Africa’s forgotten island
Often described as Africa’s forgotten island, Idjwi is one vast panorama of verdant landscapes surrounded by the great expanse and tranquility of Lake Kivu. Situated in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), Idjwi’s hills and hollows are quilted in all shades of lush green foliage that coalesce into valleys of manioc, cassava and pineapple plantations. Before we embarked in 2016, we could find very little published online about this island so naturally we were excited to explore it for ourselves.
This was the inaugural expedition of a group we have affectionately dubbed ‘the boda gang’. I had flown into Rwanda to meet Lucy, a Uni pal of mine who lives in Uganda and Aubri and Zoe had met Lucy in Kampala whilst on a medical research placement. Marcus, a college friend of Aubri’s from back in the States, flew in to visit Aubri en route to moving his life out to Nepal. We all convened at the DRC border and that in a nutshell is how we met.
Our adventures have since seen us running from rhinos in the Nepalese jungle (thank you, Marcus), being attacked by teenagers with pitchforks in Congo, diving with pirates in Djibouti, and treading along the crumbling edge of an eyeball-melting volcanic sulphur cloud in the pitch black dead of night and journeying to the cradle of human life in Ethiopia. To complete the travel squad I should also mention Socrates, our Congolese compadre for this expedition. He had never been to Idjwi either but it was to prove very useful having a native mediator and translator.
“Despite the near constant haze of volcanic smoke clouding Goma’s skies, on our departure from port we were treated to a clear view of the fiery cones of Nyiragongo and Nyamulagira above the glistening lights of the city below.”
Our island adventure almost never happened. As electricity had not made its way to Idjwi yet we spent much of the early afternoon in Goma driving between malfunctioning ATMs and of course nobody knew when the ferry to the island left. Eventually we found an ATM with network connection after doubling back towards the Rwandan border and then onwards to Goma's port with some vague idea not to arrive after 4pm.
The road took us along the water front for some time where we were ambushed by local kids throwing rocks at us. We surmised this was likely down to boredom rather than any hostility. Eventually the winding road looped down into a long but surprisingly small harbour lined with goods vessels, fishing boats and ferries. It felt unusually disconnected from the rest of the city. Our passports were rounded up for arbitrary but customary checks and as usual we did not know where they were going or when we would get them back. As dusk fell, we walked the gangplank aboard the last ferry as dusty boxes of goods were thrown hand to hand from truck to hold below us. We were told that cameras of any kind were strictly forbidden here and the area was heavily guarded - so it’s best to follow the rules, Marcus.
Despite the near constant haze of volcanic smoke clouding Goma’s skies, on our departure from port we were treated to a clear view of the fiery cones of Nyiragongo and Nyamulagira above the glistening lights of the city below. Cool.
The ferry was basic but adequate and with a little creative - albeit uncomfortable - manoeuvring it was possible to sleep for a couple of hours during the five hour crossing of Lake Kivu. Suddenly out of the darkness of the water we hit land. Burlap sacks brimming with beans and cassava leaves were energetically loaded and unloaded at the various brief stops the boat made along the island.
“They subtly but inevitably so obviously stared at us, whispered a few words then began giggling again. Fair-skinned westerners obviously don’t pass through these parts all that often.”
Having left the light pollution of Goma and the Northern shore far behind, we landed on Idjwi Island in the port of Bugarula in the pitch black dead of night. Two buzzing boat-side spotlights barely illuminated our precarious gangplank exit down onto the muddy island shore where islanders knee deep in the sludge were hauling their goods amidst the usual loud and lively calls and frantic hand gestures. Our accommodation for the night, Balamage Hotel, was only a few minutes walk from the port and I was thankful to arrive to a made bed with a pre-fixed mosquito net. Marcus, Zoe and Aubri were instead greeted by a family of massive spiders on the ceiling above their bed so whilst I was asleep in about 20 minutes, the same could not be said for them.
