cell maybe 15 by 10 feet, a small blue bucket in the corner and 7 other prisoners lying tightly next to each other on two small mats. They looked at me with quiet surprise and I sensed no danger there. The door padlocked behind me. I sat on the concrete floor as they slowly sat up, illuminated by a dim candle in the corner. I told them I was English and only spoke a little French. They were all young, maybe my age, except for an older man who then said: “You speak English? I speak English”. I still can’t quite believe my luck – his English wasn’t excellent, but I could communicate with them at least. I told them why I was there and their was a soft, confused surprise to their reaction. I wasn’t sure if they believed me or that they sympathised with my situation. I think it was the latter, and they had a little makemba (cassava bread) and peanuts that they offered me a share of. I was grateful for the gesture, but the whole experience with the guards had left me without an appetite. I tried to start up a bit of conversation and introduce some lightness to the evening. I asked Jean-Peter, the man who spoke English) why he was here. He laughed in an easy but unthreatening way and confessed ‘very bad things’. I smiled back and pushed him a little more, saying I was just interested. “I beat a woman for doing bad things” he said. What the bad things were I don’t know, but I didn’t enquire to the details, or what he meant when he said beat. It sounded like he probably deserved to be there. While trying to keep the atmosphere light I told him that wasn’t a good thing he did, and ended up sounding a bit like Borat when he told the village rapist “naughty, naughty” while waggling a finger.

I explained the guards had taken everything I had, including my boots and belt, but looking around these boys and men mostly had just thin, worn trousers. Some had a shirt, but I doubt any of them had ever worn boots in their lives. I felt guilty for trying to get a bit of sympathy. I’d enquired as to why others were here, a couple of the boys said something about owing debts, but others didn’t bother answering. Some of them probably shouldn’t be there, some of them probably should. I felt safe with them though. They even shifted aside to give me half a mat and one laid his shirt down on the floor so I didn’t have to take mine off and get bitten by mosquitoes.

The door opened once more and this time a familiar voice; Emmanuel, my translator. He invited me out and I immediately pushed my memory cards into his hands and told him to keep those on him. I gushed out what the guards had done and that they had my shoes, socks and belt. He reacted in disgust and the guards were looking away. He said he would get them back and would I like anything to eat. I wasn’t hungry, but thought it would be good to share some food with the other prisoners and asked unashamedly for lots of food and water

He said he would be back and I retreated into the cell, hoping he could negotiate my shoes back. He came back an hour of so later and I was taken outside by the fire to sit by him and one of the ALM nurses. He told me the guards hadn’t realised I was a missionary, and asked forgiveness for how they had treated me. I looked over at them and they looked guilty, but I think more for the fact they had or might get in trouble rather than regret. Nevertheless I asked him to tell them they were forgiven and that they should never treat anyone that way. It was received silently and one of them mumbled something about really regretting it.

Emmanuel handed my shoes, socks and belt over along with some bread, a tin of sardines and a bottle of water. I pushed the shoes etc back into his hands and said firmly that I wanted him to take them because I still didn’t trust the guards not to try and take tem for themselves. He didn’t quite understand my anxiety, but recognised my tone. The guards then said they wanted me to sleep somewhere better, away from the other people. I insisted I stayed with the others in the cell, as well as feeling safer from the guards, I still intended to give them my food, which I had no desire to eat.

Both Emmanuel and the guards were surprised that I wanted to go back in my cell without my shoes and without eating away from the others, but my stubbornness had jumped back into action and I walked back to the cell, gesturing that it needed to be unlocked. I shared the food out which was hungrily wolfed down by all and lay down to the start of what is one of the longest nights I’ve ever had

I didn’t sleep at all. It was very uncomfortable. The wall smelt exactly how you might expect the wall of a cell with just small bucket in to smell. The smell hung thickly in my nostrils for a while until I no longer noticed it. I tried to think of something positive back home or of anything that might distract me, but I kept on being shocked back into reality as mosquitoes began to dig into my legs, feet and arms or hummed past my ear. A chorus of snores began, changing pitch and rhythm every hour as bodies shifted. This was uncomfortable to me, but for the others, they sleep on mats like this anyway

The minutes crawled by and without any sense of time I kept hoping to see a glimmer of light through the two arrow-thin slits in the wall, breaking the blackness in the room. The occasional cockroach would brush past my hair and I could hear mice scampering along the wall

It seemed like it had been light for ages when they finally opened the dor to let me out, but when I asked, it was only 6 o’clock. Emmanuel came along a couple of hours later, and said Dr Jacques (who is at a leprosy conference in Senegal) had been told and my passport was being sent to Bumba from Lisala.

