Virunga.
This story was unplanned.
With the direction I’ve wanted to take my recent Stories from the Bush, mixing the Arts (in the broad sense of the word) with Conservation, my recent stories haven take a little longer to plan. They involve some research too, and finding ways to make the read worth your while.
But last week something happened, something that has sadly become almost expected and unsurprising. Every terror attack on Virunga always gives me great sadness, probably because of personal ties to the park, but especially because it is a sentinel for the protection of biodiversity. If we can’t save Virunga, then many other parks in sensitive areas are at risk of crumbling.
I wanted to pay a tribute, and in my own way, pay my respects to the brave men of Virunga who dedicate their life to a mission some would say is completely mad. It is so profoundly Camusian*, so profoundly beautiful to see their refusal to give in to what could be an easier yes to corruption, to violence, to rape, to theft, the murder, to terrorism - to give up. Instead, they fight for the justice the Congolese people deserve, the survival of the last mountain gorillas and other magnificent species Virunga is home to, the preservation of one of the planet’s lungs…and for the respect of law. To what makes us human. The ICCN’s (Congolese Institute for the Conservation of Nature) only mission is, somewhat tragically given the levels of governance in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, to enforce the nation’s constitution, and this is inclusive of the safeguarding of natural heritage areas.
These men are murdered because they represent justice, virtue and law.
This last attack pained me in many ways, and it took a while for me to figure out what to do with the grief. It was the most violent attack in the park’s history, and I won’t go into too much detail here, for there are many accounts elsewhere of what happened - instead I’d like to share a story.
It so happens that one of the men in the Compagnie Golf Division that got slaughtered by Hutu rebels, was a friend of mine. After each terror event against Virunga, I’d send a quick WhatsApp “sawa sana?” (are you ok), sometimes in Swahili, sometimes in French, just a check. We’d talk about it, fear, his family, the situation. This time was no different, except the message was never delivered. And then Virunga’s second press release statement came out, and my heart stopped as I recognised the name on the list. Disbelievingly. Maybe it was another Jean-Louis. But no, the age, the surname. It was all there.
I met Jean-Louis during the final stretch of my trip to Virunga. The only part of my adventure I’d never written about, but that i’d always told myself I’d get to, eventually. So 2.5 years later, in memory of a determined, cheeky, funny, kind, talented, brave man, it’s the right time to do it. Virunga means “volcanoes” in Kinyarwanda - another way for this story of the volcano to find a bit of meaning.
16th August 2017 - The Ascent.
I was particularly excited for this hike. One of Africa’s most active volcanoes, rising above the lush blue-green haze of the Virunga forest, the eclectic yet ashen city that was Goma, and the seemingly never-ending Lake Kivu.
I remember that trip and every single detail of it like it was yesterday. Waking up in the comfortable bed of Mikeno Lodge’s simple yet spacious and welcoming little cottage, eager for some breakfast with an array of different species of monkeys jumping from tree to tree, and calling out to one another. the bristling of leaves as they shook the branches, as they coursed each other and as they sneakily tried to approach the breakfast table.
There’s something about always getting up earlier than necessary in Africa, beating other guests and quietly observing the day awaken. The equatorial belt seldom has great clear, cloudless skies, and so the sunrise is not always visibly pink and orange like in the plains of the East, or the mountains of the South, yet this has its own mystique. The different animals letting the world know they’ve emerged into consciousness, echoing in unison around the forest - for Mikeno is at slight altitude, and its main deck overlooks the beautiful blue-green expanse that is Virunga. This contrasts starkly against the white equatorial sky, and birds flying around me seem to come straight from a vintage movie. Black silhouettes soaring high and musing beautiful chants. The sort of thing that’s easier to appreciate with no one around.
My daydreaming came to and end with a hearty breakfast (those Congolese avocados are really something… I’ve ranted about them far and wide) before we set off towards the outpost at the foot of Mt Nyiragongo. I’d rented a hiking pack (with sleeping bag, thick jacket and warm socks) from the lodge, and was sorted and ready to go. It was maybe at roughly an hour’s drive; we were heading back towards Goma and its border with Gisenyi (Rwanda).
