Filming the Volcano in Congo

I’ve just returned from a fascinating trip to the Democratic Republic of Congo. I’ve been to the DRC a number of times now and am always surprised, fascinated and angered by the place. It’s a tough place to film as bureaucracy is incredibly complex and many people seem to have a strong dislike of Camera’s.

On this trip though I had the once in a lifetime opportunity to view the new and powerful Nyamulagira volcano – an hours drive and a three hour trek from Goma.

Personally i found the trek hard (my fitness still lagging after five months with inflammation of the chest) and was so exhausted by the time we got there that i felt my Camerawork suffered. I’ve posted the piece we made below so feel free to have a look:

At night the volcano was awe inspiring

“Hay my friend, why are you taking my picture?” I looked up to see the six Congolese soldiers standing over me; they seemed inquisitive rather than angry. I’d been filming Displaced people carrying their belongings along the road that lead north from Goma in the Eastern Congo, people who had left everything except what they could carry on their backs, desperate to avoid the fighting.

A Congolese Family walking into Goma

It was my first day in the Democratic Republic of Congo and I felt relaxed. I wasn’t taking their picture I assured them just filming the road, I smiled and went to walk away only to find myself surrounded. Suddenly the atmosphere changed, the Commander became more agitated, “Show me the picture,” he shouted, his eyes yellow and bulging from the sockets. He was clearly on drugs and unstable. By now B. our French Security advisor and Jack the local Fixer were with me, they told me to do as he said. I cued the tape back ten seconds and showed him what I’d filmed. It was a low angle shot of the road, heavily laden displaced people filled the frame followed by the silhouette of his unit against the sky. If he had concerns about his face being on International TV he needn’t have worried. He still wasn’t appeased. “Give me the tape,” he screamed, spittle flying in all directions. I hesitated unsure what to do. This was the cue the soldiers were looking for and as one they raised their weapons and stepped back menacingly. My calm left me as all the locals who had been watching inquisitively suddenly ran. They’d seen these guys in action before and knew this was a dangerous situation. I glanced at B. and he nodded at me, “lets give him the tape and get out of here,” he whispered. I popped open the tape compartment and pulled out the cassette handing it over as quickly as I could. He snatched it from me still shouting incoherently in a mixture of French and English. Still he wasn’t happy, he had a point to prove and ordered me into one of our Four Wheel Drive vehicles placing three of his heavily armed soldiers on the back seat behind me. He and another of his men jumped into the other vehicle with the rest of my team. We set off back toward Goma. I had no idea what was happening, where we were going or what I should say.

Mount Nyiragongo as seen from Kibati Refugee camp.

I sat in silence as we drove in convoy. I was afraid to look around at the men behind me. I stole glances in the rear view mirror and was annoyed that one of the men wore British style Commando flashes on his shoulder. I’d been embedded with the Royal Marine Commandos in Afghanistan and resented some of the world’s worst soldiers mimicking some of the worlds best.
After about ten minutes the lead vehicle pulled over and B. got out and ran back to me. “Right” he said, “he’s calmed down now but you need to go and apologize to him, explain it’s your first time here and that you are very sorry. He’s taken a bribe from Jack and just wants to keep face by having you apologize.” I nodded; I was still scared and reluctantly climbed out of the vehicle. The Officer stared hard at me as I approached. I put on my best guilty, apologetic face and apprehensively walked over to him. “Hallo Sir, I’m very sorry for filming you. It was a mistake and I’ll make sure not to do it again.” He nodded and dismissed me with a lazy wave of his grubby hand, trying his best to play the gracious monarch. It seemed to do the trick and the atmosphere began to ease. He decided he was happy now but that we should drop him and his unit back where we found them on the road.

On the return journey the meanest looking of the soldiers in my vehicle began to talk to me. He was a big guy and looked menacing in his wrap around black shades. He spoke to me in Portuguese, I replied in Spanish and we had a surreal conversation as he explained he was Angolan and what a beautiful country it was. By the time we had returned to our start point he was my new best friend, enthusiastically shaking my hand and giving me a thumbs up and a smile. It was only after they’d gone I understood why he was so happy. . . Correspondent Orla Guerin had left her rucksack in the back footwell, when she came to collect it her purse and hundreds of dollars were gone. My first day in the DRC had been an eye opener. This was a country without rules, without law and where you could be killed by anyone at anytime. Welcome to hell I thought as I put the camera on my shoulder and headed into Kibati Refugee Camp.