At around 10 I was taken to the ‘chiefs’ bureau and they said they needed to ask me a few questions and write down my answers. I didn’t point out that they could have done this before they put me in Jail. It also emerged that one of the doctors had insulted the police and the chief while they arrested me and they probably wouldn’t have put me in prison if he hadn’t done that. It didn’t matter, it was all in the past now

The statement took ages, it was handwritten very slowly and carefully, they took all my basic information and asked if I knew why I went to prison etc. I played along and said I hadn’t realised it was an infringement of the law, but I know that now. They pressed me about my ‘real mission’ here, as though I was suddenly going to confess I was trying to restart the slave trade, or was a diamond smuggler. They certainly couldn’t understand why I was working for free, and why I was remotely interested in photographing leprosy. They were genuinely perplexed by it and I think there suspicion soon developed into one of thinking I was mad not to want money for my work.

Anyway, after a few hours he was insistent that he needed something for my infringement, and that it was a serious offence and so would cost me $250-300. The fact he didn’t give me an exact number immediately gave away the fact it wasn’t a government fine, or at least some of it wasn’t

By 2pm my passport still hadn’t shown up and I was getting worried all over again. None of us had that sort of money with us and the dollars I had with my passport had been left in my room by all accounts. (It was the nuns that searched my room for it). The ‘chief’ still insisted that the damage was done and the infringement had been made and whether I could prove my story or not, I still had to pay.

I feared I would be put into the prison again, more afraid that I wouldn’t be able to carry on with the work I was doing – that was what was really important. I think the fact I hadn’t slept or eaten in 36 hours probably didn’t help too. Eventually after a lot of reassurances that I didn’t particularly believe the man arrived with my passport. It turned out Dr Jacques, despite being in Senegal had pulled out all the stops and sent the Security chief of the district to my rescue. He took me into the ‘chiefs’ office, sent out Emmanuel so I wouldn’t understand anything and negotiated my release, which after another hour was eventually granted.

The relief I felt was enormous. The pathetic little ‘big man chief’ who had arrested me in the first place told me I should carry my passport at all times and that if I should ever become well-known in my country I should remember them. I told him that not to worry, I’m never going to forget.

We finally left around 24 hours later. I had got away without loosing anything or being seriously hurt. Just an empty stomach, a great deal of fatigue and a story that would make up an extremely long post on my blog…

I still love the Congo. I’ve just learnt the hard way that it doesn’t like it when you don’t play by its rules. I’m certainly going to keep my passport on me everywhere I go now, no exceptions.

Sorry about the lack of photograph – I felt it wasn’t wise to get my camera out after being released and start snapping away.

Oh, and I found out a couple of days later that the reason I’d been released was because the leprosy doctor in Lisala had wired the chief $200.

The problem with Pygmies

As part of my project on leprosy in the DRC I arranged with Dr Jacques (my amusing, capable, half-Congolese-but-fully-Congolese host) to go to Libenge, a town on the Ubangi river that separates the DRC from Central African Republic and the Republic of Congo. Originally when the capital of the Belgian Congo (now DRC) was being debated it was between Libenge and Kinshasa. I think Libenge is the closest to Belgium in terms of flights, and as such I believe is home to DRC’s first airport.

Anyway, leprosy is endemic in the area and I was looking forward to meeting a variety of different patients on the way there as well as in the surrounding areas. My trips either way were, despite the long, bumpy, 6 hours of red, drunken, dirt road pretty fruitful in terms of the stories I heard and the patients I saw. However the full day I had in and around Libenge was unsuccessful photographically, so I haven’t got the array of shots I was hoping for in this post. I’ll explain.

The thing I was most excited about was meeting pygmies. My previous pygmy knowledge went something like this:

They are shorter than most humans. They live in the bush.

I couldn’t remember anything more from the episode I’d seen two years ago where that guy went around different remote tribes in the world trying to fit in and ended up losing loads of weight having taken their local medication/brews and being very sick in the process.

I was right about one of those things. They are shorter than most human beings, averaging less than 5 feet.

I knew that there were four people in the community I was visiting that had previously had leprosy:

• Bishop, a nervous young boy around 13 or 14.
• Gobi, a single mother in her late thirties.
• Mado, an elderly, but as it turned out fiery woman.
• And Monyabo, an elderly man with a kindly smile and a quiet understanding it seemed.

