What country is Congo?

It has been almost impossible for us to find anything about the Republic of Congo in our research.

Every time we search the internet, a lot comes up about the Democratic Republic of Congo – which is a different country. A neighboring country, of course. But still a different country.

No matter how much we try and refine our searches, we find very little information. So it is with butterflies in our stomachs that we settle into the small wooden canoe that will sail us and the bikes a few hours down the Dja River, to cross the border into the Republic of Congo. In our passports we have a visa that we bought a long time ago, in Accra. Now we just have to go ashore in the small village of Ngbala and find an immigration office that can process our 30-day visa. It is going to be significantly different than we imagine.

As we approach the boat launch in the village, our two captains, who have paddled us quietly and safely down the river, take off from the canoes. Inside the boat launch, a naked woman is standing bathing in the river, so we wait a while until she has wrapped a shawl around her body. Then we dock.

First impression

In the small town we quickly find the police station. The police chief arrives on a motorbike, wearing an Adidas tracksuit and large sunglasses. We've seen it several times before on the continent. You can always tell the police chief by that outfit. The higher the rank, the more tracksuit.

He is friendly and notes our presence in Congo, but tells us that we can only get the stamp in our passport at a checkpoint on the main road, 70km from here.

We find a meal of boiled beans and deep-fried sweet buns before setting the bikes in motion down the fine gravel road through the jungle.

Our first impression of Congo is good. It's much calmer here than in Cameroon. People don't shout at us. It's neat and tidy here. People do more maintenance and construction projects on their houses. They've planted flowers and hedges, even though they live in the jungle. Adults have made cool, creative wooden bicycles for their children. It's full of life here. And then it hits us – the absence of alcohol. There are no drunks here in the morning. When we realize this, it's crazy to see what a difference it makes, from Cameroon to here. How much energy it gives that people don't drink all day. It doesn't seem like people have more money. But they definitely have more energy and joy. It also rubs off on the children, who are more trusting of us. And it rubs off on us.

Visa nonsense

When we hit the paved main road, we easily find the checkpoint where we can get our passports stamped. We have bought a visa for a month. The people at the checkpoint are very friendly, and incredibly talkative and curious, so it is almost impossible to keep talking about our visa, instead of answering the many questions about our bikes. But we realize that we have blown it. We thought the visa would start the day we get it stamped. That has been the case in all the other countries on the route. But they tell us that the visa started on the date on the passport, which is a few weeks ago. “You have to be out of the country in 9 days” they say. That is. June 30. We stand with our mouths open and our eyes wide open. “But, but, but…” we try to explain and tell and apologize and ask for more time. They call the head office in Ouesso and speak to the boss. As we understand it (in French), we just have to cycle there, they will stamp it for us and give us 30 days. Pyyyha. We breathe a sigh of relief and set off.

Ouesso is a slight detour of 25km each way from our direction, but we had planned a rest day or two there anyway, so it doesn't matter.

It takes a couple of days of cycling to get there, but the road is good asphalt and we get going just fine. When we finally find the immigration office at the port of Ouesso, no one has heard of the phone call from the checkpoint. But no matter. They are getting ready to stamp the passport. The officer is sitting with the stamp in his hand, points at Marie and says: “Marie – will you give me some money for the stamp?” Marie answers coldly and curtly: “No”. “Ok” is the answer, after which he stamps the passports immediately. If it goes, it goes.

When we get our passports, we flip expectantly to the page with the stamp to double-check our 30 days. The blood rushes from our faces and we turn pale. They insist that we must be out on June 30. That's in 7 days. It's 850km to the border.

Off off off. This is not how we had dreamed of experiencing Congo; With our heads down between our shoulders and full speed on our bikes. It's not that it's not possible to cycle the 120km a day in the hilly landscape. But we had dreamed of rest days and time to experience small towns and gravel detours, wildlife and jungle. Instead, we have to buckle down to make it, and pray that we avoid accidents. But what hurts the most is that we had been looking forward to a few days in the capital Brazzaville, which seems to have something to offer. Especially in the form of coffee, cake and good food. But also museums and history.

Outside the immigration office we decide to drown our sorrows in cinnamon buns at the town's bakery before we have to spend the last hours of the day whizzing south again. Now the 50km detour suddenly became a bit annoying.

