Garamba
Words and Images by Ryan Youngblood
They sat on a hill of what became their hill, of when became no one knew, of where death soon would come. In the middle a sausage tree, the poisonous fruit hanging like sad ornaments draped over limbs in a cruel joke that nature can sometimes play with hungry men. In the clockless hour of the Congo heat, the cadre of soldiers were bundled like sticks across the flattop of the bluff, unlit by the sun as a passing storm had just dampened their backs. Some laid on the ground, staring at nothing, but content; un-marched on watch, they were reprieved from patrol and basked in the space of rest. Others sat in squats over a game of Fapfap, each grunt looking for a matching suit to the dealer’s card hoping to win the trick. The rest cut hair with one inch blades, shaved necks in vanity mirror rain puddles, smoked spliffs, and spoke of home. Most of the men knew war, but none of this kind. They had fought in the Kivus against anti-government forces, soluble groups that evolve or collaborate into something bigger or smaller, agendas ranging from country takeover to general banditry, rape and child abduction. The First and Second Congo wars dismantled the East and gave reign to cartoon rebels, all sketched to an atypical militia monster, breathing nightmare over the region. They lived in their camps gazing at the world that brought them in, smiling back through black-tipped rotten enamel; mirra, bush cocaine used for the fight that is chewed by boys and men, yellows and tars the teeth over time. The gesture a stoic attempt, their mouths sitting there more like a catfish’s dead grin. Like a king they’re flanked by soldiers, all adorned in tattered and non-matching fatigues, fists and nails clutching kalashnikovs and front pockets barely fitting containers of amber colored glue, huff for when the heat of the war gets too hot. Some are boys. Surrounding their world were endless waves of dark green hills of matoke trees. And in the distance, Mt. Nyiragongo, an active volcano presiding over and seemingly directing Congo's fury, like a god, and for hundreds of kilometers it spread its shard rock. Their land and borders fought and claimed, and no more relevant than the arbitrary Belgian-lines with which their conquered lot sits within. It was their territory today, may not be tomorrow, wasn’t yesterday. This is what the men on the hill knew.
Bas-Uele, the province of their deployment, Garamba National Park, the park within the province, was a war without a front line, without tanks crawling along switchbacks or patrol boats snaking atop rivers. And their enemy wasn’t hunting man, though they would; however something more vulnerable than children, yet paradoxical in size and strength filled their lustful hearts and calloused their eyes to the sight of their dying passing. Elephants found no refuge in Garamba’s three meter high grass. At one time they might have, but those days have left, fallen off the edge of the earth as man has grown more desperate, his fraying fabric of morality almost untethered, where he now not only consumes others of him, but as well the earth and everything in it. The adversaries came from the outside, Sudan, Chad, anything near a border, and effectively have directed supply lines out of Garamba and into a market that can hide ivory’s origin. The soldiers on the hill left in shifts and in blocks of five days to guard what elephants were left. Most would come back having fought nothing, but the sun and a missing of family. Yet some, and very few, would falter back into camp, blood covering their shirts, men missing, and their eyes wide without a sound. The complacency of waiting, the interludes of silence, all would crumble in an instant and the reality of their enemy and his undying motivation would shed the serpent and the raw danger of this mission became ever clear.
“Why are we here?” Private Pascal Kabanda gently gave the question to his Colonel, the way many young recruits would approach their superiors. “It’s your choice.” Colonel Jacques Sukamate Lusengo smiled at his answer, the way many superiors would approach their recruits. Pascal could be frustrated with Colonel Jacques’ evasive answer, but in Colonel Jacques he saw a father, one that casted a silhouette of his own father, a man he never knew. Colonel Jacques understood Pascal’s question. It was one that he’s had to answer across many fields of battle, from many young men, and most of whom were now gone. But in Garamba, even the Colonel self reflected on the purpose of fighting a war waged against wildlife. What is the price of an animal’s life? A man’s life? Man was always valued more, but could things have been different if it weren’t so? More different in Garamba, perhaps. “All men are animals. What I’ve seen men do to other men, it’s something only man would define as animal. We’ve lost sanctity for each other and war reveals our appraisal of human flesh and blood, what we find beautiful and hated between its mind, body, and spirit. And yet we still insist to separate our value from animals. And if I can’t protect man from killing animals on two legs, maybe I can protect him from killing those on four. That’s why I’m here.” Pascal, having never seen war, gripped to what he understood and shelved that which he didn’t. Knowing the Colonel’s Seventh Day Adventist faith, and confused with his aforementioned philosophy, he asked, “Don’t you believe in God?” Colonel Jacques smiled again and said, “It’s also why I’m here.” The soldiers stirred to the sound of an incoming radio message. The operator found a termite mound and reached