Hope: The Fascinating True Story of One Family's Escape from the Jungles of Africa

By Garry Newton

This is a true story, a memoir with excitement and adventure. My life was spent in the hectic world of business, and the time had come to give my expertise back to less fortunate people as a volunteer in the Democratic Republic of Congo, just as the vicious civil war was ending and help was needed by the United Nations Peacekeepers to keep it that way. Little did I realize the plight of the poor, helpless Congolese people who were sick and starving with nothing but hope. I was determined to help some of these destitute survivors, which I was happy to do.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Oct 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228864509

Garry Newton

Growing up as one of seven children in small-town Ontario, I was accustomed to hearing and sharing stories. My only connection with the big wide world was through my very devout mother, who sent multiple packages of clothing and other goods to the Congo. I had to assure her I was not a missionary, but sought her prayers. The Congo at that time was recovering from a nasty civil war, which whetted my appetite for adventure.

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Hope

The Fascinating True Story of One Family’s Escape from the Jungles of Africa

Garry Newton

Hope

Copyright © 2021 by Garry Newton

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-6449-3 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-6448-6 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-6450-9 (eBook)

Dedication

To all humanity especially the people in Africa

who are hoping and struggling to find a better

life and especially to the Maggie family who

had shown it could be found.

The phone rang at four in the morning. I groped to answer, more asleep than awake. After a baffling exchange, I lost patience and hung up. I asked my wife if she knew what kin-sha-za was. She never heard of it. Well, that made two of us. She asked who had called at that ungodly hour. I had no idea.

Some guy with an accent.

I drifted back to sleep, vaguely wondering what that was all about. I would soon find out.

It was the beginning of a long journey of discovery for me. My first stop was to the devastated Congolese city, Kinshasa, and then on to experiences that were frustrating, heart-warming, terrifying, and ultimately life-changing.

* * *

My new career began, oddly enough, with retirement. I had been looking forward to retiring. I had been an entrepreneur, developer, and worked in the dog-eat-dog business world all my life. I had enjoyed the challenges and the hectic pace, with deadlines snapping at my heels. I had done all I wanted to do in the development game and had myself a nice nest egg. I thought I would have all the time in the world for sailing, skiing, scuba diving, and travel—or so I imagined.

Instead, the reality among the grey-haired set seemed to focus on acquiring the latest gadgets and gizmos, fuming about politics, complaining about the weather. For enjoyment, we made small talk at dinner parties about our geriatric activities, seldom venturing outside a twenty-mile radius of home.

I felt put out to pasture and useless. I didn’t want to go back and pick up where I left off, as many of my friends had done, taking part-time work or short-term contracts in their former field. It was just more of the same old thing. I wanted to leave all that behind me, but something was missing.

In fact, a life of leisure didn’t suit me at all. I started having trouble sleeping and I lost my appetite. I tried working out, but even that didn’t energize me. It was nothing I could really put my finger on, but there was definitely something wrong with me. I went to my family doctor and I asked him to check me over. He didn’t even bother. His diagnosis surprised me. He said I was just fine and that all my physical symptoms were the result of boredom. According to him, I needed to be more active physically and mentally. He suggested volunteering.

Volunteer work! He had to be joking. My world of work had focused on the bottom line. Volunteer work meant no pay and none of the satisfaction of turning a profit. He argued that it wasn’t a question of money. The issue at stake was my health and he asked me how much that was worth.

He had a point there. But somehow, I still couldn’t see myself setting up chairs for bingo at the community centre, however worthwhile that might be. I mulled it over and decided I needed to find a volunteer placement that suited me, just like the doctor ordered.

Why not have a little fun while I was at it? I’d always fancied myself as a bit of a globetrotter. In our younger days, my wife and I had gone around the world. More recently one of my daughters and I had backpacked around South America. There is something that intrigues me about going away, preferably far away, and making that leap into the unknown.

Ultimately, I made the decision with the help and the blessing of my wife, Sharron. Our two daughters were finished university and launching their own careers. Sharron could continue with her teaching and hold down the fort. With all bases covered on the home front, I set out to find myself an interesting volunteer placement.

