42 With the thwack-thwack of helicopter blades beating against the thick Congo air, Kinshasa soon faded into the distance. The pilot, a rowdy, pot-bellied Kenyan who divides his time between fly-in safaris and air-dropping ransom packages to Somalian pirates, steered a southwestern course along the river. Soon they were flying over the Kinsuka Rapids, the Crystal Mountains, and eventually straight into the river canyon at Inga. For many, the word Congo conjures images of impenetrable jungle, wild animals, and cannibals, as made famous in Joseph Conrad’s novel The Heart of Darkness. But Inga is nothing like that. Massive deforestation has left the region with mostly wide open rolling hills. Dry yellow elephant grasses and Savannah-like land dotted with silver baobab trees show little evidence of human presence. You’d expect to see a herd of antelope or zebra roaming these hills, or a pod of hippos by the river’s edge, but they’re missing, likely over-hunted and driven from the region. Careening into the canyon, the team spotted the first rapid: Isangila Cataract – the place where Stanley’s expedition was cut short. Nearby, atop a summit overlooking the river, Stanley and his team laid his trusty wooden boat, the Lady Alice, to rest. But all the paddlers could focus on was the whitewater, for Isangila was to be their put-in. The raging brown water rolls through the canyon in huge mounds and haystacks. From a distance, it appears to be crawling along like a lava flow. But moving closer, the river’s immense speed becomes evident. Flowing a least 30 mph, the Congo surges continuously – ebbing, flowing, pulsing – a creature with a heartbeat. Finally seeing the river firsthand, the Inga Rapids were becoming something more than just an ominous name and a legend that kept the paddlers up at night. “Just knowing that within these canyon walls and gorges that other people have drowned or been killed by locals, creates a kind of haunting vibe about the place,” says Sturges. In spots, the river is two miles wide. Tiny tree-dotted islands break up the flow, some with surprising white sand beaches. Mostly the riverbanks are covered in sharp striated brown and black rock, leaning upstream like massive daggers. Thanks to an arrangement Meredith brokered with La Societe National d’Electrcite (SNEL), the government agency that operates the dams, the team was provided a modest house and use of the private airstrip and hangar, all overlooking the Inga Rapids. SNEL’s Inga Village, essentially a company town housing the families of the workers who run the two large hydroelectric dams, is subdivided into small plots of land with modest, well-kept homes, picket fences and mango and papaya trees. Locals spend quiet evenings strolling through their idyllic little town, worlds away from Kinshasa. Perched atop the airstrip peering over the Inga Rapids, Fisher could hardly believe how well his dream was playing out. As the helicopter was fueled and kayaks strapped to the skids, the paddlers rustled around the hangar, zipping camera gear and radios inside drybags, pulling on lifejackets and sprayskirts. There was a tension in the air. Few words were spoken. With their helmets tightly strapped and carbon fiber paddles in hand, the team marched onto the tarmac. The scene was solemn, the feel of soldiers heading off to battle – and particularly ironic given that actual soldiers, the ones guarding the airstrip, were sitting in plastic chairs watching it all unfold.
“I’m the only one here among the paddlers, along with Pete Meredith, who’s ever been to these rapids, so the guys are really going on my word that these rapids are runnable. That’s something that keeps me awake at night, is wondering whether I’m making the right choice for the boys. Am I dragging all these guys to the Congo for the wrong reason or for nothing?” Steve Fisher Marching to war! Ominous clouds darken the sky as the boys head off to battle with the Inga Rapids. 43
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