40. Zaire: Ilebo to Kananga

When our mother and brother were typing up this travelogue the found it necessary to clear up some issues.  Here Ed. is our mother. (Ed: Because I found it confusing, I am going to point out that they will be mentioning three very similar names: Katanga, the southern province of Zaire which tried to secede from the country soon after independence and is now called Shaba; Kananga, a large town on the railroad between Ilebo and Lubumbashi; Kapanga, an apparently much smaller town on the Lulua river south of Kananga.)

We include below a drawing we included in the diary.  Somehow we got back with a single picture from this leg of the trip.  You can google very interesting images of Ilebo, Kananga and the Bas Congo-Katanga railway.

Sketch of our trip across Zaire and the relative location of Katanga Province, then known as Shaba.

Ilebo, Zaire, Tuesday, 22 March, 1983

(HELENA) Someone had told us that we should be spending the last part of the night about 700 meters upriver from the main dock and that we should finally arrive at 8:00. That was pretty accurate except that things started moving much earlier than we had ex­pected. 5:00 came, and we could hear a lot of activity, but we decided to stay in bed just a little longer. Before light they had moved the Major Mudimbi and the freight barge to our other side and everybody was ready to crowd off the barge -- EXCEPT US. We finally got up at about 6:00, and instead of calmly watching the docking procedure, spent our last moments rushing to get everything packed up. I suppose one of our problems was that we had just crossed over into a new time zone, but even so, we were half an hour early. Later in the day we found out that we had been extremely lucky to arrive after only 6 nights and 5 days of travel. During dry season they pull over to the side at night and travel only by day.

We walked the short distance to the train station and were informed that the twice weekly train would be arriving tomorrow at 5:00 and would then turn around to return, leaving at about 8:00. We decided that it was a long enough wait to warrant looking for a place to stay--but first a café con leche. Yep, I’m afraid our embarrassment threshold may be permanently damaged by this trip. A couple of months ago I would rather have died rather than make such a production. Now we simply got out our little stove, water, pan, milk, sugar, coffee--the whole bit--and had our cup of café con leche. Who cares if 10 people line up to watch and some 50 more watch out of the corner of their eyes!?

The tickets for the train would not be on sale until later in the morning, so we walked the long way around and up the hill to Ilebo. It turned out to be a really neat town. The first part we walked through had European colonial houses --one story, square, with big shady verandas all around. Someone in Kinshasa had told us to look for the ex-bishop of the Metho­dist church, but we decided to try the Catholic nuns first. The brick two-story convent (verandas on both stories) was much newer than the one in Lamberéné, Gabon, but the idea was similar. Sor Lucienne (probably 60 years old) answered the door, Dan gave his spiel, and she invited us in. The superiora was not there, so she could not give us an answer, but she invited us to have a cold refresco and sat to talk with us a bit. Quite a talker! Once again Dan was complimented on his French; “all of the ‘Americans’ who come through cannot speak or understand any.” She was also one of these persons who does not REALLY believe that we are Bolivian. She suggested that we go to buy our tickets and return to have lunch so we could talk to the superiora. She gave us some hope, but it looked as though they would not let Dan stay there.

Back at the train station (we took a short cut that took us straight through town and straight down some very steep and shallow steps) we had to wait a bit for the proper person. Before Dan’s turn came, he counted out his stack of bills so that the man counted them once and issued him our tickets. But the people before Dan would count out 20 of the Z5 notes, hand them to the agent, and he would again count them and set them down. They would repeat this with the next 20 bills, and when the customer had given enough money, the agent would count all of the bills together. Very inefficient and frustrating!