Virunga used to be named The Albert National Park, and was founded in 1925 - one of Africa’s oldest heritage sites. The signpost indicating we’d arrived on location is almost a landmark in itself - worn down, ancient, bearing the name of Virung’s history…but equally its resilience. A signpost is usually relatively forgettable; its subject tends to be the center of our attention. But you see, this battered ‘Albert National Park’ sign is ridden with bullet holes from past armed conflict. The post stands there, humble, simple and worn, yet eerily so in the relatively dark, white light of the sky. We’re close enough to the volcano to see, for a split second, through the thick clouds enshrouding the mountains, hanging in the humid air. The moto mlima [hot mountain] is fuming some bright smoke that makes the white sky look greyer and duller than ever. The light may be dim, but the nature is lush around us, and our spirits are high, excited for the trek ahead.
It was there the we met our two rangers (we were a total of 24 hikers, a rare full house - max capacity was reached): Papi (his nickname, though I don’t recall him giving us his real name), and Jean-Louis, both grinning behind their Ak-47s at this small group of hikers ready for a 5-6 hour climb.
My right knee had been a tweaking a bit for a few days, so Jean-Louis indicated a place where I could get a locally made walking pole. I named it my volcano stick, and felt like Rafiki (or maybe some sort of Goddess of the Rains - something slightly sexier than a slightly jumpy Disney mandrill, maybe?) and I have to admit, that pole is quite enchanting. It has local symbols carved all the way down its beautiful 1m body (notice I speak in the present - I managed to convince relevant airport authorities that it needed to fly home with me…).
The jungle was tall, full of different species of flowers, trees, mosses, birds and insects. In the distance, some shrill screams coming from maybe 1km away to our left - my heart skipped a beat -chimps! And clearly a lot of them. It was short-lived however, as they seemed to be travelling fast. Their battle cries echoed all around us, and I couldn’t hold back a slight shiver….chimpanzees can be a little intimidating after all. We could only see the patches of forest rustle as they progressed away from us.
Soon enough we reached the first checkpoint, indulging in homemade Congolese biscuits and peanuts, laughing with the rangers who, it seemed, were never fully relaxed. Their broad smiles reached their kind and determined eyes, but the alertness was ever present. Checkpoint two was reached 90 minutes later (and the ‘public toilets’ - we smelled them before seeing them, that much was certain). This second stage was beautiful, and we could clearly see where the 2002 eruption had burst out from. Gigantic lava corridors emerged from what must have been a reservoir and a leaking point from the main lava pit. Fascinating to even consider that we were so close to such powerful, hot forces, just beneath out feet. For in fact, we were stepping on the dried lava from the previous eruption.
It seems boots rarely recover from the gruelling hike. The jagged, unstable lave rocks that are the path scrape at the shoes, clinging and wearing the soles faster than one can climb. The higher we go, the smaller and looser the rocks are, and finding ones footing is not always easy. Thankfully, my trusty volcano stick and the encouraging voices of our rangers, without forgetting the anticipation of the hot pit awaiting us at the top made everything much easier.
Truth be told, I thoroughly enjoyed climbing up. There’s something entirely touching about getting to know the rangers and porters (it’s always recommended to employ one for the hike - they carry our day packs in exchange for a 10$ salary that represents a considerable amount for them to feed their families), whilst getting higher and higher, watching the scenery change from lush forest to phallic like plants, getting above the clouds, feeling the air get colder and purer… Hiking has always been a source of meditation, away from the noise and the rush. Altitude sickness may be an issue for some, but the ascent is slow, “pole pole” as the rangers say in Swahili [slowly] - Jean-Louis and Papi continuously encircle us, zigzagging up, down and around our small group, like cautious sentinels keeping a close guard over innocent herds of sheep.
Some of us would need a bit of time, and we advanced together, maybe secretly relieved when we had to pause for others to catch their breath. Checkpoint 3 was reached an hour later, before we entered a new rainforest, which had grown after the 1977 Nyiragongo eruption - a fascinating scene to witness, after having had shorter vegetation accompany us for some time now.
