Stringer (21 page)

And now they approached me. First they made clear that they wanted never to use a gun again. It was a line, I felt. I was then eagerly given a story, like a piece of village gossip, about the recruitment of two herders some days before. A plain-looking outsider, a Congolese, had come to the village and discreetly sought out the men. A few days later the men had snuck out, at night, abandoning their families.

So the militias had passed through this area. There was no sign of them now. I don't know what I had expected to see: a garrison-like encampment, perhaps, or some evidence of the military.

The men said they could barely afford to eat from their herding. “It is not a life.” No doubt they had lived better by their weapons, plundering. But their main complaint was that the UN could give them more useful things to do: they wanted computer training. They asked if I could give them the internet.

For lunch we stopped at a town called Iga Barrière. A short street was its marketplace, where vendors sold meat. As I had everyone else I met that day, I asked our vendor, while chewing on a brochette, if he had seen militias of late. He had not. But he said that the skewers from which I ate goat had carried human meat during the war. And he burst into laughter.

Only a few miles away there was unease: at Kilo-Moto, a productive gold mine, the men hardly engaged me. They allowed me to watch from the edge of their holes, in which they stood, knee-deep in stagnant water; the blood fluke, which swelled one's liver until the veins burst, was common here. Shovels scraped against rock.

Above the pits men chatted and shook the golden clay through sieves. On their way out of these mines they would be strip-searched by the South African company that had hired them as day workers. And in the morning they would again be inspected; only the healthy would be handed permits. In this way the company was assured its gold.

The mines were exploitative, but the villagers were grateful—few other jobs paid two or three hundred dollars a month. They told me that they usually spent their earnings by sunrise, on alcohol and women. They called it “having a wife for one night.”

We drove past fields, and over winding paths on hillsides. The light fell in shafts between clouds.

Among the herders that day I had sensed not anger or resentment but boredom. Their asking for the internet in that field, where they did not have access to electricity and clean water—showed their desire for a life on the edge. I said, “You can get the internet easily in Bunia.” They felt I had misunderstood. “We want to have it here.”

The extravagant, almost whimsical nature of Congolese demands—it was something striking about the people. It led to frustrations. And it perhaps, in part, had to do with the unreasonable expectations of life that Mobutu had created. His destruction had been exhilarating. For a while, in the Zairianization of the 1970s, Congo roared. That was a time of unbelievable wealth—a great carnival. Ordinary people accessed great sums without work. It was felt that Congo's famed riches were, at last, in the hands of its people, and that because this was their destiny, their right, the carnival would not end. The labor of four or five decades was consumed in those few years. And the country was left exhausted. The carnival, however, is still remembered, and beloved. It is part of the nostalgia—perhaps society's great nostalgia, proof of the Congolese achievement.

And now the ex-fighters were being given fishing nets, reeds to weave baskets with and goats to herd. It was an offer of homogeneity, of the individual adventure without the individuality or the adventure. One fished, wove, farmed one's plot. There could be no defiance in this, no drama, no impression of direction or conviction. The men, emerging from the bush, wanted lives; they were being offered jobs. They wanted a way to express themselves.

They found it in the war. In it they marked the world, with
pickax and machete. Victims were boiled in barrels, crushed by pestle, raped until hollowed out and made to carve themselves until they collapsed; there was “autocannibalism”; and the “shortcut death,” which misleadingly required more effort. One sensed an inventiveness, a kind of glee perhaps, at work—something greater than the desire to cause terror—and that this was not killing by machines but by men progressing through the world with acute awareness, in the way that they knew—making their acts extreme, seeking the spectacle, and allowing for no generalities: each victim was made personal.

We entered Bunia.

The heaviness, one felt it at once.

There seemed more people than usual on the street. The American dropped me off at Ali's place, and I sat outside the house waiting—for what, I did not know.

On a whim I called the garbage company couple. They said they were doing well; more people were subscribing to their service. But otherwise they had heard the same, unbelievable rumors.

I went on a walk—past the UN base, the soldier's rifle as always fixed on me, and along the route of the Hummer patrol, and under the UN's halogen lamps, where dogs chased cats chased rodents across the beams, throwing long shadows, and between the children who sat under the lights to do their homework. I gave a last look around myself and decided to return to the house.

