Rumble in the Jungle: A Congo Journey

Back in 1998, when I was 26 years old and an intern at Magnum Photos in London, an independent documentary filmmaker called the Magnum office. I just so happened to take the call. He was interested in making a short film on an up and coming conflict photographer, someone who was young and new to the game. I was intrigued, so I decided to meet up with him.

He was impressed with the work in my portfolio and we talked about possible destinations. That night I watched a television documentary on Congo Brazzaville. The place had been ravaged by war and the local militias were filmed wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses, whilst carrying AK47 assault rifles. But underneath this bizarre exterior, lurked a kind of internal insanity. It seemed a very terrifying place to be. I remembered how fascinated I was by the book Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, back in my days as an art student.

I started researching Congo and found little in terms of new and recent photographic work. I suggested the idea with the documentary filmmaker and he found the idea very interesting. I therefore began to research the idea even more and talked to a Magnum photographer in the London office who had much experience in Africa. He suggested that I develop on the idea and advised me to understand totally which side I was on and whom I was working with.

I wrote proposals to camera film companies, who were happy to send me bulk loads of film. I contacted the British Red Cross, who was happy that I document one of the programs in Brazzaville. All was looking very hopeful and I booked my ticket with the money I had made from selling some photographs to the Imperial War Museum’s archive. I even organised my open visas from the Congo Brazzaville embassy and a visa from the Democratic Republic of Congo embassy, as my contacts for the Red Cross were based in Kinshasa.

Early nerves

Later that day, the documentary filmmaker filmed me on the rooftop of the Magnum office. I was very hopeful and felt very positive that I had organised the trip and it was happening. That evening the filmmaker came to my bed-sit and took me out for a drink. He explained that the television channel he was pitching the idea to was not happy about a month long trip and suggested that I make it shorter. When I tried calling him days later, my calls were not answered and when I finally did make contact with him, he was not interested in the idea of coming out with me, but keen to see my results on return.

A week before my flight to Kinshasa, news started to break that civil war had begun in the Democratic Republic of Congo, between the government in Kinshasa and rebels from the east. My contact from the British Red Cross in London warned me not to go. I paced up and down wondering what I should do. Back then I was a fairly inexperienced photographer, but at the same time I wanted to make a name for myself. I also felt that I would not get the refund on my flight ticket, which cost me nearly a grand. I had also begun taking Larium anti malaria drugs two weeks previous.

As I walked off the plane all around were Congolese troops eyeballing me. It was like being in a dream; everything all seemed to be in slow motion. When I collected my luggage, strangers crowded around me, pulling my clothes and I was searched four times. A large woman beckoned me over who probably sensed my fear. I had an address for the Diplomat Hotel and was guided out of the airport to an awaiting taxi driver.

A long way from England

“Hello my friend my name is Mr John” said the man with a beaming smile as he stood proudly by his taxi, which was a lime green bullet-ridden Nissan. He took me for a guided tour of Kinshasa, passing the famous stadium where Mohammed Ali and George Foreman had the ‘Rumble in the Jungle’ boxing bout. I shot photographs through the shattered windscreen as I watched the many people all hanging around the roads that all seemed to stare at me, while I realised just how far from England I now was.

Inside Mr.Johns taxi on route from Kinshasa Airport to the Diplomat Hotel

When we finally arrived at the Diplomat Hotel, Mr John wanted $150 dollar for the taxi ride. I gave him fifty and made a sharp exit to the hotel reception. It took me a long time to get my message across about wanting a room for a few days. After unpacking my bags I got some supper and after drinking a Primus beer, I felt a bit more settled and everything did not seem so bad after all.

I slept that night with the air conditioner on full blast all through the night. When I awoke in the morning jet lagged, it was strange to realise that I was now in Kinshasa. There was some urgent work to do in making contact with the Red Cross, but unfortunately the telephone lines had been cut, the hotel receptionist reassured me that they would be OK tomorrow. I sat in my room most of that day and opened ‘Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, but it seemed to close to the truth to read it here. I put it down and began to read Sebastian Faulks Birdsong instead. I took photographs from my hotel room window of women carrying fruit on there heads, Congolese troops walking on by and dodgy looking cars passing my window.