The following day broke in silence. Small canoes cut into still, glass-like water and distant fisherman obscured by a soft blanket of haze paddled home with their morning catch. Children meandered through the foliage all around us and the smell of fresh coffee electrified our senses. Our first day on Idjwi slowly began.
We sat by the lake on a rusty old three-seater swing as a growing number of giggling men began to gather by a nearby boat half submerged in water, half hauled onto the grass. They subtly but inevitably so obviously stared at us, whispered a few words then began giggling again. Fair-skinned westerners obviously don’t pass through these parts all that often.
Breakfast was basic but sufficient and after a quick repack, we were off. Socrates had arranged local drivers to take us to the south of the island by boda boda (a motorcycle taxi and popular East African means of fast and cheap transportation). About 10 drivers turned up for work but with only six of us they each began gently pulling us towards their respective bikes to secure a spot in the group before negotiation of daily rates had even been concluded.
“The rolling hills of Idjwi and the city of Goma could hardly be more unalike. Blocks of concrete non-profit headquarters did not line the roads nor did convoys of UN trucks roar past us. In fact we rarely saw a car at all.”
We opted for the flatter and faster outer island route along the western shore, with a bare single bike track cutting through dense foliage just about wide enough to clear your knees and shoulders. The occasional scrape was to be expected and my first occurred within five minutes of setting off. I pulled the short straw being paired with a young and inexperienced driver. He hadn’t a clue how to operate a motorcycle on a rocky incline and revved the engine too aggressively at the first sign of a gradient, jettisoning both him and I from the bike as we watched it flip over and bounce back down the hill. I felt sure it wasn’t going to start up again but thankfully it did and I walked away with just a couple of bloody scrapes to my elbow and knee.
The hills and valleys were lush, green and cultivated but otherwise untouched, and we travelled blind through towering ferns and thickets. The further we ventured the more apparent it became there was no real tourism here. Every so often the red dirt tracks we drove along emerged into glimpses of rural life from the hills all the way down to the fishing villages scattered amongst the island's shores. The usual troop of excitable children ran towards us from clearings shaded by giant kapok trees as they shouted “Muzungu!” (meaning “White!” in Swahili). No sooner would they reach the road than we had disappeared back into the foliage.
“Despite the near continuous clashes in the region over the following decades, Idjwi has avoided major violence due to its isolation.”
The rolling hills of Idjwi and the city of Goma could hardly be more unalike. Blocks of concrete non-profit headquarters did not line the roads nor did convoys of UN trucks roar past us. In fact we rarely saw a car at all. There was a sense of peace.
Africa’s forgotten island has long afforded safe sanctuary to the many refugees who fled the Rwandan genocide of 1994. Despite the near continuous clashes in the region over the following decades, Idjwi has avoided major violence due to its isolation.
This has led to significant overpopulation and deforestation which, for an island predominantly inhabited by subsistence farmers, has had dramatic effects on crop cultivation. Soil infertility and erosion, among other endemic difficulties, have resulted in a serious malnutrition and infant mortality problem on the island. The medical infrastructure of Idjwi is improving and various projects to install terraced crops and reforest the island have gone some way to combat the problem but population pressures as a growing source of poverty cannot be overstated.
“We had just managed to clear the swelling crowd as the inevitable happened, a fight broke out. Stones were thrown at our drivers and Socrates’ bike was hurled to the ground.”
Officially the island is a Kingdom split into two chiefdoms, Rubenga to the north and Ntambuka to the south roughly divided along the island’s narrowest section at a place called Ngabanjro. It is marked by a partially sunken shipwreck.
We had been gradually ascending for around 5km as we approached Ntambuka. The route began trailing a series of increasingly steep switchbacks, forged into the dusty embankments, and by the sputtering sounds of our engines we were nearing the summit. As we looped around the final stretch we encountered an unexpected and rather sudden roadblock.
Small trees had been dragged across the track and ten or so teenagers holding spades and pitchforks stood defiantly in our way. They seemingly knew we were coming, likely having been informed by a neighbouring village of our approach. Our drivers immediately dispersed to evade the group, trying their best to swerve through a morass of crooked branches which was made all the more difficult as the villagers kept jumping into the path of our bodas.