And now I noticed some people standing about, staring at the hills. Their murmurs were tense.

At last the wait was over.

20

A
li had predicted it a week before, over a TV dinner. But he had seemed in one of his moods, to exaggerate. And I had ignored him. The preparations, however, had kept growing. The patrols had been made longer and more numerous; soldiers had been added to the UN watchtowers. Helicopters were circling overhead and tanks had been deployed. And I knew that the rumor, which had seemed absurd, was in fact true. I became half-dazed. General Mathieu's army was only a few miles away, and moving upon Bunia.

The legends were swiftly exhumed: the bloodbath here three years before had been the pinnacle of his career: General Mathieu's drugged army had come out in pink wigs and ladies' robes. They had danced to street music. Corpses had decomposed in the gutters; the city had taken weeks to clean. One story had it that red flowers soaked up blood, and this was why the little red gardens had been planted in the convent and at the airport. The nuns said they were not surprised. Bunia had always been like this. They spoke breathlessly, using broken French, English and Italian, and in alternation, like the heads of Siamese twins. A hundred years earlier, I gathered, a militia had knocked on
the convent door. The missionary had recorded it in his journal, now kept in the Vatican. Hundreds had been killed with clubs and machetes. “For a stupid thing called gold.” Those people had died for man's “lust” for shiny metal. So little had changed in Bunia, and in the world. “But we Italians are not like Congolese,” Luigiana said.

“Killing is not our charisma,” added Mariana, wrapped in a white robe and watering the tulips from among the plants, so she seemed to rise like a floret.

The election work seemed already undone; no one would come out to vote with the general threatening.

As the UN prepared, traffic on the boulevard became gradually dominated by military trucks, green and white—the white trucks were for the UN. And because a Security Council resolution had decreed that as a foreign army the UN could not fight alone, the national army—green trucks full of morose red-eyed men wearing chains of bullets as necklaces—was being mobilized.

Neither gave assurance—General Mathieu in recent months had reversed nearly a year's worth of territorial losses to the UN, which was reeling from scandals and seemed distracted, adrift. It was incredible that the general had been allowed to reach Bunia, the UN's regional headquarters. And the Congolese soldiers' glumness was not to be trusted; under supervision, they were behaving. Their faces were oily, their heads matte black. One occasionally saw a soldier digging with his tongue into his teeth: they were being fed. But these were special combat provisions. The soldiers were otherwise paid only ten dollars a month, and often met basic needs—food, money, sex—by looting anyone they found unprotected.

Ali, as much as he had been excited before, now seemed less sure of himself. He was often outside, and at home he had turned quiet—almost timid. I felt he too was overwhelmed, surprised by something.

I was aware of the threat and the danger we were in. But my feelings, in this place, seemed displaced—it seemed almost unnatural, and painful, to feel emotions. And as time went on there grew a sense of distrust in me.

It was a distrust that stemmed from the conflicted responses the general produced in society—responses I recognized, and found alarming. “Mathieu will save us,” I heard more and more. Though the Congolese knew the gravity of his crimes the general had many sympathizers—not only in Bunia, but even in those villages most severely affected by the war. The contradiction was the same as with the women who had danced at Bemba's speech: Why had they hooted? Did they believe that Bemba would protect them? But wouldn't Bemba's troops terrorize other women? Where was the solidarity?

It was there, but perversely misplaced. A family that could hardly afford to feed itself would borrow to buy a relative a gift of honor. It was almost impossible, engineers said, to build a road—inevitably someone would steal the building materials. Electrical cables were ripped off and sold by communities that would have used them. And women who should have united to demand an end to rapes instead each supported her own rapist. So at times it seemed as though the Congolese willed their own demise: they seemed too ready to flee and protect themselves and, once the danger had passed, too willing to repent and reconcile.

A day passed without news. There was a rumor that the government was trying to negotiate with Mathieu. And it was while I waited at a café for more concrete developments—I felt safer outside—that a vendor came up to me, an old man selling balancing figures made of wire. He told me to give one a little push—the wire structure, balanced on a cone, almost fell off, but stopped at the last minute and swung back to equilibrium. The trick was a counterweight at the bottom. The vendor chuckled, saying he had made it himself. And he moved on. Only later, much later, did it occur to me that he was perhaps the first vendor
I had met who appeared to want to spread, more than his wares, the amusement that they created.