View from the Hotel Diplomat Hotel in Kinshasa

The next day I finally made contact with the Red Cross. They informed me that they had all evacuated due to the civil war and no one could help me. Rather than dwell on the thought on the reason for being here in the first place and the fact in London they had warned me not to go, I decided to get a taxi and down grade my living expenses and stay at a cheap hotel on the other side of town that boasted a room for $5 a night.

My taxi driver for the day was very helpful. He spoke little English but helped explain to the Guest House hotel receptionist that I wanted the cheapest room possible. This was because I had little money and everywhere I went I felt everyone wanted to rip me off. I got my room and said farewell to the very helpful taxi driver. The room was certainly worth $5 a night. It had a single bed, a table and chair. The mattress was very thin. There was no air conditioner, so I put my mosquito net over my bed and went for a late lunch.

The five-dollar-a-night room at the Guest House Hotel in Kinshasa

While I sat alone reading and eating my steak and chips, a teenage boy came over wearing an Arsenal football shirt. His name was Christopher and wanted to know if I spoke English. I was so chuffed to have met someone I could have a conversation with after a full week of being in Kinshasa. Christopher invited me to a hotel room where his family were staying. There his mother and two sisters were preparing supper, which they invited me to join.

Fidel who was training to be a Congolese priest, gives prayers in a family room at the Guest House Hotel in Kinshasa

A young man called Fidel was present; he was Congolese and was training to be a priest. He said prayers before the meal and afterwards we talked. “You must be a journalist for God first,” Fidel warned me. I agreed. Having come this far, I would be a journalist for God no problem. Fidel talked to me about helping me get a photo permit. “You needed a pass from the minister of information; to take pictures in Kinshasa, otherwise you would get arrested.” I never read this in my Lonely Planet guide and having realised that getting to Brazzaville may not happen, I started to plan an idea on photographing a new Kinshasa one year on under the rule of President Kabila. I met fellow Guest House Residents that night, next door to Christopher and his family was a Spanish guy called Felix; he was working as an electrical engineer in Kinshasa.

Zoos and demons

In the morning I hired a cab and Christopher and Fidel joined me. We travelled all around the city, the cab was very cheap (because Fidel was dealing with driver) and I saw many great views of the city, although I still could not take any pictures. We went to a Zoo (where strangely, I was allowed to take my camera out) and visited the Ministry of Information, to get my permit papers.

We went to the local market and never before had I seen so many people in one place. Congolese troops and policemen came out of almost anywhere demanding to see my papers. Fidel sorted these problems out and I felt relatively calm throughout. Posters were on sale depicting President Kabila, looking like some commando comic illustrating the otherthrow of the former President Mobutu. The following day was Sunday and I was invited to a church service. Here I was allowed to photograph and witness demons leaving peoples souls as the preacher held onto the congregations’ heads, denouncing Satan leave their bodies.

Sunday church service in down town Kinshasa

Ten days had now passed without getting my photo-permit or any news worthy pictures. Fidel, Christopher and I journeyed to the Ministry of Information once again to see how my application was getting on. We waited a good few hours. I met an English Super-stringer journalist also waiting to get his permit. We exchanged contact numbers. He was staying at a downtown Protestant church organisation. After more hours of waiting, finally I was granted my photo-permit.

When we left the ministry I asked Fidel if he could take me to the ‘Rumble in the Jungle’ stadium where a huge pro-Kabila demonstration was due to take place. We walked down a dirt track and I turned and took a picture of a young man carrying a huge load of bananas on his head, not far from the Ministry of Information.

When we arrived, there were many speakers explaining why President Kabila was good for Congo and how he is promising to build better roads and school. The people here seemed ecstatic. I took pictures of the crowds, people getting emotional. There was a great sense of optimised for what President Kabila could do for the country.

Leopard in cage at Kinshasa Zoo

Outside young boys wearing red material around their heads were stood together in squads practicing army type drill movements, I photographed away feeling that this might not be a wasted journey after all. These were like a President Laurent Kabila’s army cadet force and although many of soldiers around carried firearms, these young boys just carried sticks.

My mouth went dry

I then bought some cigarettes from a small stall and took a photograph of the young teenagers working there. In the distance I saw soldiers running towards my direction, so I took aim with my camera and started clicking away. As the soldiers came nearer I clicked faster, thinking that something very important was happening. I then realised they were running at me. A soldier hit me across the head with the butt of his AK47 and knocked me to the ground, while a rifle stayed pointing at my temple and my cameras were taken from me.