More of them leapt down from the embankments and began to ram the handles of their hoes and spades into our wheel spokes as our already ailing bikes struggled their way to the summit. Despite our blockaders’ best efforts, four bikes broke through the crowd, however Socrates, our drivers and I did not.
My driver immediately spun the throttle to full power but as the smoke from the engine and spinning tyres rose around us, it became clear our bike was not going to move. Two men held tight to the rear handle bar as another grabbed my arm pulling me backwards and off my bike. I instinctively reached for my backpack believing this was a robbery. A hand began fumbling around with my back pocket, presumably hoping to find a wallet. They were after money. The four of us were surrounded by at least 30 more agitated villagers in a matter of seconds.
I was terrified. Each minute seemed like an eternity and within a few short moments the crowd had swelled, possibly even doubled. I could no longer see the rest of the boda gang who were only in fact 50 or so yards further on up the track. Stuck in the middle and totally surrounded I was being prodded from every direction by villagers rubbing their fingers as a gesture for money. They wanted compensation for our use of the road. The drivers who had made it to the top of the hill quickly rejoined the throng and an energetic exchange broke out between them and the islanders. Angry voices got louder, the crowd became aggressive and farming tools were being wielded in the air.
Lucy, who has experienced her fair share of let’s say ‘delicate’ situations across the African continent, appeared suddenly and grabbed my wrist with a clear instruction to “just keep walking”. Slowly but purposefully we exited the centre of the ensuing chaos, which was evidently about to bubble over. The two of us had just managed to clear the swelling crowd as the inevitable happened, a fight broke out. Stones were thrown at our drivers and Socrates’ bike was hurled to the ground.
“Ever increasing competition for limited resources and a longstanding and widespread belief the island had been forgotten led to instances of mob justice.”
Lucy and I made it to the top of the hill and immediately spotted a hoe wedged in the side of Aubri’s bike. With no other option, we watched a man who appeared to be a local chief stride towards where Socrates and our drivers stood in the middle of the mob. In the melee I had all but forgotten this too was Socrates’ first time on the island. After a terse exchange, he and our drivers began to ascend towards us.
Socrates’ bike had totally given out in the ambush, and try as he might a push start was proving difficult on this sort of incline. As we stood at the top of the hill, all we could see was a large group of children and villagers thrusting pitchforks to the sky, encroaching upon us. Their sinister laughter resonated across the hillside. With a final push, and the words “We must leave, now,” Socrates got the struggling bike going and we all made a hurried escape.
Far into the lush valleys of Idjwi, we paused for a brief pitstop to drink water and tend to our drivers’ wounds. Thankfully Zoe and Aubri are doctors and the cuts were not too deep. As the adrenaline faded, it gradually began to dawn on me exactly what we had just experienced. I’m certain that was the most danger I have ever been in.
Despite Idjwi’s reputation as a peaceful refuge semi-isolated from regional conflict, it is not entirely surprising that tensions exist on the island. Well into the 21st century when regional centres were being modernised the island became increasingly overlooked. Underdeveloped and without mains electricity many agencies reportedly left Idjwi out of their reconstruction initiatives, which was likely made worse by local political instability.
Ever increasing competition for limited resources and a longstanding and widespread belief the island had been forgotten led to instances of mob justice and particular friction between community leaders and local police. There have been deaths on both sides as a result. Search for Common Ground (SFCG), a non-profit headquartered in Washington and Brussels, has helped to encourage dialogue between locals and the police, launching the USHIRIKIANO project, which means “social cohesion” in Swahili.
Collaboration is key. Understanding the respective responsibilities as well as the difficulties faced on both sides promotes trust and today there are broad frameworks for conflict mediation to calm instances of unrest.
That afternoon, heavy rains were rolling in and the dirt tracks had turned into torrential mud and were fast becoming unnavigable. It took some persuasion and road-side negotiations to convince our drivers to take us to our next stop, Kintama, a short drive further down the island.