At first I just sat down with Bishop. He was terrified of me and said nothing. I sat next to him, slightly dwarfing him, on the low straw bed in the hut that barely counted as an abandoned shack. A few sticks, and bits of straw with gaps occasionally filled with mud daub I can’t imagine it provided much shelter during the frequent storms – indeed the similarly built and sized Catholic church had fallen down in the last storm. Jacques translated what his marginally taller, thin and seemingly pregnant mother told us about this being his first encounter with a white man. So I moved to the floor and did my best to smile in a non-threatening way from behind my increasingly bushy beard, even scratching a puppy which staggered out from under the bed, which Bishop picked up. I could visualise a few friends back home squealing in adoration at the sight two feet in front of me. But this is DRC and naturally, it will either die within a few weeks, or be eaten if it doesn’t become painfully thin. Dog meat is still meat.

So I interviewed him/his mother, every now and then shooing away the nosy children that had nothing better to do (literally) than to gather at the door and stare at the white man. Bishop’s leprosy was diagnosed quickly as a result of the awareness work that ALM have been doing in the area (another pleasing display of the competence of Jacques and his team across this vast northern-equatorial province). He was put in the MDT and now appears to have made a full recovery. He of course still suffers stigma from it – neighbours make fun of him and the family are ridiculed for being ‘affected by leprosy’. Their community is not large… and this is not easy to live with for a very young teenager.

As a continuation of the commitment to help those currently and previously afflicted with leprosy, ALM has paid for his school fees. However we quickly learnt he had dropped out of school because he didn’t like it. I found this surprising – most children I meet on this continent rave about going to school – they know learning is their doorway to a better life. I’ve found this basic wisdom pretty common across most of my travels in Africa. Jacques suggested to him that it was worth returning to school, and one day he may have a chance to get a better house and more food for his family. He agreed silently – presumably terrified of giving a different answer. I didn’t believe we were getting very far.

I moved on to interview Gobi.

Gobi is probably one of the poorest people I’ve ever met. She got leprosy at a young age and it has affected her hands so she can no longer grip a machete properly (pretty essential for farming here), and she has lost most of her toes. Her stigma means she’s never been married, but she has a daughter, Bea, a bit younger than Bishop. Apparently her family, realising no one would ever take her brought a man to sleep with her to get her pregnant.

She has had no education, very few people to look after her and only her close family will speak with her. She lives with her daughter in a minute shack, again mainly just sticks lightly tied together with grass and looking like it would barely stand up if someone leaned on it (which someone did, dislodging a stick).  She owns two pots for cooking and a large rag as her clothes. The clothes she was wearing were borrowed from her sister; she hurriedly pulled them on when we arrived. “I still thank God though”, she explains. “I am suffering but I am still alive. I just ask that he may provide daily food”.

Mado and Monyabo, the other previously leprosy-affected patients are sitting next to her and start to chip in. A comment from Gobi that her daughter also doesn’t want to attend school a moment later and Jacques’ disturbed reaction provokes enthusiastic explanation of their situation, and the problems of Pygmies.

During colonisation, a white Belgian colonialist persuaded this Pygmy community to move away from their hunter-gatherer lifestyle deep in the bush (still maintained today by some tribes) and move near to Libenge where a town was growing. It seems like he meant the best for them.

They moved, but their community was located quite far out of the town still and they suffered ridicule from the locals – they were recognised and set aside as different, inferior. Kept poorly educated, underpaid when allowed to work and basically kept as slaves. Nothing has changed in that respect until this day it seems. Their regard as inferior humans is reminiscent of racism across the world, the Hutus and Tutsis coming to my mind first, and their treatment is not unlike that of the way migrants in many western countries are treated, taken advantage of, underpaid and not given the time of day for respect or understanding.

None of the children in the community attend school because they are bullied for being pygmies and poor (life is relative after all). Mado was particularly passionate about this: “Stones are thrown at our children and they are spat at. They have poor clothes and shoes and are laughed at because of it.” It is no wonder this community is so poor, its being shunned by society has sent it into cycle of poverty with no-one offering a chance of an opening.

We were beginning to attract interest from other members of the village that had heard of our presence and come back from their work in the fields…

Mado had started to get irate when Jacques said we have not come to give them money. I calmly explained with Jacques’ help that we are here only to collect stories for ALM. They show these stories and photos to Americans so that they may donate money so ALM can continue to help people like them. We could not promise them anything on this trip bar that the community health officer that has helped them before will continue to give his best efforts.

