Pushkar Shah in Doulisi, Republic of Congo

FROM ISSUE # 126 (June 2006) | IN THIS ISSUE
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Rebels and white rebels

It isn't safe to ride a cycle to Doulisi as the area outside Brazzaville is still under rebels' control. Andrea, daughter of the president of the Republic of Congo, advised me to take a train. It's hard to believe she is the president's daughter; she walked the streets as my guide for three hours. She also bought my train ticket.

The train station was crowded. A policeman asked me to enter first. Everyone stared, probably because I was the last to arrive, but they didn't protest. The policeman showed me a seat and said, "This the train going to Doulisi". He asked for his fee indicating that he wanted something to drink. I gave him 200 Franc.

The train must date back to the colonial era. The tracks are old and covered in grass. One man was cleaning the cabins. My departure time was 7AM. It was five minutes to seven and I was the only one who had boarded. Once the cleaning finished, it was madness. Everyone fought to get in. I had a first-class ticket but the ticket-collector (TC) asked if I had one for my bike. I didn't so he helped me get it and put my bike in the luggage compartment. He beckoned me to follow and led me to a small street bar. It was only 7.30 AM but he bought three bottles of beer. Maybe this was Congolese culture, cheers!

At 8.30 AM, we headed back. The compartment was full. The seats were taken by luggage while people stood. The TC helped me find my seat and nearly got into a fistfight with someone who was eyeing it. At 9.05 AM, the train left with people inside making more noise than the engine.

At 10AM, the train stopped. Four rebels armed with guns entered our compartment. They looked young, their guns looked old. Some were barefoot and wore tattered clothes. Scared, I looked for the TC but he wasn't around. The rebels proceeded to collect money. When they approached me, I asked, "How much?" One rebel took my wallet, emptied and handed it back. I kept silent. Who would have listened? They headed for the next cabin.

I had seen rebels in Nepal but never one with guns. When the train stopped at the next station, the rebels got off and another group got on. Guns changed hands. The new rebels talked to the people and shook hands but didn't collect money. They checked the cabins and left. These rebels looked below 20 years old, with the same hopes and of the same nature. People rebel when they don't get jobs and food. They rebel to survive.

The rebels continued to change at every station, with new ones boarding, socialising and leaving. At 3PM, the train stopped again. Dhyang! Dhyang!! Bullets were being fired. Suddenly, I heard someone running on the roof. Dhyang! Dhyang!! Dhyang!!! More bullets, from two sides. I assumed it was the police and rebels. Women and children started to cry as people scrambled to hide under their seats. I rose to peek out the window when a man called aloud, "You want to die?" I dived under my seat. A bullet whizzed by and broke the window.

No one knows who will die here. It might even be me. I started praying. An hour later, there was silence. Maybe they ran out of bullets. The train started. I saw two rebels, blood running down their chests, guns cradling their heads. Two uniformed policemen entered. I recognised one; he'd been in our compartment before but not in uniform.

The hills, waterfalls, forests and villages make up the scenery. The people seem happy here. Why do they feel compelled to take up arms? Guns don't love people. We should love the earth. It was 8PM, dark, a half-moon shone in the sky. The TC said we'd reach Doulisi at 9PM. Just before we reached, there was more money collecting. This time it was the police! The White rebels!

They shone torches and asked for 1,000 francs. I had only Nepali money left. They didn't believe me. A woman in the next seat explained that the rebels had taken all I had. Finally, they were convinced but they still took the Nepali Rs 10 I had.