Nyiragongo

The whole thing started when I came back from leave, and I was a little confused, it was 5 degrees at home, and 25 here, because it's always 25 degrees here, and the rainy season didn't end as it was expected, and I was on the road for ever, and then Monday evening the boys told me, in a very matter-of fact tone, between two episodes of Game of Thrones, that we are climbing the volcano the weekend. I think they waited, on purpose, until I wasn't in a mental state to argue with them. I only asked them why they didn't tell me before, so I could pack my walking poles right next to the Túró Rudis.

So I spent the week running after sweaters, gloves, walking poles and sleeping bags to borrow, food for two days, and time and again I was a little worried if this was a good idea at all. For this „we climb the volcano” story goes as follows: you drive about 20 minutes to get to the entrance of the Virunga National Park, there you get a briefing (always say on the trail, these three armed men are the rangers, they will lead the way, up there you will find huts, we will make three stops, etc), you have your slapping sleeping bag, extra set of dry clothes, spare water and food in a separate backpack, because it will be carried by porters (yes, I know, it sounds awfully colonial. I felt quite bad about it, but after about 5 minutes I understood that it will be an achievement to drag myself up there, let alone the extra 15 kilos), and off you go, 8 kms distance and 1500 ms difference in altitude, Those knowing me from high school or hiking times may remember my loving relationship with altitude as a whole, the others should consider that I grew up in Hungary, and have only lived in Belgium, Luxembourg, and the middle (flat) part of France.

But what would life be without challenges? And, more importantly, what would I tell to my grandchildren, if not that I have climbed the largest active volcano in Africa?

Because the Nyiragongo is active, it flooded about a quarter of Goma in 2002, the remaining volcanic stones are used in newly built houses. This part of the national park was closed in 2012 because the rebels were a little too close, and they only re-opened a couple of weeks ago, we were the 9^th team to go up. So the climb was only a side effect to it, the main goal was to see a real crater, with a real lava lake. And so we did! I thought the crater would be smaller and the lava closer, but I was wrong, the crater is huuuuge, and the lava lake is quite far down. And it's rather surreal, it looks like it does in geography books and Nationa Geographic documentaries, dark gray gooey doey liquidy stuff, with bright red lines in it, and suplhury smoke. Later, when it would get dark and the sky got clearer, we could also see that bubbles emerge from the gray lake, and when the burst, they are burning red. A smaller Mordor.

Mordor also because those who didn't have supporting tools, completed the last 30 minutes in the style of Gollum. On four, that is. And also, because the climbing takes so much energy and requires so much concentration, that the only goal you can remember is to get there. And destroy the Ring.

And also, because when the mission is completed, and after the night spent in a tent inside the leaking hut, four people under two sleeping bags, in damp clothes, eating damp sandwiches and vegan chocolate cookies, the fellow fighters show up again, and it's 6 am, and there are no clouds yet, and you can see all the way to Goma, to the lake, and in theory beyond that to Burundi, the sun is shining and the air, lacking oxygen, is so cold that you need gloves, then you feel a bit that Middle Earth has just been saved. And there will be a song to sing to the grandchildren.  

On the road

I've been meaning to give a brief description of my travels.

First of all, my journeys are long. Very long. But this is not their most important feature.

Absurdities start when I leave the office. Or even before, the morning of that day, because I usually work the day and then leave after. This means that in the morning I drag the suitcase/backpack to the car in my very serious and professional outfit, and face conversations where the guard asks me if I'm going home, to Turkey.

Then at around half past four I find somebody to drive me to the border (it would be an 8 minute walk, see map below). There I stand in line for passport control, and start worrying that I will be told that this is not a country/passport. The Hungarian passport's front cover says the following: Európai Unió, Magyarország, Útlevél. I know that everybody is Hungarian or would like to be, but honestly. Imagine the Congolese border officers and try to guess how often they see a similar text. (I'm training them with my average monthly crossing, soon every shift have seen it at least once). The latest one was rather inventive, he tried to read it out loud and figured it must have meant Madagascar.

After this discussion, he opens his big blue book, takes his pen and writes in the next empty line my name, my passport number, the date, and that I am from Madagascar Hungary. I say again: with his pen, to his big blue workbook.

Then I walk over no man's land, depending on the Ebola situation this may include a quick check of my body temperature, and then, after showing my passport, I am kindly invited to the little booth for checking the contents of my luggage. This usually starts as a serious and thorough procedure, until the find my jewelry or make up, then give me an understanding smile and let me go. I haven't tried throwing baby clothes on top of everything, but it may be a good idea.

Upon arrival to Rwanda starts the immigration procedure. It's gotten a bit better since I've requested and received the 90 day visa, but before that I always had to buy the one time entry and that made the whole thing one round longer. So, I get in line on the other side, fill in the arrival form, and wonder what on Earth can take so long, because the line doesn't seem to be moving at all. This is a common habit of lines here, that they don't seem to move. Eventually it becomes my turn though, and I can hand in my passport, the form, and my visa approval, which I printed, because for Rwanda I can apply for a visa online! Then the immigration officer asks me what country this is (oh yeah, I keep worrying that they too will question if we exist), then finds me in the system on the computer, puts a note „VISA OK” on my form, and sends me to the payment line. There I can stand around some more, answer the what country is this question, listen to the very original „Hungary? Hungry?” joke (depending on English skills and sense of humour), pay my 30 USD and go back to the first line. There I can wonder again why the line doesn't move. But once it's my turn, I get my passport back, with the entry stamp in it. That altogether takes about half an hour and by the end sweat is dripping down my back every time. Now that I have a multi entry visa, I don't have to pay every time, but it wasn't easy either. After all the standing in line and paying business, I had to wait for the visa to be printed and glued to my passport. I'm not a complete beginner any more, so I suspected it won't be quick, when the guy told me I would have to wait 3 minutes. This alone is never good news: it goes without saying that you always have to wait for everything, so if they specify it... well. I think it lasted 15 minutes at the end, but maybe they have a slow printer. Which, together with the electronic visa approval system, is worlds away from the big blue book.

And there are paved roads! This is important because the airport is a good 3 – 3 and half hour drive from the border; we usually take a taxi for that, and the first time I was in Rwanda, I was really worried that if the roads are like here in DRC, my head will fall off and everything inside me will be shaken, not stirred. I was happy to see that all roads are asphalt, and although everybody thinks (or says) that they learnt everything from the Belgians during colonial times, the roads are often in better shape than in Belgium. The country however is a lot more hilly billy, and driving style is odd at best, so my stomach is always a bit disturbed by the end of the 3 hours, but in exchange, the landscape is beautiful.

Other important piece of information is that my flight usually leaves Kigali past midnight, but the border closes at six, so even with the three hours ride I have quite some time to kill, because the airport is so tiny that they only let you in 2 hours before your flight departs. The remaining time can be spent in the neighbouring café or in the closest wannabe Italian restaurant.

After I'm finally done with check-in and security and border control, I spend about 12 hours in planes or airports. This is actually not an awfully lot of time, a lot of it is spent by listening to the emergency exit vs life vest monologues in three languages, then I wait for the food, then food arrives, I wathc a movie, we land, another airport, passport control, another gate, take off, food, etc. I'm still pretty messed up when I finally arrive, as by then I have most probably spent about 30 hours awake and 20 on the road. Not to mention that it's always summer where I start, but it isn't always summer where I arrive.  

Where the streets have no name

A very accurate and witty map of the city I live in.

from the website Living in Goma, by Anne-France White.