Nested on the drive into Goma, rugged up against the cold under a stormy sky as we drove through the most intensely farmed land we’ve seen in ages, with almost every slope patchworked with crops. Flats embroidered with wildflowers curved up to the feet of peaks shrouded in heavy clouds. Stopped at a mountainside spread of baskets of potatoes, leeks, cabbages, onions, cauliflowers, rhubarb, strawberries, carrots, garlic and Brussel sprouts! The sellers thrust all manner of goods under our noses as Nikki, Vicki and I wandered among the rabble bargaining for culinary delights we'd not seen in months, a barrage of French and Lingala with a shaking of heads and arms. Plans afoot for rhubarb crumble tonight from private rhubarb stock.
Stopped for lunch at the foot of volcanic Mount Nyiragongo, which some of us are climbing tomorrow. Here the Encounter Overland crew were collecting after their climb, one of them recovering from Malaria. Given the incredible food we had stopped to buy, lunch was poor and the non-cooks grumbled as we ate tinned fish, tiny breads, a banana each and unripe mango.
Finally into Goma, past the entrance to the airport from where Bob flies out tomorrow to meet Karen in Nairobi, and along unfamiliarly smooth asphalt. The use of volcanic soil and stone for construction and the grey sky gave Goma's outer "suburbs" a dour, depressed look compared with the brightness of the red/brown mud huts of late. Passed the closed post office on our way to finally report of our thefts, only to be told to come back at 2pm. Spent the interim in the boulangerie.
Goma's National Gendarmerie was headquartered in a building with broken windows, crumbled front stone wall and overgrow grass, a general air of tawdriness and lack of maintenance. that did not inspire any confidence that we would get a good outcome from reporting the crime. The back courtyard centred on a pit for working under cars; surrounding it were seedy offices, garages and cell bars from behind which prisoners called out to us in raucous tones. Everything smelled of urine and drizzle didn't improve the atmosphere. Inside the police office were a bookcase filled with jumbo files and a few old tables, on one of which sat a tiny portable typewriter, and here lounged men wearing camouflage, some of them armed with machine guns.
Being fluent in French, Per was our spokesman, and he worked out the necessary procedures with a friendly gentleman clad in a short-sleeved gold and maroon jacket. Progress was slow but good humoured. This man wrote everything out in French and then took our pages to the report officer to read. be read over by the report officer before telling us we could pick them up. My insurance demanded that a police report had to be made within 24 hours of the theft, and had not been possible, so we had to lie about where the thefts took place. The man we dealt with did comment that thefts had never happened “there” before and I was sad that the 24-hour limit forced me to lay the blame on innocent people.
Back to the truck to collect mail and enjoy an absorbing afternoon of news from home: long letters from Mum and Dad with first details of new house, and Annie, Dad and Annie both separately commenting on the writing in my letters and suggesting I look into a career in writing when I get home. Delighted that letters that had been such fun to write were involving my family in my adventures and they were fascinating by them. (Mum told me on my return home that my letters prompted her to say: My daughter paid to do this. I wouldn't do it even if you paid me.)
Everyone was high as kites with the mail and bombarded the group with each other’s news as we sat in a bar and lunched on pizzas, sausages and beer. There was a massive deluge as we sat at the bar and the storm continued during our very raucous drive to camp. Had a fun cook duty with the cook tent full of choppers and peelers under Geoff’s supervision. Great meal with strawberries for dessert.
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