The city also showed its stranger sides. I came across a gold seller in one of the boulevard's wooden cabins. Before him was a plastic bag, the size of his fist, heavy with mercury; the metal was used as an attractant, to purify gold. He put his hand inside the bag. I told him the mercury was poisonous. He put his other hand inside. And then, as if for show, he dipped his hands faster and faster. “See, there's no problem.” He laughed. I looked away. There were such signs of recklessness.

At the back of Ali's house, on one side of the yard, was a nondescript shed. The tall doors opened, creaking. In an iron-grill cage were three rows of crates, covered in tarp. Over the floor were arcs in the dust, where the crates had been dragged into position and stacked. The ceiling was high. The smell was musty, of animal and nest. It felt remote; I heard sounds from the street, of people calling, of feet, of birds and dogs. I understood none of the communication, and I couldn't help but feel the city was being emptied, that I was in it alone. I came out of the warehouse, and as soon as I shut its doors I heard a flurry of movement inside, as though the animals had come out of hiding.

Daylight receded. The shadows became longer and longer, until they were all at once gone. I shone a torch at the road and illuminated the glass, dust, salt. Headlamps from passing trucks flooded my beam. A light persisted; not far away a pickup had stopped. In the back were two long benches where four soldiers sat back-to-back, weapons pointing up. I withdrew into the shadows. “Hello?” one of them yelled. I said nothing. The soldier made a grimace. The pickup drove off. A moth fluttered over me.

Feeling cramped, distrustful of my environment, of the forces protecting me, and of the people, I decided to go out and meet the danger. A number had been circulating that supposedly belonged to General Mathieu. A Congolese reporter had given it to me. So far it had not worked. But I began to call the number
repeatedly—and that evening someone picked up. The man on the line confirmed himself as the general:
“C'est bien lui.”
“It is he.” I asked if he was going to invade Bunia; he did not answer. I said I wanted to meet him. And surprisingly, he agreed. He told me to come to his hill.

I had not imagined this would be possible. And now, the invitation secured, the danger in the journey became apparent. General Mathieu had given me his word, but could he be trusted? In Bunia there was at least the UN—here the law still had meaning. On the hill, militia territory now, I would be completely at his mercy.

I approached Ali.

But he seemed hit by a kind of neurosis. He became feverish, explosive, angry at me—he said I had done a foolish and thoughtless thing. What made me think I could call General Mathieu on my own? Shouldn't I have consulted him first? “This is dangerous, dangerous,” he said. But he insisted that we go. “I will have to come with you.” I wondered if we should go at all. “No, no, we should go.” He was now calmer. “There is no problem, I know these people. I know how they work. What the hell, man, I used to have six bodyguards to piss in the bush.” He smirked. “
Six
, just to
piss
!” So he had worked for the militias. It explained his conceit. Ali said that if he came with me nothing could happen. “We take zero risk. If I get even a small feeling of trouble, straightaway we come back.” He spoke in an intense, committed way—it was reassuring. As was the manner in which he conducted preparations—methodical, compact, wasting no energy. In the morning he was in the jeep, his hair wet and pulled back tightly, before the allotted time—I was even thankful to have a driver of his experience.

When the bureau learned I was going they told me to take along a photographer. His name was Riccardo, and he was an Italian
freelancer who happened to be in town. We had met before, while covering the earthquake at Lake Tanganyika. As it happened, I was glad to have a third person in the vehicle—since we had started to move, Ali had begun to show signs of strangeness. And though Riccardo was not known for being discreet—he had come to Africa seeking adventure, of all kinds; he had traveled down the continent by motorbike and up its rivers by barge; he was a hit with the African girls—this was also his first meeting with a warlord of such standing, and the gravity of this, perhaps, made him quiet. He lay in the backseat, as though asleep. The only sign of life he gave was the glowing tip of his cigarette.