I’m always careful not to give false hope – more often than not, once I’ve explained these reasons via a translator people readily agree to be part of this process. At first it seemed like that in this case, and they agreed to have a photo outside Gobi’s shack. Afterwards I was hoping to spend a few hours photographing their lives generally. (Ideally I’d want a couple of return trips, but when you’re photographing projects across 400km connected only by roads kneaded by rain there’s not much time for those kinds of luxuries).

Jacques had said we’d give Gobi, Mado, Monyabo and Bishop’s mother a sack of salt to share, and I think it was around then that the arguments with other villagers started. Why are you giving it to them and not us? What have you brought us? Why is it you white men come but never give anything back?

It seems that in recent times they’ve had white doctors visit, get stories and take photos, with the promise that they’ll build a hospital or bring money the next day. Whether this is entirely accurate or not I don’t know, but I’ve no doubt there is truth there, and unfortunately in this case, not a good outcome.  I hesitate to add that ALM has not been among these people – I’m the first white person from ALM to visit this community.

I wanted to explain to the chief who had shouted at Jacques and the community health officer; he’d demanded salt for himself. I couldn’t understand the Lingala they were speaking and was slightly surprised when Jacques suggested we get moving, a noted urgency in his tone. I said (in my naïve white liberal way of thinking any situation can be solved by talking) that I should really go after the chief and explain what I had to the three leprosy-affected. But Jacques was quite insistent and I submitted. Most of the villagers were now shouting at us as we piled back into the Toyota landcruiser. It hadn’t got violent but Jacques and the health officer assured me it was looking to turn that way if we didn’t head right away.

I sat in the back of the landcruiser as it went out of the village, disappointed and upset. It didn’t help that we still had the salt we had promised our patients. I was angry with the chief for denying Gobi and the others a small something to make their life easier even for a short while. But I’d missed a trick, born, as with many of these misunderstandings, out of ignorance.

Pygmies have, in their society a strong culture of sharing. You give something to one of them, then you give it to all of them. ALM cannot use their resources to please the whole village – they deal with those who have the additional burden of leprosy, helping them in different ways to have the same chances as those that haven’t suffered this disease. Giving to a whole village, however great the need is denying the leprosy afflicted elsewhere. Us giving salt in front of so many people to just four people is an insult. It was Mado that threw it in the back of our vehicle as we left.

“It goes further than that” Jacques explained. “When we gave them the treatment I did it in private in their homes. I gave the MDT pills to the patient, and then multivitamins or whatever harmless pills I could find to the rest of the family. Previously the whole family has shared out the Multi-Drug Therapy, despite it being useless to the others.” Even though this culture of sharing, in my opinion has an enormous amount of benefits and I think is something generally missing from every day Western lifestyles, cultures and even policies, it appears to have gone beyond common sense in this place. Perhaps through lack of education, I don’t know.

But it was truly upsetting seeing that not only is this a stigmatized community, but those with leprosy are then stigmatized within it, and the cultural practices of Pygmies have prevented us from helping them, at least on this occasion. I couldn’t get the photos I’d planned, and as someone who’s contribution ‘to the cause’ as it were is to get photographic evidence of the need/the good work/the stories/whatever, I felt pretty useless.

We visited a health centre next for Jacques to confirm a few leprosy cases. I still had a very sour taste in my mouth – not helped when Jacques noticed they had been reusing needles there. Needless to say he scolded the health officer in charge explaining it is better not to use them at all than to reuse them in an area where HIV prevalence is so high. I won’t go into the sexual practices and forced prostitution of this region in this post…

One of the cases was a pygmy boy and his father. His father was already a confirmed case, but the boy was confirmed then and these by Dr Jacques, with evidence on his legs already showing cuts and infections he could not feel. He was put straight on the MDT and ALM gave them some shoes for protection. As they went away a few young men in the (now expected) small gathering jeered and shouted at them, laughing. It was the all too familiar bullying you see as standard in schools. “They are asking why we gave pygmies shoes when they are not true human beings” Jacques said gravely.

It makes my blood boil. The rest of the day was thoroughly unsuccessful and the team seemed quite tired from the day’s events. I had no impetus to do any more work that day. I asked Jacques if any NGO or missionaries were doing anything to break down this stigma. No-one at all.

Life for me, has since become less frustrating, but this problem with Pygmies remains, and no one is doing anything about it.