Why is it that so many books in my "Africa" category also find a spot in the "craziness" category? The instant Belgium pulled up stakes in Congo the place went into a downhill slide, and it's not for lack of industrious and honest people who would like to work on the place. No, Congo's big problem is the fact that the country has been abundantly cursed with natural resources and conflict minerals and since the sixties the place has been plundered by any group that had the wherewithal to obtain arms and didn't mind killing a few folks in order to enrich themselves.
Bryan Mealer spent a good deal of time travelling around Congo and seeing the carnage firsthand. He explains the crazed alphabet soup of acronyms used by each group of armed maniacs in a manner that is easy to follow, and he is a master at getting your attention and leaving the reader with a solid (if condensed) understanding of how the Congolese shit went stringy.
Mealer put his neck on the line to interview the Congolese "man in the street", so to speak...except that there are few streets left in Congo. This required some Quixotic journeys, such as travelling on various vessels up the Congo River and risking his life on the suicidal rollercoaster that is all that remains of the national railway. He saw the bodies and spoke to parents whose children were chopped into pieces in front of their eyes; he experienced the shameless shakedown of customs officers who hadn't been paid for months. He acquired a wealth of knowledge, some of which caught me by surprise. As an example, I had no idea that more people have perished in the Congolese conflicts than in any other conflict since WWII...something like 5 million, the overwhelming majority of whom were noncombatants.
In the midst of the carnage and insanity, Mealer was able to find many Congolese still laboring away in a doomed attempt to maintain a sagging and unfunded superstructure. Most touching were the men who worked on the railway, their last paycheck a distant memory, toiling long hours at cannibalizing a shrinking fleet of locomotives in an attempt to keep two engines functional. A common lament was that they wanted the white man back to run things. As Mealer put it:
(P.270-271)I'd been hearing it all week, starting with Fabien. I'd heard it again from a pastor going to Kongolo, standing outside during the long Lusengi breakdown, asking me 'When is the white man coming to fix this train? When is he coming back to fix this mess?" Then again from the old man who rang the breakfast bell, who told me with those same pinched eyes, "The black man can't run this company because he lacks compassion. The black man lacks love." 'Whites have the same problem,' I said. 'Believe me'. "No, no," he shot back. "A black man laughs at his countryman who's suffering. White men would never do that. If a black man continues to run this company, the end is certainly near."
Everyone had his own history. Ask an old man in Kinshasa what he thought of the white man, and he'd spin you a picture of Stanley snapping a whip and taking heads, ol' Bula Matari, the rock breaker, or show you the statue of Leopold now facedown in the city dump. The white man was the UN, the fleshy figure behind the tinted glass with a weakness for Tintin and tight, young girls. And on the river he was l'etranger, the thief and mercenary, the cloaked shadow who controlled their leaders with fingers that pulsed with war. But in Katanga, the bejeweled trough of empire itself, where the international firms took their 80 percent on the straight, and where that strange, warm breeze at midnight was the anxious breath of hundreds more waiting to pounce - well, the people couldn't wait to bring them back."
I learned a lot from this book, but I can't say that it left me with any hope for the future of this forsaken country. My one criticism is that there are no photos in the book, an unusual shortcoming for a fellow who wandered the country in the company of photographers. I don't say I need pictures of dead folks, but Mealer met a lot of good struggling people in his travels; I think he lost a chance to show us their faces.