Sor Lucienne was busy getting ready for school as she teaches in the afternoon, so Dan and I sat out on the veranda and read until lunchtime. We ate with Sor Lucienne and two other Belgian nuns who work as nurses, one of them being the superiora. They both appear to be in their fifties. Later in the meal two Zairois nuns came in. They are both teachers and quite unlike other African nuns we have seen; rather than small, slim, demure, dressed in habits, these two were tall, large, wearing the typical length of cloth and head wrap. Another Belgian nun who works at a dispensary also joined us. Sor Lucienne was the only one wearing a habit with a wimple; the nurses were dressed in white, and the pharmacist wore colored clothes and had long hair which was braided up and in a bun.

What a feast! We had roast pork, fried bananas and yuca, homemade bread, dessert and pineapple. We talked quite a bit about our trip, and they told us about the time they had come down the river. Theirs had lasted longer and they had run out of drinking water. Even­tually all they had was beer to drink.

Dan and I did not know our status yet, but at the end of the meal, the Superiora had the other nurse, Sor Ivonne, show us upstairs to our rooms. We each got a comfortable “cell” where it felt mighty nice to lie down in complete quiet and privacy. Apparently they had de­cided we were a wholesome brother and sister and both of us could stay.

Later in the afternoon we went out to see the town and look for the market so we could stock up on food for the train ride. First we were shown to a market that was completely empty. Strange.  But then someone pointed out the path to the afternoon and evening market. It is the first time we have heard of such a thing, but it is definitely the way things are done here. The evening market was out in the open, right at the foot of the water tower. They had lots of corn (fresh and dried) peanuts (roasted and un-) manioc (once again peeled and dry, I guess ready to be ground into flour), and fruit. The afternoon bread had not come yet, so we decided to walk around a few blocks.

Right on the corner we saw a really neat stringed instrument. The body of it was a drum (no hole in it) and attached to this was a long neck. A boy sat on the drum while he plucked the strings. It had a low, muted sound that was very pleasant to hear.  We did not approach him, so we could not see what the strings were made from, how many strings there were, etc.

This section of town was more like an extended village. They have mud houses with thatched roofs set in terribly clean, bare sand yards.  Lots of them have flowers near the house and hedges at the edge of the yard. Very neat! To top it off, everyone had a compost hole, so there was no garbage floating around the yards.

I returned to the market later and bought nice, hot bread, straight off the pan. The nuns tell us that people buy the 5-day-old bread from “Kin” as a show of status. Upon re­turning, they invited us for soupe, an informal meal with a sandwich. Afterwards they washed up the dishes and had prayers, so Dan and I went on upstairs to read. We almost died laughing when, before long, we heard loud strains of our boat music. Not even in a convent can you escape it!

Ilebo, Zaire – Bas Congo-Katanga Railway, March 23-24, 1983

(DAN) They had an interesting, well-done book on the history of the Bas Congo-Katanga Rail­way, part of which we would be traveling.  We have very little access to good history books. It went all the way back to Stanley’s trip down the Congo and his subsequent employment with King Leopold in setting up the Congo Basin as a personal empire. The main thing I gathered was that there was a big race colonial between colonial powers to gain control of the rich Katanga Region. It was in the area that King Leopold had claimed, and one of his explorers, Francone, was the one who discovered the huge copper reserves, so they had the earliest claim. The British, Portuguese and Germans also wanted it for good reasons. Rhodes (the book talked only of him when it meant “the British”) had a dream of building a railway from Cape Town to Cairo all on “British land” (they eventually had the opportunity to do it through Tanzania when they took then Tanganyika off of Germany).  According to the book, “He” was the foremost challenge. The Portuguese wanted a cross-continent railway between Angola and Mozambique and the Germans wanted one from Namibia to Tanganyika. “Rhodes” won the race and got a railway across Zambia to the present border before he died in 1902. After Rhodes died, the Belgians and British became allies and the Belgians got Katanga, though their railway did not go all the way to Ilebo until the twenties.

The pictures in the book are fascinating; there is a picture of the Ilebo port (then Port Francqui) and they have the same equipment now as they had in the forties. The boats and barges are of the same style as well. Of note was that in what I read there was not any mention of a black person by name, nor were there any pictures save of “porters” and “natives”.  Prince Albert actually came all the way out for the inauguration!!!