First, I needed a resume, which was a new concept for me. I never had one, never needed one. What an eye-opener! Next, I had to locate an expert resume writer. I found a good one close to home and we met to begin preparing a draft. When it was completed, I was asked to come in to review it. When I read it over, I was amazed. I had never realized that my working life was so interesting and impressive. I could hardly wait to meet myself. With this document in hand, I was ready to set off to find a placement where I could make a meaningful contribution.

Faraway, exotic places were running through my mind: former Soviet countries, Asia, South America, Indonesia. I did some research, made inquiries, and sent in applications. The whole world was open to me.

Within a few weeks I received two replies to my inquiries. One was from an organization, VSO (Volunteer Service Overseas), that was planning to send five prefabricated school buildings from Norway to Papua, New Guinea. The project involved unloading the cargo from the freighter, arranging delivery to each site, and constructing the buildings in locations spread across the country. It had been only about fifty years since this country had entered the community of nations. This project was right up my alley and I couldn’t imagine anything better. Livingstone all over again! On sober second thought, however, the project required a two-year commitment, and I didn’t want to leave my family for such a long time. I declined, with some regret.

The other reply came from Bonn, Germany, the headquarters of the United Nations Volunteers (UNV). Unfortunately, as noted, when their representative contacted me by phone at about four in the morning, I wasn’t at my best. Given the time difference, I suppose their office in Bonn was in full swing. Later when we spoke again, I was told that a logistics position was available in Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of Congo. The civil war that had raged there for years was now over. United Nations Peacekeeping had set up camps throughout the country to maintain order. They needed logistical support from civilians to provide the necessary vehicles, accommodation, communications, security, and transportation. It was a big decision, and I had twenty-four hours to make up my mind.

For many years I’d had a fascination with Africa. I set out to find out more about the Congo. The Democratic Republic of Congo, formerly Zaire, has suffered brutal colonial exploitation, authoritarian madness, and what has been termed Africa’s world war, a conflict that is still ongoing. This country was experiencing one of the saddest chapters in modern history.

The Congo is a huge country the world seems to have forgotten. It is evolving painfully from a geographical concept into a fully-fledged nation. It is similar in size to the whole of Europe, with a population of about eighty million people who have never known the kind of freedom we in the west too often take for granted. Between 1200 and 1500, these lands were part of the Kongo Empire. At that time the British, Dutch, Portuguese, and French merchants engaged in the slave trade through Congolese intermediaries. During the 1870s, the Belgian king, Leopold II, embarked on a venture to colonize Kongo. In 1908, the Congo Free State under Belgian rule nationalized the holdings of King Leopold as a result of his harsh treatment of the Congolese people.

The Belgian colonial era was brutal. By 1960, after years of civil war, over five million people had been killed or wounded, and the country was ravaged. In 1965, Mobutu Seso seized power, provoking further hostilities lasting for many years and causing further devastation. In 2003, a peace treaty was signed by the warring factions, and the United Nations peacekeepers were called to oversee the agreement. In fact, their duties were much more comprehensive, because the civil administration had been destroyed. There was no police force, no municipal officials, and no law and order. The UN was called upon to provide all services, such as they were, in this war-torn country. Despite the UN intervention, killing and brutality continued sporadically, especially outside the relatively safe city centres.

As recently as January 2020, a militia group known as the Allied Democratic Forces, considered by many as a group of thugs, launched a series of attacks on four villages, just west of the town of Beni, in the north-east sector, killing scores of people. One of them was a pastor on his way to a posting in Eringeti. His remains were found hacked to pieces by machete.

On New Year’s Day 2021, I noticed a small news clip on about page 25 in the Toronto Star stating that at least 25 people were massacred in a New Year’s Eve attack on the small village of Tingwe in the north-east sector. Again, the Allied Democratic Forces were wreaking havoc. The farmers of the village were peacefully tending their fields when they were attacked. Some victims were shot and others were beheaded. Their bodies were found in nearby bushes. Still other villagers were kidnapped, according to the local civil society representative, Bravo Muhindo. The violence was ongoing.