High speed = high combustion

The very next day we decide to up the pace. Instead of the 120km a day, we will ride 140km, so that we at least have a whole day to experience Brazzaville. The asphalt is good for us. We listen to podcasts in turns, because Kenneth's headphones have broken. The pedals spin. But the headwind, the hills and a decreasing energy level make it harder than we had hoped. Kenneth has gradually lost so many kilos that it doesn't take much to run the system down. The increased distances and the very few options for food drain faster than is good. The food is a chapter in itself. In the small villages we pass through, you can't get much to eat. In most places it's either a baguette with Nutella, or a bun of fermented cassava, and a bit of meat in sauce. In most places the meat is bushmeat. It's a bit ambivalent for us, because actually you could say about bushmeat that it's super meat, because it's an animal that has lived freely in nature its whole life. On the other hand, we know that the animals can carry diseases and the handling and cleanliness around the meat is sometimes a bit rough to witness. You never know what animal it is, once it's in the pot with teeth and all. It could just as well be a rat as a deer.

At one point, as we are sitting at a small street kitchen, out in the middle of the deserted country road, a small Toyota Corolla pulls in. 4 grown men get out and open the trunk. A dead monkey falls out onto the ground. The kitchen nut comes to the trunk, which is stuffed to the brim with dead animals. We can't tell the animals apart as they lie there, lumpy. The boys pull an arm here, a leg there. Something looks like a large chimpanzee with its face cut off. At the bottom is a small deer that the kitchen nut wants to buy. One man pulls it by the leg, while the others push the animals on top back into the trunk so that the whole meat orgy doesn't fall out of the car.

Kitchen nut pulls away with the deer. One guy rinses his hands under the tap, they slam the trunk shut and drive on. We look down at our plate and are glad we chose the fish.

Live animals are better than dead ones

The next day we ride on a stretch where both elephants and gorillas are often seen. We scout and scout. Unfortunately, or fortunately, we see neither. Both animals are dangerous in the open, and we can't outrun them on our bikes. On the other hand, we see a lot of small monkeys in the treetops. They send warning calls to the herd when they spot us.

Late in the afternoon, it gives us a jolt. We see three small dark figures step out onto the road. Like the Olsen Gang in miniature, they quickly cross the road. They are 3 chimpanzees. We can't believe our eyes. The last chimpanzee stops at the side of the road and looks at us. It stands for a moment and looks at us before it also disappears into the tall grass. When we are a few seconds later where they disappeared, we can't see anything. They are gone. But they left a happy impression in our hearts.

Rest day with a twist

Our plan works out and on the afternoon of the 28th we roll into Brazzaville. We find a Catholic mission and check in. We are happy but tired. Now we have earned a whole day off tomorrow to experience the city before we cross the Congo River to Kinshasa on the 30th. The last day we have to be in the country.

We sleep late. We linger over breakfast and agree to skip the museums and just spend the day pampering ourselves. Even though we came here to experience the city, our energy level is only enough to handle coffee and cake at the city's best patisserie. Well deserved, we think. And it's a success. But Kenneth lingers more and more as the day progresses and it becomes an almost insurmountable project just to find food to eat. We end up at home at the Catholic mission, where the nuns are kind enough to cook us dinner. At night comes the culmination and the explanation. Kenneth wakes up shivering from the cold and an hour later he throws up in torrents.

From Congo to Congo

In the morning he is dead as a herring. But we are in a bind. Today we are leaving the country. Our visa is expiring. It takes Kenneth two long hours to pack his bike, with breaks in the fetal position on the bed. He is completely white-headed when we roll down to the quay, where we can take a motorboat across the Congo River, and thus cross the border. Marie takes care of all the practicalities, which are quite intense, with lots of hustlers shouting at each other, while each of them tries to score the day's profit by misleading us. Marie navigates the chaotic chaos of people with a sure hand and gets a handle on both stamps and tickets, without paying anyone for services we don't need. Meanwhile, Kenneth sits behind dark sunglasses on a red plastic chair in the shade, keeping an eye on the bikes.

On the opposite bank, there are just as many hustlers ready, but we have gradually become somewhat accustomed to dealing with these types of people. We use the bikes as a bulwark and effectively cut off the hustlers, one by one.