Everything else about the journey was noisy: the engine rumbled; boxes shifted and cracked in the boot; the wheels smacked when we landed in depressions—the road was pitted, it seemed, with tunnels. And most of all, Ali came into boisterous spirit. He rolled down his windows and had the speakers blast Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. Everyone we passed turned to look. The engine revved. Bouncing in our compartment, we roared across the countryside, throwing up a cloud of dust. Ali hummed to the
qawwali
and looked in the mirror, turning sideways to appraise himself. He seemed emboldened, to reach for our destination, and to find expression in our journey; he made the adventure feel large. We turned off the regular road and onto a dirt trail. Ali drew his compass. “We're right on course.” The altimeter on the dashboard wobbled, indicating we had started to climb.

I often found myself looking outside. Where there was a plant or tree, it seemed wild, reduced, with thick bark; the savanna vegetation grew in spurts; and around the trees the land, golden brown, was covered in dusty shrubs.

Ali's violent driving eventually did us in. We were on the slope, not three miles from the general's camp, when the engine started to grow hot. Ali did not heed my warning; he continued to drive; and the swelling gauge hit red. The hood began to steam. He drove sluggishly to a depression in the road, at the
bottom of which lay a puddle. The radiator cap spluttered open and discharged a fountain of vapor. Ali poured in some muddy water. This was also coughed up.

“It needs rest,” he said, staring at the radiator. At last he was sober. He turned the Nusrat off; the party atmosphere was gone.

When we restarted the climb our progress was slowed by check posts—slim logs set on small piles of stones at each end—every hundred yards. The militiamen who manned them grew progressively older and less drunk. One of them came to our window and peered inside. Ali screwed down the window and he jumped back. Near the top of the hill we came to an isolated hut. On the porch was a boy, aged about fifteen, eating a pack of glucose biscuits. He wore the fatigues and green beret of the Mobutu army. As though suddenly aware he had a job, he started when he saw us.
“Qui? Quoi?”

“General! Where's your general?” Ali shot back.

Ali, Riccardo and I drifted about the hut's bamboo-rattan furnishing: three chairs and a couch were arranged around a low table decorated with a square of yellow lace. But the place reeked of falseness; one felt uncertain; the homely ambience was not achieved.

While we waited, the boy, who had finished his biscuits, became engrossed in Riccardo's camera, which was being explained while held up to his face. The boy frowned, and then, his forehead still wrinkled, smiled—but suddenly he bolted for the door. There had been a noise; we went to see. To one side of the summit, over the hill's edge, had appeared a large procession. The boy adjusted his beret.

It was like the entrance of a king of old: a group of scouts led, skipping left and right, jumping high, turning with their guns. They looked more like dancers in a parade; but it was their way of vigilance. When they reached the hut they felt us up and down, and every object—belt, pen, telephone—was inspected, opened, tested.

The general wore a crisp yellow shirt and brown trousers, which he picked up at the pleats to sit. On his feet were bronze-buckled sandals. And if one looked at him alone, omitting the entourage, one would see no sign of the militia. He had dressed to match his new message. The conflict, he declared, was to end. “We want to rebuild the country. Isn't that what we've been fighting for all along?”

He leaned forward. “People have grossly misunderstood my work.” “Work,”
travail
, the term seemed important to him. “I have been constantly protecting the people,” he said. “It is the government that has always changed. But if the elections are sincere, we can collaborate.”

“Collaborate with whom? In Kinshasa and abroad they are accusing you of war crimes.”

He smiled. “My friend, didn't they tell you? In all wars the first victim is truth.”

He had quoted Aeschylus, the father of Greek tragedy.

The discourse, the strategy: to the last detail they had been engineered. The ten thousand fighters of the Congolese Revolutionary Movement were to quit the bush and fight instead for the government. In exchange the general would be installed as a colonel in the army. He had also arranged for a lesser militiaman called Cobra Matata to join in his plan. Both men would receive amnesty. But the general was concerned the amnesty would be seen as an admission of guilt—it now mattered to him what people thought. “You have been in the army? . . . No?” He frowned, as though I might then not understand. “War is an extraordinary situation, isn't it?” I agreed. “There is a lot of disorder, you will agree, even without experience.” I showed I was willing to accept that. “Decisions are difficult. Sometimes you don't have the full information. Different things seem acceptable, because of the context. But what is the justification during peace? Peace crimes are actually more serious—we should punish them more heavily.”