It was cloudy but not raining when we deposited our diminished hiking team at the foot of the volcano. The rest of us then headed back into grey Goma, which looked no more friendly and welcoming than in yesterday's gloom.
Kelvin bought black market diesel behind the regular fuel pumps. Per, Vicki and I then headed off to make our 9am appointment with the National Gendarmerie but were asked to return at 2pm for written reports of the thefts after we established that we needed these for Insurance purposes.
Waited in the patisserie for Kelvin to change money before bulk shopping with Vicki. Per stayed put so he could mind the mountains of food we brought back. News that three overland trucks were in town attracted a crowd of beggars outside the patisserie, among them elderly men and women wearing tattered pants, jackets, and wrappings in shades of brown and grey. Some slouched over walking canes and several looked around with blind, aged stares. They were almost queuing at the door, palms out to everyone entering and leaving the hallowed cafe turf. Having seen so few beggars on this journey compared with the many I saw on the Asian overland, these numbers were disturbing. I wondered if they are organised into some beggars’ fraternity. Weighed down with bags, tins and boxes, we made slow progress to Centre Sportif, walking on unmade road under hot sun that had just pierced the cloud.
For lunch I melted cheese over pineapple on SLICED WHITE BREAD in the camp stove and ate it with Myrta’s carrot salad.
Per and I set off on our third visit to the Gendarmes in soft drizzle from a sky again heavy with rain clouds. Our arrival prompted the friendly gendarme to rummage through the papers piled on his typing table and retrieve our hand-written sheets from yesterday. I think they probably would have stayed buried and untyped if we had not sat down and waited 2.5 hours for our reports.
The weird and unexpected happenings around us during our sojourn in that office had Per and I to wide-eyed. Neither of us could follow the dialogue so we were totally confused about what was going on and the volley of voices - yelling, laughing, talking - didn't clarify anyone's role. It was like watching a silent movie and our imaginations took over. Uniformed gendarmes were in the minority in a wave of people, male and female, coming and going. Per decided that the plain clothes men with keys were probably police and I thought some of those laden with gold jewellery were police too.
Early in our stay, a man was led out by an army officer, who pointed at his charge and told us he was a “voyeur” before throwing him into the open-air cell in the yard to join the others peering through the bars. Some of the people who leant against the wall yesterday were in similar reclining postures again today and didn’t appear to do anything. A woman with a wad of bank notes rolled up in a red jumper and, presumably, her husband hung around for ages, talking and coming and going. Another fella had a fistful of money that somehow ended up in the hands of a drunk and aggressive gendarme who leered at me when we entered the office and was finally ushered away by a fellow officer. Someone dragged a sack into the office and dropped it in a corner (we never found out what was inside). A group of youths standing against the office wall proffered a plastic bag of 45 records which one of the policemen sorted through and then bought; the same youths tried to buy my sunglasses and discussed the price for ages in a huddle amid the ongoing craziness of the room.
A brute with pink arm scars joked and laughed raucously with the police chief while his entourage looked on with anxious expressions. Some of these men wore an interesting mix of almost business-like clothes that suggested they were second grade solicitors, an effect heightened by them carrying briefcases; but then our eyes stopped on plastic shoes or broken-down dress shoes, a woman’s suede coat, badly stitched seems. We had no proof the tattooed dude was a bad’n but it certainly felt as if something not quite legal was going on. He disappeared into the back rooms and one of his men left the door open, through which escaped the distinct sounds of weeping and loud voices. Mr Tattoo's violent ejection by an officer, which almost broke into a fight - the cop had to be restrained from hitting the other man - entertained everyone in the office, the men in the yard, and the men in the cell. To top off the bizarreness, we spotted a thin paper booklet on the typing desk called “The rights of the citizens of Zaire.”
Finally, our reports were typed, stamped and signed. The officer then jokingly asked for payment and then a gift, which prompted some banter before we left.
Passed Bob hobbling down the street with Myrta, his foot still very sore from stepping on that grass spike. I thought he looked like an old man and wasn't surprised to learn that his flight to Nairobi to meet Karen had been cancelled. In contrast, Per and I were high on our hysterical afternoon and couldn’t help but laugh at Bob’s predicament – not because we didn't feel for him but just because his latest experience was just another chapter in the madness of Africa and Zaire.
Back at the truck, I joined in the mammoth meal preparations, chopping rhubarb with Per, spudding with Vicki and Ann and making crumble with Nikki, and all still with no running water in camp. Dinner was a scrumptious celebration of the vegetables and cheese we'd bought, Ann's cooking team helped and overtaken by our bigger group, who prepped, served and washed up.
After dinner, I washed behind the tennis court roller, Nikki spraying me with her leftover Dettol water. Bob was sad but not moping and he repacked his bags, trying to being optimistic that he'll get out tomorrow. The night was humming with mosquitos so I shared my insect net with Bob to keep off the buggers.
Caption: Goma, by guenterguni - Getty Images
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