I Spend Three Days for DR Congo Dey Try See Volcano—and One Day and Half na Traffic

Kinshasa ring road for four-thirty for afternoon dey turn to parking lot without end. My yellow taxi wedge between trucks, motorbikes, and pedestrians dey balance whole bunches of bananas for their heads, dey go absolutely nowhere. Di driver, one young guy wey dem call Pascal, roll down im window and enter argument for Congolese French with one phone-card vendor — no be about signal reception, but because di vendor think sey di Leopards fit win at least one match for di next Africa Cup, and Pascal talk: 'If di Leopards score one single goal I go give you dis taxi.' Football na Kinshasa most effective icebreaker. Traffic na di second.

Di Democratic Republic of the Congo dey sit for di heart of Africa, capital Kinshasa, population over 100 million. Im land area na four times dat of France, yet e get less dan 3,000 kilometers of paved roads. When I tell friends for house sey I dey go DR Congo to see volcano, most people reaction be: 'You sabi sey Mount Nyiragongo last erupt for 2021, abi?' Another common reaction be: 'You sabi how bad Kinshasa traffic be, abi?' I dey about to find out.

Kinshasa na city wey you dey hear before you dey see. For five-thirty for morning, di neighbor radio begin leak Congolese rumba — dat lazy, irresistible groove wey dey make West African hiplife and Cuban salsa both feel insufficient. By nine, di market shouting don become one conductorless symphony — fish sellers, used phone-charger vendors, secondhand suits, live chickens, every voice dey fight for survival for di same frequency. For noon, di Congo River ferry blast im horn — one note so low e dey vibrate for your chest cavity. For six for evening, di church choir begin rehearsal — Congo na di world largest Francophone country and one of im most fervently Catholic. For nine for night, di football commentary explode from di open window of one bar — Chancel Mbemba name dey roll like one African drum pattern. I spend two days for dis city and neva once feel alone.

Di road east from Kinshasa na patience endurance test. Three hundred kilometers fit take anywhere from eight to twelve hours — depending on di weather, di frequency of goats wey dey cross di highway, and di probability sey one oil tanker go breakdown. I finish one whole bag of roadside grilled plantains — crispy outside, soft inside, sprinkle with coarse salt and chili — and di road still neva clear. But I gradually notice something: for every village entrance, one patch of beaten earth dey, and for every patch of earth, barefoot pikin dem dey play football — some with plastic bottles, some with bundle of rags wey dem tie into ball, occasionally one faded real football wey im plastic skin don wear through to show di threads inside. Every patch of earth na miniature World Cup. Di 'stands' na overturned plastic buckets. Di referee na one passing goat.

Virunga National Park dey lie north of Goma. To enter di park need armed ranger escort — no be because of wildlife attacks, but because dis region don repeatedly crisscrossed by armed conflict over di decades. Di ranger na one young man for im early thirties wey dem call Emmanuel. For im right calf, one old scar — '2008, one chimpanzee. No be attack — e just jump down from tree and trip over me.' E tell dis joke without smiling. E don dey for over 120 anti-poaching patrols, and e talk sey compared to di volcano, poachers far less predictable.

Di climb up Mount Nyiragongo dey begin at 1,989 meters above sea level, for tropical rainforest. Di first two hours: air thick with moisture, legs cover with mud. Di vegetation dey shift from broadleaf to fern to scattered moss, and den — den all di green disappear. Above three thousand meters, di ground become black volcanic rock. Every step dey crunch, like dey waka for top burnt biscuits. Di temperature dey drop from thirty degrees to eight. Di guide talk: 'Now you understand why I tell you to bring extra jacket.'

Half past seven for evening. I stand for di crater rim. Di world most active lava lake dey churn two hundred meters below — no be red, but some unnameable shade of orange, di internal organs of di sun, di blood of di Earth expose directly to di air. No guardrails. No artificial light of any kind. Di only illumination na dat rolling lake of molten rock. Di wind dey pull upward from di crater floor, dey carry sulfur and one low-frequency rumble — no really be sound, more like one vibration wey you dey feel for your bones. My climbing companion — one student from Goma — lie flat for one rock at di edge and no talk anything for ten full minutes. Den e talk something for Lingala. Emmanuel translate: 'E talk — as pikin I think volcanoes na things from mythology, wey dem dey draw for textbooks. Now I no sure again.'

For di way down, my legs dey shake. No be from fear — creatine and fatigue. Di scattered lights of Goma dey glow below, di Congo River one dark ribbon for di night. One small boy point at my hiking boots and talk for French: 'Tu es allé au volcan?' I nod. E give me thumbs-up and run go. Goma football pitches dey paved with volcanic ash — di ball dey bounce at one slightly wrong height, di spin dey defy standard physics. But di pikin dem here don long adapted. For DR Congo, you dey always adjust to one bounce wey no dey follow di expected laws — whether na football, traffic, or one volcano with temper.

Back for Kinshasa, one morning rain dey fall. Pascal taxi dey stuck for di same ring road — or at least one wey look identical. Di radio dey play rumba; e dey hum along, dey drum im fingers for di steering wheel. I ask am if e still think di Leopards fit score. E smile: 'For Congo, optimism na survival skill — as important as to sabi how to bargain.' Outside di window, I see one young man with football for im feet, rainwater dey splash off im surface, dey catch di light. Pascal radio switch from rumba to match commentary — Chancel Mbemba don score again. E roll down im window and shout at total stranger for di sidewalk. Nobody understand wetin e talk. But everybody smile.