“Out of an old plastic bottle a thick grey-brown fermented home-brew was poured. It was sour and strong as hell.”
Our passports needed to be checked by the local police chief, no less, who appeared at the roadblock yielding a briefcase. We weren’t going to be making it much further that day. In a yard behind the chief’s office we were kindly offered some local beer. Marcus had variously mentioned how much he had been looking forward to his first taste of the island’s famed banana beer. Not even Zoe’s prompt reminder that drinking too much could blind him could dampen his excitement.
Kasiksi, as it it known, is made from fermented mashed bananas and commonly stored in repurposed jerry cans coated in gasoline residue, signs of their previous life. It is ceremonially offered during the enthronement of chiefs and certainly a staple of community gatherings. In to each of our glasses the thick grey-brown fermented home-brew was poured. It was sour and strong as hell.
As we savoured our palpably gritty moonshine, Chief proceeded to write down every fathomable morsel of information furnished on the pages of our passports proclaiming, “I am like FBI of Idjwi Island”.
He was wearing a glittery cowboy hat.
Our faces were dusty and our legs were muddied from the dirt tracks we had been biking down for much of the day and in the rain we were beginning to blend into the sludge. Fairly exhausted from surviving our brief incursion, we were ready for some down time. Our accommodation for the evening was a basic but adequate guest house in Kashofu Bay near the southern most tip of the island called Congomani Guest House. It didn’t take us long to spot the small concrete pier out back and in no time at all we threw off our layers and dived into the lake. Washing off the day was glorious as too was observing two of our curious Congolese friends trying to decipher my GoPro as they jumped in to join us. Of the 350 photographs they unwittingly captured on burst mode, this one was the only one with someone in it. What a selfie.
As we were still splashing about Zoe began to tell us a little something about naegleria fowleri, the brain-eating amoeba. It’s an organism typically found in warm freshwater in hot regions. Tick box. Apparently infections are most likely when the microorganism enters the nose. A bit like when you jump into a lake really, so it was explained. Tick second box. Having already gone back multiple times to perform our finest running jumps off the pier, we further learn the amoeba travels through the nasal cavity and into the brain, slowly eating away at your brain tissue. Fantastic, anything else? Apparently death is a near certainty with most studies placing the fatality rate above 95% even after treatment, and the organism is known to exist in DRC. OK, so out of the lake we go. In any case it was time to get ready for the evening, we could hear the generators starting up signalling the preparation of dinner.
Our time there was short but you could easily spend a couple of weeks on Idjwi exploring island life, the vibe and the rhythm really were quite something. We took our drinks down to the banks of the lake and positioned ourselves on an abandoned and mostly submerged wooden boat. Amidst the chirruping crickets the faint remains of the island’s day could be heard drifting across the water as we watched the colours of dusk eventually yield to the spectacular white luminance of a full moon rising above us. It was a felicitous end to a fairly animated day.
“Are the Pineapples fresh?”
Despite our terrifying encounter, the island’s communities are known for their hospitality. The atmosphere was calm and relaxed and there were many opportunities to kick back and take in the vast serenity of the lake.
Our last day got off to a slow start as the day of departure always does. We were cautioned that there was likely only one boat off the island that day otherwise we might have been tempted to extend a relaxed morning to a lazy lunch. Back on the bikes with the island’s now familiar dry warm air blowing on our faces, we made our way to Ruhundu Port (formerly Buruhuka) on the south-west shore.
Awaiting our onwards transport, we killed some time wandering along a nearby track passing long tables of pineapples for sale and rows of mud block houses some of which looked a bit like shops. Outside one of them was a barber tending to his client.
Fishing boats lined the shore. They mostly catch sambaza here, a sweet and salty fish that is very popular around the shores of Lake Kivu. The boats comprise three or so adjacent hulls 15 feet apart connected by trunks. Further trunks extend far out to the fore and aft of the rafts from which the nets are cast. We spotted one moored up and nestled into the reeds from which two ladies were hanging their laundry. The pursuing crowd of young kids swelled as we continued walking amongst daily island life.
