Our Congo Adventures: March 2013

A note to potential publishers

Back in 2012, we left Canada and moved to the Democratic Republic of Congo, where we lived and worked for almost three years on a forest conservation project in a remote part of the country known as Lac Mai-Ndombe (Black Water Lake).

We started Our Congo Adventures as a way to share our experiences with friends and family back home. Over the course of our time in Congo, it grew into a collection of stories and photographs documenting a remarkable chapter of our lives: encounters with wildlife, life in rural Congo, travel through the forest, cultural experiences, unexpected adventures, and the people who made our time there so memorable.

More than ten years later, we returned to the stories and found ourselves immersed in those experiences all over again. The photographs brought back the places, people, and moments, while the stories reminded us just how unusual that chapter of our lives really was. We began sharing them again with friends, family, coworkers, and acquaintances, who almost universally encouraged us to publish the stories “for real.”

This book contains a small selection of six stories from more than two dozen written between 2013 and 2015. It is intended as a sample of what could become a larger coffee-table book combining photography, personal storytelling, travel, wildlife, and conservation to give readers a glimpse into a part of the world few people have the opportunity to experience firsthand.

The following stories are presented as they were originally written during our time in the DRC. Several more stories have already been written and can easily be shared.

We hope this sample might spark an interest in working with us to transform these previously unpublished stories from an old blog into a professionally produced and distributed book, while preserving the authenticity, voice, and character of the original writing.

We hope they give you a sense of the adventure and leave you wanting to read more.

Tristan & Jennifer

Hi folks,

Welcome to our blog! As Jenn mentioned earlier, this blog is meant to highlight some of the adventures and misadventures of our tenure here in the Democratic Republic of Congo (generally referred to here as DRC, or just simply Congo).

I started writing a journal shortly after I arrived here in January, but the critics claim my writing is too messy to scan and post on this website, so I will type out my first entry…enjoy!

It’s Sunday, January 13. I’ve been in Inongo for a little over a week; Jenn went back to Kinshasa yesterday. As always – it is hot.

At around 1:30 I was expecting to be picked up for the 2:00 futbol (soccer) match between Inongo and Ngongo (in the Congo!). Some time around 3:00, (about an hour after I had given up hope of watching the game), a small “Tonda” dirtbike came and took me to the game…well not the bike that picked me up – that broke down mid journey, but I eventually got there on a sweet little “Yamaho”. As we approached the front gate, the driver of the bike honked frantically thus parting the massive crowd clamoring to get in. I was happy to skip the line, and hoped we weren’t too late to find a decent seat, or place to stand to see the game.

Off the bike, I was escorted through the front gate by project employees and police, the locals yelled “Mundeli! Mundeli!” ("White! White!") as we pushed forward, “maybe I already have a seat” I thought to myself, that would be nice. A feeling of “surreality” hit when I was taken to the only stands and source of shade in the stadium - big enough for about 60 of the most important & dignified football attendees (like a large owners box at Rogers Arena), and was seated front row center. My picture was taken by many onlookers and possibly the press (lack of formalities in such regard make such distinguishments difficult - also my translator was nowhere to be found so I had no means of communicating with anyone aside from pointing and waving).

I absorbed my surroundings, trying to ignore onlookers starring, and doing my best to cordially recite “je ne parle pas français” to those who shook my hand, introduced themselves, and told me their title. After several emphatic greetings, a well-dressed man strode up the steps of the bleachers and forcefully signaled for all to rise. I obliged as did the other fortunate spectators around me. I expected the singing of the national anthem, but instead witnessed our chic soothsayer step aside, remove his decorative African chapeau and bowed his head as the very sharply dressed District Commissioner of Mai Ndombe (over 300,000 people) entered behind, walked to the chair beside me, and took his seat. Not turning his back to me, but careful to make eye contact with no one.

Soon thereafter the chief of the entire territory sat on my left, she was also dressed to impress. In fact, everyone in these bleachers was dressed in suits, fancy hats, and freshly polished shoes. Except one guy. The guy sitting between the most powerful and influential people in the territory. The guy who, unbeknownst to him until that very moment, was the guest of honour at this game. - me . Dressed in plaid golf shorts, white(ish) T-shirt, and flip-flops, accentuated by dirty feet and large SLR camera dangling from my neck – I was not dressed to impress. Oh Mendeli…

Ok so I guess I was a little underdressed for the owner’s box. But who would notice other than the few dozen well-dressed folks in the bleachers with me. Let’s watch some soccer. The referees and two teams took to the field on the opposite side from where I was sitting. Approaching center field I awaited the opening kickoff (or whatever the soccer mad world calls it). To my surprise they walked past center field and continued walking in the direction of the bleachers. When they arrived at the foot of the steps I was again asked to stand. Then suddenly, with great haste, I found myself alongside the Commissioner of Mai Ndombe shaking hands and being introduced to the referees, team captains, and each individual player.

I could feel the thousands of pairs of eyes on me. I could no longer hear the shouts of “Mundelli” as the spectators simply watched these formalities and listened to the speeches in their native Lingala. They watched from the sidelines, watched on the walls, watched atop roofs and archways of the nearby buildings and houses, and even watched from chairs balanced in the trees. Every inch of space was hard-fought for, no doubt, for a chance to see the game - but for now all eyes were on me.

Welcome to Congo.