Despite this desperate situation, the United Nations Humanitarian Organization agencies in Congo received only 44% of their funding request at the time of my first tour of duty. At that point, an estimated 5.3 million refugees had been forced from their homes and were subsisting without even the bare necessities of life.

The president, Felix Tshisekedi, and his weak government had attempted some well-intentioned measures, such as pardoning political prisoners and allowing exiles to return. According to Amnesty International, however, his government’s decision meant that warlords, of which there were plenty, and other warring factions were released and soon back in action, and the violence increased.

While real stability remains many years away, the presence of the world’s largest United Nations Peacekeeping force had created some optimism among the Congo’s tormented but resilient population. There were still No travel advisories to vast portions of Eastern Congo and highly restricted travel throughout the rest of the country, including Kinshasa.

Civil war had killed millions, left another forty million destitute, and reduced the country to ruin. The infrastructure was destroyed, and the roads connecting towns and villages were strewn with landmines and overgrown by jungle. The remote areas were inhabited by tens of thousands of rebels who, in the absence of law and order, randomly stole, raped, and murdered. In this mayhem, there was plenty of work to do and I wanted to help.

When I told my friends and family about my plans, many questioned my decision and some questioned my sanity. Two months previously, in the Congo, there had been an incident. It was at the Orchid Pension, located on the shores of Lake Kivu in the city of Bukavu, a popular destination for visiting foreign personnel. The renegades attacked the Pension, wreaking havoc. Staff and visitors scrambled to the safe room to await evacuation, in the hope that the UN would get to them before the renegades did.

The UN Peacekeeping headquarters was about twenty minutes distant, and an armoured personnel carrier with fully-armed soldiers was dispatched immediately to rescue the terrorized group of civilians. The mission was successful and the thankful people were brought to the UN headquarters where they spent the night. This was the region where I was to be posted for six months, should I live so long.

Just as I was about to leave Canada, Sharron drew my attention to a media report on the Congo. A military observer monitoring the ceasefire was captured, killed, and eaten. But as is so often the case, the report was exaggerated. In fact, the observer was not eaten—only killed and mutilated. Besides, as I reassured Sharron, there wasn’t a lot of spare meat on my bones, and I wouldn’t make a good meal.

My specific placement was to be with the United Nations Organization Mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (MONUC). It was staffed with about 16,000 military and civilian personnel spread throughout a huge country of about 40 million starving and destitute people who had suffered years of civil strife. Most of the infrastructure in cities, towns, and villages had long since been destroyed. The roads and highways connecting them had been overgrown by dense jungle, allowing various rebel factions to terrorize the inhabitants. In the absence of law and order, young men often presented themselves as policemen, and extorted money from the locals in exchange for their protection. From what I knew, the Congo was a hot spot—to put it mildly—but I was convinced that, if necessary, the UN would evacuate their personnel.

Eventually Sharron was brought around to my point of view, and she gave me wonderful support in undertaking the mission. My mother, who was very devout, also assured me that she would pray for me daily. Congo as was one of her favourite pray for countries where she often donated clothing, books, and, of course, rosaries. She was certain that God would watch over those who were doing such good work. I reminded her that I was not a missionary, but rather going to support the military. It was their job to keep the peace, such as it was. Nevertheless, she persisted in the opinion that I would be doing God’s work, and I was happy to have her prayers. In fact, I was grateful for all the help I could get.

When I accepted the placement, I was told to prepare for departure to Kinshasa in five days. Travel money would be sent immediately, along with additional information. I was also instructed to get the necessary inoculations, pills, and other medical supplies I would need.

When I received an envelope bearing the big blue letters United Nations, I became an official United Nations Volunteer (UNV). The letter stated to all concerned that The holder of this letter must be given all assistance where necessary. As a UNV, I felt like a real VIP.

