It shouldn’t be this hard to find the lava. Of this, I am convinced.

Randy and I have been wandering, somewhat puzzled, along the main streets of Goma for thirty or so minutes, with no sign of the molten rock that overran half the town in 2002 when the nearby volcano erupted. The DR Congo not exactly being a top tourist destination, we’re reluctant to single ourselves out to a greater degree than is already provided for by our pale skin.

Also, we feel silly. How difficult can it be?

Rationally, we’ve been walking in the general direction of the volcano, Mount Nyiragongo, but we’re not sure how much farther it will be before we hit lava. Nyiragongo is itself impossible to miss: huge and dark, it looms in the background of every scene. From the Rwandan side last night, we could see red lights above the mountain; now, in the daylight, smoke burbles from the half-cone like thick froth, threatening. To the Congolese, the sight must seem ordinary, but to me, it is a powerful image and rather symbolic: the town is, quite literally, living in the shadow of its past.

Goma goes on regardless; it has been through horror before and it is sure to see it again. Eight years before the volcanic eruption, Goma exploded into the humanitarian hubbub of the region when hundreds of thousands of Rwandan refugees fled across the border following the 1994 genocide. The international community that had remained unmoved during the massacre suddenly sprung into action, providing millions of dollars in aid to the refugees, many of whom were in fact members of the Interahamwe, the perpetrators of the genocide. The influx of assistance to the refugee camps allowed the Rwandans to enjoy a higher standard of living than local Congolese peasants.

Though the camps have long been dismantled and many Rwandans repatriated, Goma is still haunted by violence in the form of rebel armies, both Rwandan and Congolese, operating in eastern DRC. Attacks on adjacent overland routes are commonplace and often fatal. We have made sure to get a security thumbs up by friends in Rwanda prior to our visit, but I’m still a little apprehensive.

The familiar feel of Goma’s busy streets, however, eases my anxiety. It could be any other African town: slender women in patterned kangas swaying under buckets balanced atop their heads; shaky motorcycle taxis (boda-bodas) spewing black exhaust as they vie for road space with packed minibuses; vendors selling hot chapatti and chai at roadside stands. The roads are all tarmack and potholes, flanked on either side by leaning shacks serving as merchants, mechanics, hotels, and dim rooms with no apparent purpose.

Still, no lava.

Our resolve renews. We wave down a couple of boda-bodas and are soon surrounded by a fleet, all shouting at once for our attention. So much for keeping a low profile. I try to speak to a couple of the closest boda drivers in a mangled mixture of Kiswahili and French, asking where the lava is. My language skills are rudimentary, but somehow the point gets across. The drivers are still confused.  Read More...