When we enter the immigration building, we are greeted by an unexpected and unfortunate sight. A medical check-up. Two guys are sitting at a desk, clearly tired of their jobs. There is a thermometer on the table. Now it's a matter of avoiding Kenneth from being checked. Marie goes first and entertains. Kenneth spends all his energy looking happy and energetic. He succeeds. We get rid of the thermometer as long as we disturb the two guys as little as possible.

Then we go to the gate with passport stamping. We have a visa and everything is really just a formality. Until the lady behind the gate asks Marie for money to stamp the passport. The answer is, as always, no. And then we are ushered out. We are told that we have to leave the bikes and go into the office at the back. We hide our nervousness, but we have not yet been in a situation with the authorities that we could not manage.

The boss at the office is in a great mood, however, and it will all just be a formality with a little extra paperwork to fill out before he welcomes us to the Democratic Republic of Congo.

Such!

But it's not over yet. As we're about to leave the building, we're stopped at another table where two men start writing out a bill for us. But before we can say anything, our office assistant shouts at them to leave us alone, and they put down their pens, exhausted and reluctant. Another triumph for us.

It has all gone much easier than we had feared and we already have a good feeling about the new Congo that lies ahead of us.

We drive to a Catholic mission in the city, where Kenneth completely collapses on the bed while Marie goes for pizza.

The Curse of the Congo

The Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), on the other hand, has been easy to find information about. The country has a rather wild history filled with war, mutilation and cannibalism. It is too extensive to write about here, but it is pure horror to read about how the Belgian King Leopold was given the DRC as his own personal country, when Europe sat down at a big desk in Berlin and divided Africa among itself. How he has since mistreated the country and drained it of its values. It didn't get much better when the Europeans left the country and left it to the traumatized population to fend for themselves. The traces of dysfunctional systems are still visible in one of the world's most corrupt countries.

Many people like to highlight Congo as a prime example of the “curse of having too many raw materials”. Because that is exactly what Congo has. Diamonds, gold and special minerals that the whole world demands. Nowadays, this means that neighboring countries de facto steal Congo’s natural resources and benefit greatly from the profits. Some experts highlight the now well-functioning neighboring country Rwanda as a country that has built its welfare on raw materials stolen in the DRC.

But we do not buy the view that raw materials are a curse. In our view, the curse lies solely with the corrupt regime, which always enriches itself before protecting and developing its own country.

Allow us to highlight Norway as a country that is not particularly cursed by their raw materials. The international community is more than willing to support and help governments in Africa develop, but time and time again the money disappears into deep pockets. That is the sad reality.

Another trip to the hospital

The day after we arrive in Kinshasa, Kenneth still hasn't recovered. The insurance company finds us a hospital, on the other side of town. We jump on our bikes and cross the intense metropolis with a cloth over our mouths to avoid the thick black traffic that pollutes the air. It's intense. There are thousands of battered yellow taxis, driving as they please. The bumps show that they don't hold back for anyone or anything. We are the soft road users and take our precautions.

We stop at a bank on the way. Kenneth goes in to exchange money. It looks like the back room of an illegal gambling den. In the small office, the desk is overflowing with checks and receipts, as well as a money counting machine. The banker's Swiss watch is carelessly placed by the armored window, so that the customer cannot avoid seeing it. On the floor is a cubic meter-sized stack of banknotes. On small side tables are suitcases filled with cash. The Congolese CDF is not worth much and most people prefer to trade in dollars. But still.

Outside, Marie also experiences a scene worthy of a movie.

The security guards in front of the bank have Kalashnikovs over their shoulders, while they are taking a line to their noses. Their eyes are twinkling in their heads as a big black SUV drives up to the door. A huge loaf of bread in military gear and sunglasses, with knee pads and elbow pads, jumps out of the car with an even bigger gun. He looks like Rambo. He opens the door to a big fat man in a suit who is going to do banking.

We agree that the DRC is the Italy of Africa. Mafia, corruption, drugs and weapons everywhere.

Without any further health challenges we reach the hospital where the usual blood tests are ordered. All tests are negative. However, the doctor can see that the infection rate is high. So something is not quite right. But he can't know what it is, so we start with a worming treatment. He recommends it every three months while we are in Africa.