My flight left Toronto on February 14th, 2004, bound for Paris, France, with an eight-hour layover before my connecting flight to Congo. I had just stored my hand luggage and settled in the window seat, anticipating my new role in logistics. Suddenly and much to my surprise, I received a tap on my shoulder. Sir, I believe you have taken my seat. Sure enough, l had to move. So much for my logistical expertise.

I introduced myself to the newcomer and small talked ensued. I learned her name was Chat. She had worked for the United Nations in the Philippines and was also on her way to Kinshasa to become part of the United Nations Peacekeeping Mission. What a coincidence—I damn near fell out the window!

After a very long and uneventful trip, I looked out as we were descending to Kinshasa airport. The landscape appeared to be dusty brown with small fires burning, no doubt for cooking. I felt as though we were infringing on an alien space, like astronauts flying in to set up shop on the dark side of the moon. Tiny dots of civilization nestled in the majestic rainforests were the only evidence that we were still on planet earth.

After twenty-six hours of travel, I was jet-lagged and exhausted. As the plane made its final approach, my feelings were not what I expected. I felt excitement about the adventure ahead, but there was also an unaccustomed sense of apprehension. I had agreed to spend six months in this place and I wondered what the hell was in store for me.

The first glimpse of my new home was jarring. The country appeared in its natural state, a wild unbridled beauty. From an aerial view, this beautiful country is carpeted by huge swaths of rainforest and punctuated by gushing rivers and smoking volcanoes: the ultimate African experience. There were simple, small villages separated by deep gullies and miles of dirt roads mostly overgrown with jungle. I was going to have to adapt to completely new surroundings. Despite all my previous travels, I simply had no frame of reference for what I was about to encounter.

When I arrived in Kinshasa, travel weary and a little dazed, the airport was a madhouse. Just retrieving my luggage was a challenge. The baggage carousel was malfunctioning and eventually broke down altogether. We were in a crowd of tired, frustrated passengers in 100-degree heat. This was a far cry from what I was used to, having left Canadian temperatures of some 20 below.

There was supposed to be an UN representative to meet us at the airport and shepherd us through this melee, but he was nowhere to be found. After what seemed like an eternity, our baggage arrived and so did the UN rep. We were ordered to put our luggage somewhere vaguely described as over there with the assurance that it would be brought to a waiting bus. Not a chance in the world that I would leave my luggage unattended, as I fully expected it would disappear in the bat of an eye.

We were also vaguely directed to board a bus over there, where there was a group of Russian soldiers, none of whom spoke a word of English. Since I don’t speak a word of Russian, I couldn’t inquire about our destination. Chat and I sat down wearily and waited, and waited, until it dawned on me that something was not right. It seemed to me that this bus was probably going to some remote Russian military camp, which was the last place we wanted to go. Just as it started to pull out, I said to Chat, Let’s get the hell out of here.

After this narrow escape, we were directed to another bus, which took us to a guest house in downtown Kinshasa. The amenities at the guest house left much to be desired by North American standards. Thanks to my backpacking days, l was determined to adapt. Few of the people l had encountered so far seemed to speak English, so my efforts to socialize were stymied.

One of the other occupants in the guest house was a UNV from Peru, who had been languishing there for a month with no assignment in sight. Every morning he would report to UN Headquarters for his assignment, and every afternoon he would return frustrated. He spent most of his time locked in his room, shuffling around in his pajamas. I tried to cheer him up, and he was kind enough to lend me his cell phone to call home, which cheered me up as well. Little did I know that the same thing was about to happen to me.

The following day, several Filipino UNVs visited Chat and took her under their wing. Her friends were uncomplaining and generous, and they even offered me a place in their two-bedroom apartment to share with six others. At night they simply rolled out their mattresses on the floor. During the day, they rolled up their mattresses and piled them in the corner. I declined their offer but was grateful for their kindness.

My guest house was filthy, infested, and lacking such amenities as reliable power and water, but at least I had my own room. I thought l might need to revise my idea of adequate African accommodation.

Apparently, we UNVs were on our own to find accommodation and other creature comforts, such as they were. There was no water in the guest house the first morning, which