Fidel and Christopher tried to explain, but they were slapped across their faces. I was ordered to stand and had around four rifles pointed at my head as I held my hands out. The huge crowd that had gathered for the Kabila demonstration had now turned its attention to me and were screaming on each side of the road as I was led back to the ministry of information.

At the entrance of the building we stopped by a tree stump about six feet tall. A crowd gathered around and kept jeering. I was forced to drop my trousers, while Fidel was ordered to take off his shirt. The soldiers tied Fidel to the tree stump and whipped him with army belts and knotted rope, while Fidel screamed for his mother. While he screamed I felt this huge sense of guilt for getting him involved with my journalist enquiries, even though I had done nothing wrong. I had a photo permit; I could not understand the reason of being in this bad situation. My mouth went very dry. I was never whipped, but instead dragged along with Christopher and Fidel to the edge of a dirt track where we had to sit on our knees with our head bowed, while a rifle was held inches from my head. For a moment, I thought that this was it… The rifle bolt was pulled back to make the rifle ready for firing and then… click.

Amazingly they had made safe there weapons, I was aware of this drill from my military days; for the sound of a bullet being loaded into the chamber has a very distinctive sound. The soldiers obviously wanted to see if I would piss my pants, but unfortunately for them, it did not happen. We were then dragged back to the Ministry of Information; I kept getting punched in the face while rifles prodded at my neck and back. I saw the British Super-Stringer coming down the stairs leaving the ministry while Fidel, Christopher and myself were getting dragged back up there. There was a look of horror on his face as I made only eye contact and said nothing.

Underground prison

We were then taken down a dark tunnel, there were huge puddles of water and it seemed we were getting taken to an underground prison. Finally we were placed in a room. Soldiers sat taunting us with their army issue bayonets. These were not the most professional soldiers in terms of hearts and minds. They took what money I had left in my wallet. When I voiced my disapproval a knife was held to my throat. After a few hours we were finally interviewed. My cameras were returned minus the film, but my passport was ‘confiscated’. Fidel, Christopher and I sat around till the early evening, still wondering why we were here in the first place.

In the morning there was a roll call. Fidel, Christopher and I had the pleasure to sleep in the reception area. Later that morning I was granted a tour of the prison because I was a journalist. I had eaten and drunk very little, but still needed to use the toilet. When I was granted access to it, the place was that disgusting it would have been more decent to piss in my pants. One of the many prisoners was a Rastafarian who walked from South Africa only to be imprisoned in Kinshasa. Apparently he was journeying to the holy land, which was Congo, I was told by a prison guard. The cells were cramped; they must have been ten foot wide and were cramped to the hilt with prisoners. Young boys would get beaten and slapped.

“This is the new Congo !”

The prison guard told me they were Tutsi’s, and openly wondered why I was even here. He handed me my watch, which had been taken previously by the soldiers. “In Mobutu’s day you would have never have got your watch back” the prison guard reassured me. “This is the new Congo!”. He said it with a smile.

Later in the afternoon I was taken to the nearby police station for more questioning. I was asked the same questions again and again… whom did I work for, had I served in the armed forces (which I replied no), had I been to Africa before. I had my letter of introduction from The Observer picture desk, along with a letter from a picture agency and kept to my story on working on a feature on the new Congo.

Hours went buy and still the same questions were being asked. As far as the authorities were concerned I was a Rwandan spy for reasons I did not understand and I was going to be charged with espionage. Later that afternoon a well-spoken man from the Ministry of Information informed me that I had been seen taking pictures of the government buildings. I tried to think of what he was talking about, and then I remembered. The man carrying bananas on his head, when I first got my photo permit obviously rumbled me… I then began to panic.

Released

Democratic Republic of the Congo

* A former Belgian colony, it gained independence in 1960
* Formerly Zaire, it changed name to the Democratic Republic of the Congo in 1997
* It is the third largest African nation with 62million people
* It is made up of 242 ethnic groups and an estimated 250 languages
* The Rwandan and Burundi civil wars sparked the fall from power in 1997 of Joseph Mobutu, who had seized power in a 1965 coup, and his replacement by Laurent Kabila
* Laurent Kabila was assasinated in 2001, since when his son Joseph Kabila has ruled as president.

Source: CIA World Factbook

This was a set up, I finally thought. Let them process the film, for I have nothing to hide. All through the interview/interrogation, I asked for my passport, which they claimed was not around, although I could see it on the desk in front of me.