I shall not soon forget watching Marcus ask “are the Pineapples fresh?” about thirty different times in thirty different ways. The ethnically Bantu inhabitants speak their own language here, Kihavu, in which none of us were versed. To much laughter, big smiles and a few shy blushes, none of the ladies had any idea what he was asking them. We purchased the pineapples anyway. They were very fresh.
Banana and pineapple plantations are obviously big business on Idjwi and the island’s temperate climate is perfect for sweet potatoes and cassava but especially coffee. The coffee beans farmed here have been noted by some as the island’s best chance at a better future.
Due to the island’s position between mainland DRC and Rwanda and the lack of any organisational controls amongst the coffee farmers, trade was for a long time completely unlicensed. Lacking regulation or policing, such illicit trade enabled Rwandan traders to set very low prices and it became so common for bandits to ambush the smuggling farmers that the island of Idjwi became renowned for the number of coffee farmer widows.
Since 2011, the Kivu Cooperative of Coffee Planters and Traders (CPNCK) has worked to coordinate the farmers, many of whom are women, training them to communicate with each other as well as with international project partners to make exportation of coffee a reality. This is slowly connecting them to the rest of the product lifecycle, but more importantly it is discouraging young people from pursuing a life of smuggling and provides them with a sense of purpose.
“I was the first aboard and now holding up everyone else. Not one to mince her words, Aubri yelled “move!” to which I responded “there’s a bloody goat!”
Finally stationing ourself on the pier to await the boat, we caught our last glimpse of the island’s relaxed mid-morning atmosphere. Kids played marbles on the floor aside us, boys fished and men salted trays of sambaza by the pier’s edge. Every so often another lady walked past offering us a further sale of fresh fruits. We were about to find out just how popular the pineapples were on Idjwi. As the boat appeared through the bright haze on the lake’s horizon, the islanders hurried down to the dock ladened with pineapples ready for the hard sell.
The boat did not physically dock there. A single rope was pulled through a hawsehole in the hull and loosely looped around an iron bollard on the pier. The ferry would gently bob to and from the pier-side as small pieces of luggage were thrown a fair distance over the boat’s railing, launched if necessary over people standing on the pier. All the while the boat’s passengers were reaching out with their cash clasped tightly in their fists intensely haggling for pineapples. The best deals seemingly went to whoever could shout the loudest.
We could not miss the last boat back to Goma during its short pitstop. It was imperative we now boarded. Pushing through the chaos and hoping for the best, I jumped from the pier, grabbed any hand that was offered to me and clambered aboard through a small hatch. The density of the passengers still aggressively bartering all along the boats railing made it near impossible to move. I was the first aboard and now holding up everyone else. Not one to mince her words, Aubri yelled out “move!” to which I responded “there’s a bloody goat!” I straddled said goat and pushed my way through mountains of vegetables and small children until eventually we were all aboard.
In between brief jaunts to admire the shores of Lake Kivu under the blazing midday sun, we unanimously opted to camp under the shade of the top deck’s very small and only canopy taking turns nodding off. During our investigation of the lower decks, Marcus and I discovered mostly cramped cabins of hot and bothered passengers and a disco. Yes, the kind with multi-coloured lights, bar and dance floor. Party time?! Absolutely not. We were the very embodiment of running on reserves.
Whether it be pitchfork bandits, banana beer or brain amoeba, it’s a good idea to have your wits about you but this hidden island gem is well worth the journey. Idjwi had demanded our complete attention but in return treated us to a 48 hour flash of excitement.
With the introduction of farming co-operatives and a growing sense of connectivity amongst these communities, Idjwi continues to emerge from the absence of our modern world. Its story is certainly captivating and it deserves to be more widely and more loudly told. As I sat noting brief markers of the journey, I contemplatively watched the surrounding vistas rolling past wondering to myself just how much more Africa’s forgotten island was hiding up its sleeve.
