Danger on the Congo
By Trip Jennings
After putting together a team of the world?s best kayakers, with experience paddling first descents all over the world, after scouring maps and satellite photos for months, and finally after flying low over the river in a Cessna air plane to get a better look, I thought we were prepared for the Lower Congo Rapids.
I was wrong.
When we finally paddled out into the current, committing to 5 days of paddling down stream with no connection to the outside world, on the world?s highest volume whitewater river, the six of us were tossed into a melee we had never dreamed of.
As we were sucked downstream away from Kinshasa, the Democratic Republic of Congo?s capitol city, the Congo River turned into what felt like an ocean jailed between two cliffs and angrily trying to break free. The six of us were tossed about like pool toys in a hurricane. Giant whirlpools threatening to suck us under spawned without warning and ocean like breaking waves crashed on us from all sides.
Our goal was to assist a group of scientists in understanding the natural history of the Congo and how became not only the highest volume whitewater in the world, but how it could breed such a wide array of aquatic biodiversity. The top predator of this biodiversity is the infamous Goliath Tiger Fish, yet another reason to stay above the surface of the water.
As we continued downstream, we became more and more accustomed to a river this large and to boats weighed down with scientific equipment.
On the morning of the fourth day however, we were confronted with an obstacle we had promised ourselves not to think about. Just as we were ready to leave camp on the fourth morning, a group of 6 locals ran into our camp yelling in Lingala, the local language, and pointing AK-47s at us. In seconds our idyllic world of palm trees, white sand beaches and huge whitewater was shattered as we lay face down in the sand, not even allowed to raise our heads for half an hour.
My only hope at this point was that they would choose taking our gear over our lives.
In each camera bag was a letter from the minister of information, a position not unlike the secretary of state back at home. In the DRC?s national language of French the letter explained who we were, what we were doing and asked whoever read it to help us on our way. It was like having a permission slip from Condoleezza Rice? you may or may not like her, but you know if you kill her friends, you?ll probably get in trouble.
After what seemed like and eternity, our captors located someone who could read French and translate to Lingala. We hoped that this letter would save out lives.
After it was read aloud, the rebels or soldiers or perhaps paramilitary motioned for us to put on our shoes and walk into the jungle. We were being taken hostage.
The man in charge trained his machine gun at LJ from just 4 feet away. A flinch of his trigger finger and our lives would change forever, likely they would end. He motioned for LJ to begin walking into the jungle but instead of obeying, LJ stood still. ?No,? he said.
Silence.
Soon the gun was aimed at me and the same motion was made. ?No,? I said.
I was taken aside, and in an astonishing change, the man in charge pointed at me, then into the jungle, then at my watch and downstream toward the scientists and safety. All this to steal my watch?
Soon, we packed up our kayaks as our captors watched and paddled downstream.
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^M