We had a good breakfast with the sisters, and after leaving an adequate contribution, Daddy, we headed toward the train station. It was on time. In fact it was already fully loaded even though the guards were not officially letting anybody through. In fact the train had not even finished getting all the cars together. Third class chugged up, and then a locomotive brought second and first class from somewhere -- already filled. You just have to know the yards I guess. We were very fortunate to find two seats in a compartment with two Zairois.

We had been settled in perhaps an hour when an army colonel appeared and informed us that this was his apartment and we should get out. We stood our ground, but he began to change his pants, so we had to step out.  Ah yes, after he informed us, he took out a little piece of paper and wrote “Reserved for the commandant of the Military Escort”, and put it up on the door. We tried to argue with him, but he ignored us completely. There were two railway officials there, and I told them that I thought it was the company’s problem. They assured me that it was not their department, “besides (in a lower voice) he’s the military.”

I went over to the ticket office to inform them of the situation. “Why, that’s terrible. They can’t do that to a tourist!” “You must go to the commissaire’s office; that’s his depart­ment!” The Commissaire was out, but a young gendarme took me to look for him. We found him near the head of the train. First he yelled at the gendarme because he was not at his post. Then he yelled at the gendarme because he had not taken care of this problem himself, that he should have known that the military man must go.

Well, when we got to the compartment and the gendarme saw the Commandant, he said to me “But he’s the military escort. You can’t do anything about it,” and left. I tried to reason again with the Commandant. The Zairois in our compartment had disappeared and he had not anticipated any resistance so was getting a little embarrassed--if possible. His solution was to go next door and start to empty out a full compartment for us. We told him we did not want that, and finally we ended up finding a railroad employee who checked tickets until he found people with third class tickets in second class seats. It still did not seem right, but we got a compartment, and not very long before the train pulled out.

Contrary to what we had been told, the train was in much worse condition than the Congolese  (Congo Brazzaville) train we rode. Our second class consisted of six narrow (sufficient) berths that fold down into two facing seats. There was no longer any upholstering or cushion on the springs, but it was clean and O. K. First class, however, was no better and was housed in an old second class car that looked exactly like the ones in a picture of the car that had been bought in 1950.  (We subsequently realized that most of the trains and later the boat across Lake Tanganyika were all dated with 1926.  Obviously a year of a lot of investment in the colony.)

We just may have caught our first French pun in the situation. When we settled into the new compartment, we were met by less than friendly companions. We explained that we had been “bumped” (French--deranger) by the military. The man said, “The military are the deranged ones.” However, he went on to add that Mobutu really loves the people, but he does not know what abuse goes on in the interior. It is an attitude I cannot understand. They seem to accept that Mobutu is one of the five richest men in the world and do not connect it to their being crowded onto old trains or being kicked around by the military. On the boat I made the mistake of calling Zaire a Third World country in a conversation with a young man. He informed me that Zaire was a very rich country, richest in Africa, and named off all of the minerals, wood, etc., etc. that they produce. I asked him why, if it was such a rich country, was he traveling third class. He said, “Well, there are only a few rich people, but it is a very rich country.”

We soon climbed out of the rain forest and hit the savannah again. The area is more densely populated than anything we saw from the river, but there are still great expanses of lush savannah without any houses or other signs of disturbance. The only crop we have seen yet is still manioc.  It is hard to imagine what their staple was before manioc came from South America during the slave trade.

The train traveled at a fair clip when it moved, but when it stopped, it held for so much trading and unexplained delays that we averaged 15 kmh, only slightly faster than our barge moving upstream. Again there was a lot of trading at each station, mostly maize and peanuts. (In Congo, the word for peanut is “nguba” pronounced as it looks. Do you suppose that is the source of “goober[1]”?)

