Free Blood River by Tim Butcher

textbook, covered in handwriting. At the other end of the room sat two military men, one a
large man in khaki fatigues and the other smaller, also wearing
uniform, but with naval insignia on his epaulettes.
    `Look at this, Michel, what do you make of this'?' The commissioner knew Michel well and wanted his opinion on the
handwritten page. He handed it to Michel, who read it slowly. It
was a public attack on the commissioner, an anonymous Swahili
denunciation of the inefficiency and corruption of his administration. Written in capital letters using a blue biro, it had been
discovered that morning pinned to a coconut tree in the town
centre. It accused the commissioner and his staff of deliberately
cutting the power line connecting the town with the Bendera
hydroelectric power station for sinister, political reasons. The pair
of them discussed it earnestly for a few minutes and I quietly shook
my head. While the rest of the world drowned in information
provided by broadband Internet connections and live satellite
television, the political debate here in Kalemie revolved around a
rude message, written on a child's notepad and nailed to a tree.

    Once the issue had been dealt with to the satisfaction of the
commissioner, Michel thought it was time to introduce me. He
emphasised my interest in the explorer Stanley and my historical
connection through the Telegraph, before I was allowed to thank
the commissioner for his time and ask if he would grant me the
necessary authority to head on my way though Katanga.
    The trouble I was expecting did not materialise. The commissioner listened to my plans and made a few remarks about
how difficult it was to travel safely through the Congo. He gave
the impression of finding my plan trifling, not suspicious,
humouring me like someone on a fool's errand, confident I would
be back in Kalemie in a few days after failing to get through
Katanga. At no stage did he ask for money. He simply checked my
passport, looked at the identity documents of Georges and Benoit,
and barked an instruction at his secretary to prepare the necessary
stamps. It was then that he pointed to the larger of the two
military men in the room, telling me I would also need the
permission of the local commander, Lieutenant Colonel Albert
Abiti Mamulay. The colonel squirmed in his seat as the
commissioner pointed at him and said we must come up to his
headquarters for the relevant stamp.
    We followed the colonel outside to his waiting staff car. It was
an old Peugeot, which looked too fragile to take any more crashes
or bumps. I was wrong. As we watched, the colonel's driver
jammed the car into reverse and rammed it firmly into a rocky
bank, before over-revving and charging off up the hill towards the
barracks, bumping over exposed tree roots and rivulets scoured
into the roadway by rain.
    I remembered the description by the American journalist
Blaine Littell of the same military barracks in the 1960s. He had
reached Albertville just after the town had been recaptured by
government troops, and when he got to the barracks he was given
his own display of torture tactics. A hapless rebel, accused by the
government troops of involvement in Albertville's uprising, was paraded and humiliated for Mr Littell at gunpoint.

    There were no rebels to torture when I arrived at the same
building forty years after Mr Littell. I saw the colonel disappear
into a tatty old house and we tried to follow. A squat man, a
pygmy the same size as Georges but without his charm, barred our
way and told us firmly to wait outside. I handed over the piece of
paper already stamped by the commissioner and stood under a
mango tree with another group of men. Some of their clothing was
khaki, so I assumed they were soldiers. The oldest then did something peculiar. From the lower branches of the tree he plucked a
silver bugle. It was buckled and pitted, but he solemnly set about
polishing with his sleeve.
    I