Our rescuer Kamil

We have been invited to stay for a few days with a guy named Kamil. We have come into contact with him through our friend Charlie, who has a project where he walks through Africa to raise money to build wells in areas that need it. (Read more at walking4water or Charlie walks for water). Charlie has been staying with Kamil for a month, but has just gone home to Denmark, the day before we arrive in Kinshasa. Too bad we didn't get to meet him. On the other hand, "his" room became available, at Kamil's, and we can now stay there for a few days.

Kinshasa is extremely expensive to live in, so we are deeply grateful to be able to save some money while Kenneth recovers. But the economy is not the most important thing. The meeting with Kamil and his brother Kaif is really interesting. Kamil is of Indian descent but grew up in Tanzania and has lived in Kinshasa for the last 18 years. He is a businessman with many connections and a great overview of news and the world situation. Every day his TV shows news from all over the world. Kamil and Kaif are fun to talk to and they are good sources of knowledge about the situation in the DRC. In particular, they tell us about the many corruption cases and coup attempts in the country. We benefit from their great hospitality and are deeply grateful.

Hospital upgrade

Even though we have some good and quiet days with Kamil and Kaif, Kenneth is still not at his best, as we have to move out and make room for Kamil's roommate, who is returning home from summer vacation.

The insurance company has “upgraded” the treatment and moved us to a first priority hospital, which is just around the corner. Thank you for first sending us to a low priority hospital, on the other side of town.

Whatever the case, Kenneth gets another brain scan and more blood tests. Everything is negative. The infection rate has also been reduced after a vigorous course of antibiotics. The last option is to check his eyesight. The hospital's ophthalmologist finds a major deviation in his vision compared to the contact lenses Kenneth uses. This requires new glasses immediately and is most certainly the cause of the headache, which has lasted two months. New glasses can be purchased immediately at the hospital.

However, the deviation in vision is so great that Kenneth finds it suspicious and goes to an optician instead, who, with completely modern measuring equipment, finds that the vision is a perfect match for the contact lenses.

It seems that the headache, which came on its own, must go away on its own.

Onward into the world

We are moving into another Catholic mission because we need to give Kenneth complete peace for a few days. It helps, but it's slow. On the other hand, we are spending money quickly. We spend 4-5 times our budget a day. Kinshasa is the world's second most expensive city to live in for expats. After Luanda in Angola. But after 5 days of complete rest and fairly nutritious food, we are at a point where it is better to sit on a bike than stare at a wall.

We are leaving Kinshasa. We have planned short daily stages of 70-80km, so that we do not use up too much energy. The challenge is still to get enough nutrition. The street kitchens cannot provide the necessary energy that Kenneth needs. And we have become a little careful about eating on the street, because the DRC is notorious for stomach problems. We are cooking our own dinner again. That helps a little and during the four days we spend cycling to the border with Angola, Kenneth is getting a little more rested.

On the trip through the country we have the great privilege of driving on asphalt. It is a privilege because the DRC reportedly has less than 2,000km of asphalt in the entire country. A country that is the size of Western Europe.

On the other hand, the traffic is absolutely crazy on the highway. We text Kamil and ask if you need a driver's license in Congo? He replies that it's been 6 years since the government stopped issuing driver's licenses. You can tell. In addition to the reckless driving on the narrow highway, everything on wheels is consistently overloaded to new heights. Literally. We saw a car with a yellow rooster comb. The driver had tied 8 layers of yellow 30l plastic cans to the roof, and all the way down over the trunk. 8 layers! Many cars have a load that is 2-3 times higher than the car itself. Often there are people sitting on top of the load. On trucks, people often sit on the bed, or even on top of the container. In passenger cars, people sit in the trunk, which is held open with a branch, while their feet dangle dangerously close to the asphalt. We've seen overloaded vehicles before, but in the DRC it's crazy.

If it goes – then it goes.

People are nice though. They smile and wave. And hold out their hand to ask for money. Or a cigarette. It's a reflex, you can see. Most people aren't very persistent. It's clearly opportunistic. If it goes, it goes. But we understand where it's coming from. People here live from day to day. It's clear that the country is completely on its knees. People have nothing. It's dirty everywhere here. No one has the time or energy to do anything extra. Everyone is looking for what they need to survive today. No one thinks about tomorrow. It's an approach to life that trickles down through the entire system from the top. It's sad to see. But understanding helps us not to jump in the air when a man sticks his hand out for the 117th time.