Aside from the trading there was only one major event in the afternoon. The train stopped in the middle of the countryside, kilometers from any houses. We heard some shouting and looked out. One soldier was physically kicking men off the train, and another, holding an automatic rifle, kicked one so he stumbled and fell. Then he aimed the rifle at them, and people on the train yelled and jeered as the men ran into the bush. Our companions surmised that these men did not have tickets and that was the way the military handled it.

We went to the “diner” to have some cokes. We had some, but the guy did not have any change, probably because of his little grain and basket-buying business. The floor of the diner under the table, etc., was covered with bags of corn, and his food shelves were full of new baskets.

Sunset over the savanna from the Bas Congo-Katanga railway.

Not long after dark we set up the berths and went to bed. We had a good night. The springs were not bad. We simply put our rain ponchos down and got out our sheets and slept. There was no glass in the window, so we had good ventilation.

Kananga, Zaire, Thursday, 25 March, 1983

(HELENA) About 20 kms outside of Kananga the train stopped for one last, long time. At first we could not figure out what all of the commotion was, but when the dust settled, we got at least some of the story. After 24 hours of collecting dried corn along the way, the soldiers suddenly decided that it should be “taxed” in order to take it into Kananga.  A lot of the people either could not or would not pay the soldiers, so they simply dumped the corn and people out. They would dump some off, and then the train would back up a bit -- I guess so that they could not climb back on. While all this was transpiring, we watched our friend, the commandant, pass some of the grain through the window into his compartment. Finally we backed up a last stretch and shot (as much as that train could be said to “shoot”) forward, leaving the people standing there.

A good many passengers got off at Kananga, but we had trouble getting off because the new passengers were already pushing their way on. When we finally got out on the platform, our jaws dropped to see a lot of people still trying to board the already full train. It took us longer to leave the station because the guards opened the gates, and still more people crowded out to the platform to climb somehow onto the train.   What a mess!

When we first woke up this morning, one of our friends from the Major Mudimbi (the one who had helped us board the train) came to tell Dan that his ticket had been stolen and that the soldiers had beaten him up when they found him with no ticket. His shirt had been torn up in the process, so he wondered if Dan could lend him a shirt.  We have heard so many stories like that, and we have handled it so far by saying we are traveling for a long time and have only what we need. We are always left with a guilty feeling because the story just might be true. This time Dan decided to go ahead and take the plunge. He got out a less favored shirt and gave it to him. Actually, he lent it to him and gave the address where we would be staying so that he could return it. We shall see.

We have been looking forward to arriving in Kananga because in Kinshasa, Sally Donaldson had given us such a definitely friendly invitation. Her house is only three blocks from the railroad station, so we were soon there. They live in a house that houses a library of English books, and behind it they have a little school. Sally teaches it, so she was back there when we arrived. We did not see her until recess at 10:00 (there are now 4 children in the school, one of them being 6-year-old Jeff Donaldson) but her husband, David, soon came in from his office to have a cup of coffee.

They installed us in the library, so it looks as if our memories of Kananga will be more of books than of the town itself. Jeff and Molly (3 years old and a character; she reminds us of how Ann must have been) are two of the nicest kids I have ever met, I think partly because they get a good measure of discipline. Once again, Sally has made us feel welcome. Do you suppose it is because she is southern (born in Florida, lived in Tennessee, North Carolina, Louisiana, currently from Atlanta)?

Kananga, Zaire, Friday, March 26, 1983

(DAN) The Donaldsons are Presbyterian Church in the U.S. missionaries from Atlanta, Georgia. They, like most of the Presbyterian Missionaries, are “highly skilled”, out for a specific job for one three-year term. David is an accountant, and he is here to set up a good treasury system for the National Church and “train someone to take my place”. They are probably about 35, and he was in business for himself before they came out. Some­thing with the government because he said they just escaped Reagan. They just arrived in April of last year, but they had spent a year at language school in France. Their children not only speak some French, but at the language school, Jeff’s only playmates were Swedish, so he could speak Swedish and now they are learning some Chaluba, the local language. They have a house guy and a sentinel, and they insist that there is not much for us to help with. I guess that we shall relax, enjoy the considerable library until the next train comes through.

