Into the heart of darkness

It was all just too tempting. Here we were, sitting on the white sand beaches of Lake Kivu, a place of pure serenity and beautiful views on the western edge of Rwanda. It should have been the kind of paradise that grabs hold of you and won't let you go. But the horizon was beckoning. Every time we glanced to the right, we caught a glimpse of a volcano spewing smoke into the air. At night, we were told -- and later confirmed with our own eyes -- it glows red, thanks to the molten lava still churning inside its hollow peak, like a real-life scene from Mordor.

As if that weren't enough, the volcano lies in one of earth's forbidden lands: the Congo. We had no choice. We had to get closer.

We had read in our guidebook that the Congo is the genuine heart of darkness, the setting for Conrad's novel and the location of some of the world's most unsettling political follies. There was Mobutu, a man who robbed his nation in brazen acts like chartering a Concorde to fly to Disney Land or hitting up the head of the state mining company for $150-million in spending cash for a trip to Paris. Mobutu's downfall created a void that dragged nine nations into a war that, by its numbers at least, made the Rwandan genocide look petty. By the time it had calmed down -- which is now; "calm" being a relative term in this part of the world -- 3 million Congolese had died.

Adding to the tragedy for the citizens of Goma, the town nearest the Rwandan border where we were, was that volcano. It erupted in 2002 and poured rivers of ruby-red lava down the streets of what was once among the country's richest towns, setting fire to its villas and decimating livelihoods.

We had to see it for ourselves. So this morning we hiked to the border, exited Rwanda and headed for the unknown. The principal language in the Democratic Republic of Congo is French, a language its citizens speak fluently, a breath of fresh air from the stuttering French and English we've encountered in other African nations. After being dragged into the offices of the border post chief, who gave us a quick tongue-wagging about obtaining visas in Canada and "surprising" them at the border, we marched to the offices of the Dian Fossey Gorilla Foundation, where we were told we would find an Englishman we had met the night before. He was there, and set us up with a taxi driver who wouldn't rip us off. We headed for the town.

It didn't take long to reach the lava flow, which had dried into a mess of black volcanic rock that made it look like hell's gravel quarry. But far from being dead, Goma was rebuilding and the rocks had been piled into dark fences that surrounded new houses (shacks might be a better description) with gleaming tin roofs. Life looked remarkably normal -- families shopping at markets, women walking around with huge loads of goods on their heads, children playing: typical African scenes.

We had been told that Goma was safe, which is why we went. Still, our taxi driver told us he lived "par la priere a Dieu" -- by prayer to God -- and explained to us that rebels and military deserters who lived in town could well be spying on him, and might show up at his place that night with guns to demand the money he got from the mzungus: us. People, he said, were shot every day in Goma. Apparently even "safe" is a relative term when it comes to the Congo.

We drove around for a few hours before heading for the nicest restaurant in town, which was a piece of tranquility amidst the grubby craziness of Goma's streets. We had a delicious meal -- the French influence has apparently extended even to Goma -- next to the waters of Lake Kivu. Lake Kivu is the most relaxing place we have found in Africa, and it did us good to slow down beside the water for a while. Had we known what we would find here, we would have devoted several more days to this place. If there was any way to change the ticket, I would have loved to have summitted the volcano, an overnight hike that brings you to within spitting distance of the lava. As it is, we're leaving tomorrow for Kigali, where we'll catch a flight to Arusha in Tanzania, the base for our next safari. There have been times during this trip where five weeks seemed far too long, and I longed to fly back to London. Today five weeks seems far too short.