the radio to the cloudless sky. The static melted and the voice from headquarters came through. A routine areal surveillance from a 206 Cesna spotted a fresh elephant carcass with ivory still intact. Along the flight path and adjacent to the kill was a thin string of smoke rising out of the forest. It escaped the tree tops and left like out of a chimney. The poachers’ camp was empty, but not stale. They had fled, perhaps at the sight of the plane. Headquarters was sending a chopper, inbound and an hour away to pick up Colonel Jacques and Private Pascal. Colonel Jacques, still with a soft smile, regarded Pascal and said, “Now you can have the answer to your question.” The hill looked out over an ocean of green. Pascal had never seen the sea, but for a moment he could spot waves moving across the Napier blades. The chopper’s distant flap could gradually be heard and like a fly in a net of blue, the spinning blades were coming into view and nearing the hill. Colonel Jacques looked at Pascal as the chopper’s feet softly touched the ground. His smile now gone. The sliding doors revealed another soldier who would ride along with Colonel Jacques and Pascal. The helicopter pilot, Frank, a tall and steely South African, didn’t say a word. The third soldier moved an RPG round and ammo belts out of the seats for the new riders. They were off the hill now; leaving behind a purgatory to question, a refuge to think, a quiet rise in the middle of war that overlooked eternity. Through the glass, Pascal followed the helicopter’s shadow across the ground. Garamba below looked in complete peace. Herds of heart of beast and Kordofan giraffes were a mute and calming presence. Only the rattling cab of the helicopter and the radio comms gave reminder to where they were going. Colonel Jacques spoke across to Pascal through their radios. “We stay close.” Pascal shook his head, impressed with the coolness in the Colonel’s eyes. The elephant came into view. It was like seeing God himself dead, murdered and stripped of dignity and left to bloat and rot under an equatorial sun. Frank descended the helicopter slowly, just like on the hill. The grass was violently pushed side to side by the propellers, as if rioting in protest to the death of one of its own. The third soldier thrusted open the door into the blinding light of a direct sun. Pascal felt like he was walking into a dream. Without the Colonel he might have gotten lost and forever trapped in the space between awake and reverie. The men couldn’t blink. Their eyes were absolute stone and could see every detail. It’s an exhilarating and at times intoxicating feeling when adrenaline and fear meet. In reverence they approached the fallen creature, quiet in his death his legs were stiff and his eyes empty. Pascal touched its barrel shaped stomach and felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow. He looked at Colonel Jacques who spoke with his eyes, almost saying, “Now you know the answer.” In a sudden bang, a string of cracks fired from the tree line. Muzzle blasts masked faces and the rounds smoothed quick through the chambers of the automatic weapons. Pascal found himself on his back staring at the blue sky. He couldn’t remember how he got there and he wondered if he had been shot. His toes were moving and he couldn’t taste the metal of blood in his mouth. He flipped on his side without rising to avoid the flying bullets. His face buried in the dirt on the turn, he looked up and saw Colonel Jacques just feet from him. He was staring at Pascal with his kind eyes, and lifeless. Pascal couldn’t breath and the chopper could be heard retreating in the distance. The third soldier had been shot through the stomach and the bullet lodged in his spine. A tight grouping of bullets had also found his chest and he gave his last breath. Sporadic rounds cut through the grass and then everything stopped. Garamba was silent and Pascal felt her giving him a chance to run. The grass kept him veiled as he went towards the direction of the road. The ghostly men at the edge of the forest could be heard chopping into the elephant’s tusks. The thuds echoed like the splitting of wood and it gave Pascal a sense of dread at each sound. He was still running and the repetitive pound began to fade. He could see Colonel Jacque’s face as he ran. The compassionate colonel that saw purpose in everything, even in war. If he ran long enough, he would soon be found and returned again to the place on the hill; blood covering his shirt and his eyes wide without a sound.
Behind the Project
From 2015-2016 I was a Director of Photography on the documentary The Last Animals. The film documents the ivory crisis taking place in Central Africa. In the northern part of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Garamba National Park had been under heavy conflict for many years. Rebel factions and hired militias systematically began wiping out elephant populations to feed the Asian market demand for ivory. They incited constant fire fights between park rangers and the Congolese national army, resulting in casualties and tragic loss. During the course of filming I lost a dear friend, Colonel Jacques Sukamate Lusengo. Colonel Jacques allowed me into his world and I came to know the gentle Colonel who had seen many theaters of war. He taught me about faith, commitment and courage. He’s a hero to his country, the world of conservation, and he was my friend. The Last Animals was directed by Kate Brooks and premiered at the Tribeca Film Festival. It continued the film festival circuit winning various awards and eventually was picked up by Hulu.