We were not able to wash our clothes because the water went off. Our travel book des­cribes Kananga as “the world’s largest city without electricity or running water”. That is an exaggeration as the Donaldsons are connected to both city water and electricity. Since the power source is two 1920 boat diesels, one would surmise that they have had electricity for quite a while. Actually, they have six of the motors, but four are for spare parts. However, in fairness to Geoff, we had neither water nor power today.

David mentioned that USAID is sponsoring a hydroelectric dam for the big Presbyterian hospital about 15 kms from here. He said one of the big problems is that the soil here has so little impedance that they cannot find anything to serve as grounding. I guess that is a sign of extreme weathering of the minerals in the soil.

I went by to check on the train schedule for our continuing trip south. They would not even estimate when the train would come through as it still had not passed on its way to Ilebo and they had no way of knowing when it would return. I did learn that the next train is the “Rapide-Especial” that we have heard rumors about.  It only has second, first, and deluxe accommodations and makes fewer stops than the “Ordinaire” on which we came. There was a timing sign that said that tickets would go on sale tomorrow from 0730 to 1200.

One of our reasons for stopping in Kananga was to talk on the radio with Kolwezi. We could not talk directly from Kinshasa, but you can from Kananga, and we needed to confer with Mr. French before we actually appeared. We tried to raise the Methodists on the missionary C.B. network they have in lieu of telephone but had no luck. I then got a ride out with Sarah Altman to Kananga II where she and the Methodists live. She and her husband are pharmacists who recently graduated from the U. of Arkansas. We met her with Sally in Kinshasa.

We talked with Sally Smith who runs the Methodist and MAF (Missionary Aviation Fellowship) networks and found that the “missionary net” is at 0800. We shall have to come back out in the morning. We also met her in Kinshasa.

Ah yes, Babutre, the young man who borrowed my shirt on the train, returned it today. We were reconciled to losing it, so if he had not shown, we would not have been surprised. But he did come, so… I believed him more than most since we had seen the military “at work” ourselves.

Kananga,  Zaire, Saturday, 27 March, 1983

(HELENA) Dan went out to Kananga II (pronounced with a gringo accent) to talk on the radio with Mr. French, bought bread at Sally’s request, and went by to see about tickets for our train trip. Mr. French advised us to take the train as far as Luena, south of Kamina, and look up the missionaries there who would help us to get road transport to Kolwezi. It is hard to believe that we are soon to arrive at the place about which we have talked so much.

There was a line at the station, but things began to look bleak when they said there were no more second class reservations. People then started buying first class tickets. Those ran out just as Dan arrived at the window and the man started to close up shop. In desperation Dan asked if there were possibly two places in the Luxe class. He did not think so, but he check just in case, and Glory Be! there were two places. We thought we were being rash to arrive in Brazzaville in first class. This is EMBARRASSING. It looked pretty official because the ticket specified the car, the compartment, and the beds. However, we shall have to keep checking back to find out the time of the departure.

Sally and I spent some time in the afternoon getting ready for the weekly missionary get-together out at Chikagi (I heard it time after time, but have no idea how to spell it). The man who works for them had made delicious doughnuts, so we fixed the rest.

What a gathering! When we arrived, everybody stood around talking. I hate to guess at numbers, but here goes: 10 Presbyterians, about that many Mennonites, and a good number of people who work at Chikagi which is a hospital about 15 kms out in the outskirts of Kananga. Poor Sally must have introduced us at least 20 times. At the end of the evening we picked up one of our first souvenirs. A doctor’s wife has a nervous habit of having to knit while she sits, so she handed out a bunch of dish cloths. We decided we could use it now that we can cook.

