I spent a total of five days in the drillers’ bush camp. With the notable exception of the drilling itself, their routine was my routine. After waking up at 6, I’d have some tea and eggs and head out to the rig in Arthur’s Land Cruiser. He’d make sure things were going according to plan, and I’d take pictures and notes, or read. Then we’d head over to the other rig to make sure things were on track there. Lacking 2-way radios and being most of the time out of cell phone coverage, this process was repeated up to three times a day. At some point there would be lunch. Sometimes, if Arthur was compiling reports for the office in Ndola or busy disciplining his crew, I’d try to do a little exercise, a little writing. The days passed quickly, and between the elevation, the sun, the cold, the exercise, and the harrowing rides in the Land Cruiser, I’d already be half asleep by the time the generator was cut and everyone turned in.
Arthur wants badly to operate his own rigs one day soon, and he spent a great deal of time trying to convince me to go in on one with him. Of course, a new diamond rig costs $300,000—and that’s before bribes, duties, logistical equipment, base camp essentials, and crew. It could also be useful to know how to operate one. Which of course is where he comes in. At first I told him it probably wasn’t for me. I didn’t have the money, I wasn’t a businessman, investing in Africa was dicey, etc. All those things still hold, of course, but since getting out I’ve been mulling over a figure he cited: A rig, operating full-time, can throw off $300,000 in a month. So even if a large percentage is taxed or frittered away in bribes, you’re laughing. Now who’s in?
After 4 days I decided it might be time to head back into town, and so organized a ride for the following day. Not only to have my clothes washed, have a shower & c., but to plot my next move. While in the bush I got two e-mails of invitation from friends who are doing the Kilimanjaro-Zanzibar circuit in East Africa. Very tempting after all of this vain knocking on hell’s door. There’s also the prospect of heading toward eastern Zambia and Malawi with Arthur. He needs to pay a visit to his ailing stepfather out that way, and has invited me along. Lastly, there’s the grubby business of getting my ass down into an underground mine and into the Congo, on both of which fronts there have been promising developments. My thinking is tending toward the pleasures of the East African tourist circuit though, followed by a return to Zambia/Congo after seeing my stateside friends off into the blissful state of wedlock.
Before wrapping up this post and having some breakfast (I’m back in Ndola, staying with my friends here—I’ve pitched my tent in their backyard, a nice compromise between town and bush), I’d like to paint you a picture of my last morning at the drillers’ camp: While shuttling our armed guardians to their posts, we happened to tune into a radio broadcast out of Lubumbashi, Congo. They were playing marching band music, then Independence Cha Cha. It was Trente Juin, the Congolese day of independence. After some hoopla from various radio personalities, we were taken live to Kasangani (a town symbolic of the Congo’s struggle for independence) where President Kabila was addressing the nation. He uttered a bunch of bons mots about this day being the most important day in the Congo, about how it commemorated the martyrdom of the nation’s founders, & c., & c. Then he segued into the continuing struggle to unite the disparate parts of his country, noting that mutual sacrifice would be necessary for the greater good. All very well. What really got me was the next thing he said: That the Congo was on the threshold of the information age, and of widespread prosperity, and that if diligence and discipline were brought to bear on the exploitation of the nation’s vast resource base, the threshold could be crossed, with no looking back. It would have struck an absurd chord if I’d heard it back home, but what made it even better was our proximity to the Congolese border, where all of our movements were accompanied by a detail of heavily armed policemen. All of whom, I should add, reported having used their guns to kill Congolese bandits in the past.
In a way, Kabila’s speech reminded me of one given by Jenny Granholm, the governor of Michigan, at the 2004 DNC, when she waxed hopeful about fostering a “technology corridor” in the Upper Peninsula. Ha.
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