After 3 days on the road we reach the border town of Lufo. We have agreed to take a day of rest before we cross the border to Angola. Kenneth is now completely healthy again. His mood has returned and food goes down better. The headache that has lasted for 3 months, since Lagos, is now finally gone.

Once we cross the border into Angola, we get busy and can no longer drive short daily distances. We only get a 30-day visa at the border. On the other hand, we have to drive about 2500 challenging kilometers through the country. A lot more than we usually drive. This again gives us too little time to explore the winding corners as we would like. But on the other hand, we are also ready for the big change that lies ahead of us in southern Angola, where the transition to the desert and the desolate landscapes begins.

But here in Lufo we just take a break and focus on eating some food. The street kitchens have more nutritious meals again and we eat beans, fried bananas and chicken. We just get a wag of the tail from DRC.

When we rolled into town we stopped at a cozy street food stall. The woman was super sweet and sent her daughter off to get us some soda. We gave her a 20,000cdf (50kr) bill to pay with. As so often before. But when we were going to pay for the meal, the lady had completely forgotten that we had already given a large bill. It was only when a couple of other young men nearby intervened that she remembered the payment. We then got 2,000cdf back. Which was completely unfair. It took a huge discussion and many rounds and counts before she would admit that we had only bought for 11,000cdf. In the middle of the chaotic discussion, which now involved about 10 people, a young man started begging Kenneth for cigarettes. It cannot be ruled out that Kenneth shouted: “Are you fu…. kidding me?!”. Congolese people definitely thrive in chaos, noise and loud noise. Much more than Danes. The icing on the cake came when we jumped on the bikes and a young man wanted to take a selfie with Marie, who said no. He turned the camera and wanted to take a picture of her from behind anyway, which made Kenneth take the phone out of his hand and give him some verbal slaps. It was a small, albeit pathetic victory, when Kenneth cycled off with the phone in his hand and the young man had to run after him to steal it back.

On the way to our hotel, we stop to buy oranges. Kenneth asks how much they cost. The answer is “1,000 per piece”. Kenneth points to the sign in front of the oranges where it says 500 and laughs at the lady. She doesn’t know what kind of face to make and tries to wipe it off on the other ladies behind the stall. Kenneth gives her 2,000 for 4 pieces and everything is fine.

In the evening we found another street kitchen, with some other nice ladies. They had good food and we returned on our day of rest, and had lunch. And again in the evening, for dinner. They got sweeter and sweeter. Dinner was 6,000cdf and Kenneth gave a brand new 20,000cdf note, as well as a 1,000cdf note. But she didn't want the small note, which otherwise made sense in terms of change. When we were about to leave, we asked for the change, but then there was another discussion. Again a couple of young boys came to help. Which only made it all even more chaotic. We agreed that the food should cost 6,000cdf. But we didn't agree whether we had already paid. The lady denied it. Finally the other woman pulled out a note and said we had paid with it. Small victory for us. But it turned out to be an old 5,000cdf note. Not the brand new 20,000cdf note that we had paid with. The old note is the same color as the new 20,000cdf. Cheating and deception. It's probably not the first time they've pulled that trick. But no matter how much we complained, they wouldn't give up.

In the end, we have to survive, and they definitely need the money more than we do. And they are the ones who have to live with deception. Not us.

But it's crazy to experience that people here can look someone in the eye, smile, and then stick the knife in without it affecting them in the slightest.

If it goes, it goes.

Again, one would rather pocket the money one can steal today than the money one can earn honestly tomorrow. Congo's core problem for both high and low. In the street kitchen and in government offices.

Congo is a wild country that we would have liked to have experienced much more of. But the security situation is far too uncertain. We felt safe all the way through, but we have also moved in a rather narrow but safe corridor through the country. We have seen desperation, powerlessness and lawlessness. But we know that in other parts of the country, it is even wilder. It is absolutely insane to think about how stressed the people who live here are. We are privileged and can only cycle across the border to Angola. New country – new experiences. But for the people who live here, Congo's desperation is a reality they cannot escape.