This morning I went with Sally, Sarah Altmann, and another friend and a Swiss missionary to do some exercises. We did them to the husky tones of Jane Fonda’s directions at the home of a young Greek woman who had a very good set-up of a sound system and a generator (yes, the lights were off again). Apparently the original enthusiasts are Belgian women who have nothing to do all day. The nicest part was the dip in the private pool before leaving for the house. It seems that there are still a lot of Portuguese merchants, but the Greeks are right up there.

Kananga, Zaire, Sunday , March 27, 1983

(DAN)  The neighbors who are Mennonite printers came over for a pancake breakfast. They gave us the name of a Mennonite doctor who lives near the base of Mt. Kilimanjaro and “tries to persuade people to climb it with him”. If it looks as if we shall be able to make it to Tanzania, we shall be sure to drop him a line.

Lest you think that we are always as dirty as the time in Gabon when the policeman asked us if we ever washed our clothes, we have gotten compliments from many people, especially Mrs. Crowder. They claim we are the cleanest travelers to come their way. Mrs. Crowder said that from time to time they get travelers there in Kinshasa, and that it looks as if they will never completely leave the desert behind.

About 2200 hrs, I went over to the railway station for the third time today to try to get an estimate of the train schedule. There were lights on, but everything was locked up. David had shown me the club that belongs to the railway company, so I decided to walk over and surely somebody there would know what time the train was to arrive. The sentinel went in and brought out a man who seemed to know what he was talking about. He said, “But the Speciale-Rapide left yesterday! You’ll just have to wait for the next train.” (About 4 more days.) I could not believe it, but he said “1 work for the company, and I saw it go through.” Mentally I was agonizing over wasted deluxe tickets and having to tell the Donaldsons that we would have to be here four more days. A crowd began to gather including the white bartender from the club. He argued with the first man, and they counted up on their fingers and figured that the train could not possibly go through until 0700 the next morning. The first man turned out to be well into his cups; however nobody knew for sure.

So, I headed back to the railway station and walked along until I found a hole in the fence. Then I walked along until I found an open door, a light, and a man. He seemed sur­prised to see me, but called up Ilebo on the phone for me. The Speciale indeed had not left Ilebo yet, and the earliest it could possibly arrive in Kananga was noon the next day. People were already beginning to camp out in front of the station, yet nobody out there had any idea of when the train would arrive -- they just wait. We at least got one more good night’s sleep. There has to be a better way!

                                                                                   Kananga, Zaire, Monday, March 28, 1983

(HELENA) We have been amazed here at Donaldsons at the great quantity of canned food that comes from South Africa. They get a lot of their food by placing a big order periodically. A procurer gathers these orders and sends them to South Africa. Every few months these big orders arrive. The products even include large potatoes, onions, and apples. At the outset of our visit, David said that if the South African labels bothered us, he would remove them, but he could see no sense in a boycott. We can see what he means because in we have personally seen cases where poor black people get as bad a treatment from Blacks in power than what we imagine they from Whites in South Africa. So....today we enjoy potato chips that Tata Muanda made from big South African potatoes.

Dan spent the day going back and forth to the railroad station (fortunately only 3 blocks away) and we both readied our things with greatest tranquility. Sally had told us to choose several books from their casually run library, so we spent a lot of time deciding what we would most like to read.

We had our final supper with them (we hoped) and Dan went to check one more time. The train officials still held out for 23:00 hrs, but someone thought the train might be in by 2130. We decided to go ahead and go, just in case. We sat down outside the station along with everyone else and started our books. Shortly afterwards a train drew up. Several people got up to see what it was, but by no means everyone. We took it easy, but fortunately, Dan decided to ask someone official. Lucky thing because it turned out to be our famous Train Speciale. There was no rush, so we decided that the rest of the crowd must have been waiting for some other train.

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[1][1] Yes, the word goober, the southern term for peanut, comes from their word for peanuts which they brought with them from Africa.  However, as an interesting twist.  The peanut is originally from South America, and therefore would have gone to Africa early in the slave trade and then traveled again with the slave to the southern US. http://www.thefreedictionary.com/goober