The final checkpoint was very close to the top - there was little to no vegetation, the putrid smell of sulphur was gently starting to make its way to our nostrils, and the air was thin. Heavy rainclouds loomed around us, menacingly, and one look at the other hikers’ faces told me we were all silently praying to reach the crater -only 200m away from us…but at an incline that, given its almost vertical angle (no joke, this thing was steep) would take about 45mins- before the heavens unleashed their godly waters upon us. Equatorial rains are no laughing matter…powerfully invigorating to not say drenching and hypothermia inducing at 1º celsius.
Our rangers were thinking the same - and the eagerly awaited break was turned into a short pause. It was a wobbly ascent, as the rocks were unstable and would sometimes collapse under the pressure of our steps. We were enshrouded by a soft mist, probably the fumes from the lava lake admixed with the rain clouds. The higher we rose, the more the darkened rim became apparent through the thick air. Occasionally, I’d look down, sometimes just when the clouds thinned, revealing Goma, lake Kivu in the distance, and the lush slopes of the volcano. The sun glowed red through the clouds, nothing like I’d ever seen before. It was only around 3pm…
Which is why when we reached the top, the crater looked slightly anti-climatic, at first sight. Smoke coming from what looked like very dry, dullish blue rock. ‘Wait till the sun sets’ Jean-Louis tells me with a wink.
There are 12 ‘cabins’ on the rim, some more tedious to reach than others (the incline is still extremely steep, and the rocks small and floating. Let’s just say you didn’t really want to forget something in your cabin if you’d just made your way out). They were very simple structures, each with a mattress inside. The wind howled against the doors, and it was imperative to close them to avoid the hangings giving way. They blocked the wind but the cold air and smell still seeped through, and I was more thankful than ever for the the layers in my bag. I was sharing my cabin with an English man a few years my elder; our conversation was very limited and all I could think of was setting my tripod up top. Leaving him to his business, I took tripod, lenses and camera out and set everything up. No heavy rains yet, occasional droplets, but a nice cup of tea kindly set up under the shelter of small shack was more than welcome. We waited for the day to sleep, the crater glowing more and more red, its jagged lines prancing with hot light. The molten lava was getting more visible, and oozed around the pit in a sensually tantalising and hypnotic dance.
The rim is about 2k around, and I would gladly have gone exploring, but horizontal tracks were a thing for the mortals below, and my footing is about as sure as bambi’s on ice. Instead, I found a spot slightly away from camp, dug my tripod amidst the rocks, and set up the camera. Slow shutter, telephoto, wide angle…the creative possibilities were endless. It was every changing, and tearing one’s eyes away was proving to be challenging. Some heavy raindrops started to splash against me, but it was short-lived and sparse.
Dinner was greeted like a loving mother: some simple yet delicious pork over a grill on the fire with rice and steamed veg - and a hot soup especially helped our tired bodies recover from the strong winds, pulling at us from every direction.
Most of us, it seemed, were unsure what to do - how to spend the evening, when to go to bed and rest. It was nightfall now, and the crater revealed its true, fiery glory. Africa’s most active volcano, continuously erupting with miniature flows in its own mouth, had welcome us around the pit.
Sometimes it was completely covered in thick bright orange smoke, sometimes the rest of the world was revealed around us, Goma’s small lights shone in the distance, making us remember we had not left Earth. What a dangerously beautiful jewel Nyiragongo is. A promise of fertility, a curse and blessing - for Virunga’s mineral-rich soil is much sought after. Poor farmers and livelihoods demanding their share of riches, that is refused to them on the basis of international natural heritage. Where is the justice, on would ask. And then we remember, we remember Virunga’s glorious efforts to make the park sustainable for communities, for it to generate income, electricity, education, healthcare…and ownership. For when the rangers speak to us, its “our park, our gorillas, our nature we must protect, like our ancestors did, and like our children will too”. The pride and the sense of duty is indistinguishable from their uniform. Yet their mission is to spread this notion of ownership to every single individual residing and relying on Virunga.
I was hypnotised by the fire raging below me. I could not feel the warmth, maybe occasionally when the winds sent it my way, though I smelt it before feeling it. The familiar sent of rotten eggs.