After being detained for two days I was released. Two plain clothed policemen who informed me that I was going to see the big Chief first, before being set free drove me in a jeep from the prison, again at gunpoint, to the other end of the city. When I finally met the Chief he was sat behind a desk in a room on the fifth floor of what seemed like a hotel, he was dressed in black and looked more like a gangster rapper than anything.

The chief, I was told by the plain clothed police who escorted me here, was not happy. He wanted $300 from me and then maybe I would be free. I only had $80 dollars left I told him. This made the chief even unhappier, the plain clothed policemen kept warning me and unless I paid the full payment, I was going back to prison. I was then taken by gunpoint to my room at the Guesthouse Hotel.

“We’ll visit you in London”

When I entered my hotel room I immediately placed my camera bag on a bag of exposed film I had shot previously, this was the only pictures I had taken whilst here in Kinshasa. As the policemen searched my room, they asked if I had taken any more pictures. I explained that I didn’t and began to sweat heavily. The policemen told me not to be scared. They left after they found no more money and I gave them a pack of unexposed 35mm film and my business card. “We’ll visit you in London!” the policemen laughed.

After the ordeal, I got my self together, that evening I spoke to Felix had a well-deserved Primus beer. Felix had heard all about my ordeal and told me that the British Embassy had been five minutes behind me, to help secure my release. I also met up with Christopher and Fidel later in the evening. Fidel showed me his whip marks. Fidel wanted one of my shirts, so I gave him a sweatshirt to remember me by.

Around this time everyone was evacuating from Kinshasa. Even Felix along with all the other Spanish ex-pats. I tried contacting the British embassy, but they said I would have to wait some time. Felix was a good friend of the Catholic mission’s head Sister, she arranged for me to visit the Spanish ambassador in Kinshasa who took pity on me.

Evacuation

The next day, we all gathered together at the chaotic ‘Le-Port’, which was the main port to cross over to Congo Brazzaville, where all westerner passport holders had to evacuate. The police were whipping people to keep them in line. Civil war had begun, although I saw very little evidence of this in Kinshasa, apart from paranoid soldiers and government officials. After around nine searches and other peoples film getting ripped out and cameras smashed and my present from Fidel of a thirty foot snakeskin was confiscated. They never managed to find my film as we finally we boarded the boat to Brazzaville and the journey across the Congo River.

I held onto my pockets all the way, paranoid of getting pick pocketed, but was also feeling guilty that I did not have the courage to take any photographs of the amazing river crossing. When we arrived in Brazzaville, the world’s media were waiting. I was interviewed for German TV about my prison ordeal. A woman from APTN told me how I must have been the last western journalist to get into Kinshasa. She told me how they circled Kinshasa airport in the airplane and was refused to land there and was forced to land in Brazzaville instead. In Brazzaville I met up with an army major whom was convinced I was not really a journalist, but someone working in some type of ‘special operations unit’ we shared beers and he talked about how he enjoyed reading Bravo Two Zero by Andy McNab. The major told me how his troops were waiting to strike Kinshasa and it was only a matter of time. He had spent many years in neighbouring Brazzaville and had lost lots of his men during the civil war there.

Refugees from Kinshasa in a holding area in Gabon. Young and old were fleeing DR Congo, to escape the civil war.

After midnight I boarded the night flight to neighbouring Gabon on a Hercules C130, along with other refugees from Kinshasa. I felt excited about boarding a military flight once more, only to realise ten minutes into the journey just how uncomfortable they were. In Gabon, I spent over a week waiting for my flight to Paris. Being British meant that I was bottom of the pecking order. Felix and I hung out together throughout (him being Spanish meant he too was at the bottom end of priorities). The French army watched over us while we all slept in a huge military hangar on camp beds and food was laid on in a huge military canteen.

Relief

When the time came for the flight to Paris, I felt a great sense of relief. I slept soundly on the flight. When we arrived in Paris, I said farewell to Felix. It was like saying farewell to a brother. A British diplomat was waiting for me at the airport. He drove me from the airport to the Euro Star, whilst pointing out the great sights of Paris. He also kept talking about how great Marks & Spencer’s was for underwear. The British Embassy had provided me with a Euro Star ticket to London, although a month later the bill came through to my mother’s home.

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