Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
The forests of Équateur spread beneath us, green horizons in all directions, faintly rippled by the
contours of the land.
In Kinshasa, when I'd told Evelyn's brothers that I would be flying to Djolu, the younger one
had said, “I hope you have faith in something.”
“What would you recommend I have faith in?” I'd asked. “In the pilot, the mechanic, or God?”
He considered the question.
“I wouldn't trust any of those three in the Congo.”
The Congo is known for airline disasters and not meeting international security standards. Be-
fore coming, I'd run across an article about an accident in which a passenger brought an uncon-
scious crocodile in a duffel bag onto the flight. As the plane was about to land, the crocodile woke
and fought its way free. The terrified passengers ran to the front of the plane, throwing it off balance
as it neared the strip. It crashed, killing the pilot and all the passengers except one. The crocodile
survived, only to be dispatched with a machete on the ground.
We glided above the wide, split waters of the Congo River, then cut inland. For the next two
hours, we traveled three hundred miles, the evenly textured forest passing beneath us. There were
occasional variations: a few massive trees reaching above the canopy; some bright red foliage, in
flower or leaves to be shed; then the skeletal fingers of a dead tree. Banks of mist gathered along
thin depressions. The pools of a narrow river refracted glare through the hazy clouds. Moments
later, there was just forest again, more regular than the sky.
As we neared Djolu, spaces cut from the forest came into sight, scorched circles of new fields
from recent slash-and-burn farming. The landing strip appeared, a thin gash in the trees, a yellow
line scored along its center. A dirt road ran beyond it, past a few mud and thatch homes, into the
distance. The plane banked, then descended fast, the trees rising on either side.
The landing was so smooth I hardly felt the wheels touch. We slowed and stopped as dozens
of children in torn and faded clothes ran from the edge of the forest and circled the plane. We got
out, standing in a crowd of at least fifty of them, a dozen men and women greeting Sally and Mi-
chael, shaking their hands, the women kissing their cheeks, the men touching Michael's forehead
with their own.
Each time I lifted my camera, the children flowed together in front of it. They called to see the
screen after the shot, pushing in, trying to get a glimpse of themselves, screaming when they did,
clutching my wrist and staring.
“
Donnez-moi de l'argent!
” they shouted. “
Bic! Bic!
” they said and lifted their hands, wanting
pens. One of the pilots told me that at least twice a week he had to argue to keep his shirt, men
coming from the crowd and insisting that they needed it more than he did. And seeing them, I didn't
find this entirely unreasonable. With the exception of those who worked for BCI, almost every-
one wore threadbare clothes—T-shirts disintegrated at the shoulders, hanging from their seams, and
pants tattered beneath the knees.
Again, the Congolese took charge, villagers helping under the direction of Marcel Falay. Tall
and broadly built, with a perpetually jovial expression, he was BCI's regional director and agro-
nomist. He'd worked with BCI years before on a project. Afterward, when he was with another em-
ployer, he broke his foot in a motorcycle accident, and BCI had paid for his treatment. Later, when
his contract finished, he returned to work for them, staying on even during the periods when they
lacked funding.