Assuredly, it would be safe to say Papi and Jean-Louis contributed to one of the most exhilarating nights of each hiker’s life. I pocketed a few lava rocks with me, placing one that had been given to me by a stranger become a friend - he had tasked me to put a rock from the very same place back on the top. We had never met, yet the day we did, the mission was mine. I had no choice to go, and I thank him to this day for the precious advice he gave me as I planned my trip.
Fatigue got the better of me after a few hours, however, and come midnight I made my way to the cabin. My neighbour was already asleep, and changing into my sleeping bag discretely, was not possible for my clumsy self. Ah well, I’m sure none of us slept well that night anyway.
It took me about 2 hours, and maybe a bit of sleep, to realise I would not be getting much of it, so I (not so silently, but I really tried, I promise) got my equipment out again, and sat on the rim. I was the only one up, apart from the rangers in the shack, quietly speaking in the shelter below, and propped myself against some larger rocks. A thick cloud covered the pit, but somehow it was warmer, gentler than earlier. I was lost in the moment, eyes gazing, unfocused, at the tango of fumes and smoke. I heard some rocks move behind me - after how long I could no say - and Ethan came out to join me. A private guide, Ethan knows Virunga and her men well. He travels here every so often, bringing clients out on private tours. This must be his 6th ascent, and yet he never gets bored of it. We both sat in a comfortable silence - something so rare these days.
The hours flew by. Soon, it was 5am, and Homer’s eternal and infinite verses in the Odyssey are so relevant here - “When early-born rosy-fingered Dawn appeared”…the crater turned a royal blue, getting paler as the skies lightened. The heavens were pink, and so too was the lava plume. Pastel oranges, deep pink, soft blue hues danced together in unison as the day broke. What a dramatic change from the glowing hot red, fascinating yet eerily menacing pit below.
By 6am, we had started our descent - the more treacherous part, for me. If going up is no problem, coming down usually requires me to use my hands and feet, almost climbing and crawling down, spreading my center of gravity across my entire body. But we made it, in good time too, though some shoes left their soles on the “mountain of hell”. All too quickly, it was over in the blink of an eye - we passed the next group of hikers, high spirited and excited on their way up.
Arriving below, it was time to wave our goodbyes to our new friends, to pay our respects and tips, and to leave the forest for good. Jean-Louis and I stayed in touch, and every time our discussions brought back fond memories of a hike like no other.
It as a confusing moment, as everyone rushed to get the rest of their belongings, locked up in a room for the time of the ascent. The menacing clouds finally gave in to their heaviness, and the sky erupted in thundery and torrential rains the moment we stepped into our respective vehicles, taking some of us back to Grande Barrière, the border with Rwanda.
—
Part of the sadness I felt was maybe linked to the guilt that I’d never responded to our conversations as fluidly as I should have perhaps, or that although we often chatted, I didn’t know him extremely well. Who was I to cry when this is a reality many face? Despite our best intentions, it’s so easy to slip into indifference, to close our eyes and pretend not to see - to an extent, it’s probably a defence mechanism. We can’t carry the misery of the world after all, I hear so often.
I didn’t know where to stand. I don’t believe in oversharing, and I believe in discretion and humility. Part of me wanted the world to know my friend was gone, alongside the other heroes that no one will really talk about because the COVID19 has taken the scene, because things like this happen every day etc etc etc. At the same time, and more importantly, it was not about me, it was about Virunga, her mission and their sacrifice.
They will not be forgotten, and more than ever will be support them in our own ways, with our own networks and snowball effects. There’s no other viable alternative, really.
* Why do I say it’s Camusian? Because Camus developed the idea that to give meaning to our absurd life, we must say no to its absurdity (whilst accepting it) and to relentlessly fight the battles that we face on a daily basis. We are greater together, he wrote, concluding that “I rebel therefore we are’. By revolting, by refusing to give in to passive nihilism, we have a wonderful capacity to bring people together, and inspire others to, in turn, live for what they stand for. The ICCN rangers of Virunga have every reason to give up. Yet they don’t. That is, in my eyes, the definition of absurd heroes who keep going despite a seemingly impossible mission - and who are emblems for our own battles.