In the Footsteps of Mr. Kurtz Read Online Free

head in the sea, its body at rest curving afar over a vast country, and its tail lost in the depths of the land’ is the frontier, a fact exploited by the fishermen whose delicate pirogues languidly traverse the waterway for a spot of incidental smuggling.
    Nowhere else in the world do two capitals lie so close to each other, within easy shelling distance, in fact, a feature that has been of more than merely abstract interest in the past. The proximity allows each city to act as an impromptu refugee camp when things get too hot at home. From Brazzaville to Kinshasa, from Kinshasa to Brazzaville, residents ping-pong irrepressibly from one to another—sinks, toilets and mattresses on their heads, depending on which capital is judged more dangerous at any given moment.
    In peacetime, the river offers release to Kinshasa’s claustrophobic expatriates. Roaring upstream in their motorboats, they picnic in the shimmering heat given off by the latest sandbank deposited by the current or scud across the waves on waterskis, weaving around the drifting islands of water hyacinth. Legend has it a European ambassador was once eaten by a crocodile while swimming and freshwater snakes are said to thrive. Yet far more ominous, for swimmers, is thesteady pull of the river, the relentless tug of a vast mass of water powering relentlessly to the sea.
    Some of this water has travelled nearly 3,000 miles and descended more than 5,000 feet. It has traced a huge arc curving up from eastern Zambia, heading straight north across the savannah as the Lualaba, veering west into the equatorial forest and taking in the Ubangi tributary before aiming for the Atlantic. The basin it drains rims Angola, Zambia, Tanzania, Burundi, Rwanda, Uganda, Sudan, Central African Republic and Congo-Brazzaville. The catchment area straddles the equator, ensuring that some part is always in the midst of the rainy season. Hence the river’s steady flow, so strong that in theory it could cover the energy needs of central Africa and beyond. In practice, the hydroelectric dam built at Inga is working at a fraction of capacity—one of Mobutu’s many white elephant projects—and even domestic demand is not being met.
    The local word for river is ‘nzadi’: a word misunderstood and mispronounced by Portuguese explorers charting the coastline in the fifteenth century. In rebaptising Belgian Congo ‘Zaire’ in 1971, Mobutu was acknowledging the extent to which that waterway, the most powerful in the world after the Amazon, defines his people’s identity. But what should have opened up the region has instead served to isolate it. On the map, the blue ribbon sweeping across the continent looks a promising access route. But the terrible rapids lying between the upper reaches of the Lualaba and Kisangani, Kinshasa and the sea, make nonsense of the atlas.
    Looking west from the hotel, you can just glimpse the brown froth from the first of the series of falls that so appalled explorer Henry Morton Stanley when he glimpsed them in 1877. Determined to settle the dispute then raging in the West over the origins of the Nile, he had trekked across the continent from Zanzibar, losing nearly half his expedition to disease, cannibal attack and exhaustion. The calm of Malebo pool, fringed by sandy islands and a long row of white cliffs, had seemed a blessing to him and his young companion,Frank Pocock. ‘The grassy table-land above the cliffs appeared as green as a lawn, and so much reminded Frank of Kentish Downs that he exclaimed enthusiastically, “I feel we are nearing home”,’ wrote Stanley. In his enthusiasm Pocock, the only other white man to have survived this far into the journey, proposed naming the cliffs Dover, and the stretch of open water after Stanley. The reprieve proved shortlived. Three months later, still struggling to cross the Crystal Mountains separating the pool from the sea, Pocock went over one of the rapids