C'est vraiment du sabotage

The Ferryman and the flag

A pleasant trip on Lake Kivu ends with a sudden eruption of patriotism. Journalist Tony Hall tells the story

Contrary to popular European belief, unrest in far-off tropical countries is very seldom aimed at "doing in" the white people. Much more often than not, people who are visibly foreign are left with their skins and their dignity remarkably intact, as communal riots or palace coups storm and swirl around them.

Along came the Shaba affair to provide one of those grisly exceptions which feed the popular prejudice. Even there, many more blacks were killed than whites. Nevertheless, in Zaire - as in the world is discovering once again - you can't win, whoever you are. The Zairois, as far as you can generalise, are talented, forceful, dynamic people.

Their country is the vastest, richest most savagely colonised country in a vast, rich and badly exploited continent. One day it will be a great country, in every sense. In these times it suffers a bad case of the crazies. I speak with authority.

It happened about three years ago. With two British colleagues I was touring Kivu province, the beautiful "Switzerland of Africa" which is north of Shaba province, looking at rural development projects. We were on a ferry boat on lake Kivu, heading northwards from Bukavu to Goma. There was a holiday atmosphere on board, and I was using my camera to take scenic snapsots.

We sat happily on the foredeck, below the wheelhouse, in the mild winter sun; the national flag of Zaire fluttered colourfully over the bows, which cut through the glass-smooth green lake water. Everything was colourful: the tall bar-girls moving around among passengers - and even more busily, up to the wheelhouse carrying trays, loaded East African fashion, with capped beer bottles lying on their side; the infectious Congo beat grew louder as the trays emptied.

I posed my two colleagues up front, with the flag waving in the background, then moved them over to one side, then moved them over to one side, for a splendid backdrop of dark-green hills in the distance. We drank a couple of beers ourselves and smiled benignly up at the chief merrimakers, the captain, his mate, the man a the wheel and all three bar girls - by now all crowded into the wheelhouse, rocking and swaying to the music.

By early afternoon we slewed into the rundown port of Goma and docked with a jarring bump. The three of us joined the queue shuffling down to the jetty, but as we reached the gangplank, a stocky soldier in camouflage battledress blocked our way with his automatic rifle. "You wait here," he barked. "What is the problem? Why are you holding us?" asked one of my companions, whose French was fluent. The soldier pointed to the wheelhouse, from where the captain was scowling down at us without all traces of merriment lost: "You," said the soldier, grabbing my camera, "you insulted our national flag. The captain saw you." Total amazement; "How?"

"You took a picture of it . The captain saw you. This is serious. Your camera is confiscated."

Our angry protests only produced a menacing gun. We kept quiet as we were marched down the quayside to a small hut, and ushered before a mild-looking man behind a desk. "These three are under arrest - took an insulting picture of the national flag. Hold them here, the captain is coming to make a report," said the soldier. There were mutterings from three or four people lining the walls; "Mais c'est du sabotage ne c'est pas?"

The desk man put on a grave face, and demanded our passports. "We will develop the film. If we find these pictures - you are in trouble. This is a serious matter..."

Twenty minutes later a battered Mercedes lurched to a halt, and out stepped the big angry man from the wheelhouse. He stormed in, banged his fist on the desk and shouted. "These ***** foreigners must go before a magistrate. I was watching - they deliberately..."

The desk man eagerly interrupted: "Yes, mon capitaine - they deliberately insulted the national flag by taking a picture of it..." No, no you bloody fol," the ferryman turned on him with twice the viciousness that he had used on us. "He insulted the flag by deliberately not taking a picture of it. I saw it all. He had these people standing in front of the flag and then he told them to move away because he did not want a picture of our flag.!..."

"C'est vraiment du sabotage," said the audience gravely. "Charge these foreigners bellowed the captain, "or I'll charge you!" He stormed out.

A couple of minutes passed quietly. The man at the desk picked up the phone. And he put it down again. He scribbled a few words, moved some paper about. He didn't look at us.

"Ask him," I said to one of my companions, "what is it going to be: insulting the national flag by taking a picture of it, or by not taking a picture? We'd like to know the charge." Not looking up, he pushed across the passports and the camera. "You may go," he said.

Two years later part of Goma was destroyed by lava from the sudden eruption of a long-dormant volcano in one of those breathtaking mountain peaks [and again in 2001.] There must be something about the place to bring on these sudden eruptions.

Events magazine, August 11th 1978

Ferry sinks on the way to Goma, 2001