Saskia Roskam, born in 1982 from a Cameroonian mother and a Dutch father, will be travelling over the next six months through the Democratic Republic of Congo. In a new fortnightly column entitled ‘Congo Calling’, Saskia will share with us the impressions of her journey.

At the age of 19, she leaves for Cameroon to study African Literature at The University of Yaounde. Her fellow students are puzzled by her presence in Africa, while their only wish is to be in Europe. Eventually, she goes on to study broadcast journalism in Utrecht, The Netherlands, which she completes in 2006. After graduation, she jumps in a 4x4 and embarks on a dream trip from Amsterdam to Nigeria. Later, she moves to London and works as a researcher/ assistant producer for a television production company and soon finds herself shooting on major BBC World productions. A year and a half later she moves back to The Netherlands and starts working for the Radio Nederland Wereldomroep. Recently, she got a call from her London boss who wants her to go film a series of 10 short films in the DRC for the UN. “How can I say no when Congo comes calling? …”she says.

Point of Departure

Three young children sit in the row before me. I judge their ages to be 4, 8 and 10. It's their first trip to Cameroon and it takes me back to when my sisters and me were in that exact same situation twenty years ago.

The excitement and anticipation of a world that a child's reference does not hold. I hear them ask their parents: “Is there food? Will we see animals walk the street? Do grandpa and grandma live in a house...” Understandable questions in the minds of small children whose concept of the world does not go beyond the radius from home to school and the little bit they pick up from the television news.

As we land in Douala, they get their small suitcases from the stowage bins. The smallest one is half asleep and the two older ones are all geared up for what is to come. I try to imagine me and my sisters two decades ago. The first thing that comes to me is the power with which the heat struck us as we got off the plane. It was like walking into a wall of heat that leaves you paralysed for a few minutes.

From a distance I watched them go and silently wished them a wonderful experience. A big part of me is jealous of these youngsters who get to embark here. It has been a good three years since I last was in Cameroon.

Next leg
In a refuelled plane that is now three quarter full, I continue my journey to Kinshasa. Next to me sits a women from eastern DRC (Goma).  She returns from the bathroom wearing a fresh shirt. Nervously she puts on her make up and tells me that this is her first return to the DRC in ten years. And although she was born and raised there she looks, in a way, just like the three little children. In the past ten years her country and region has changed a lot. Her eyes mark a fearful curiosity. Who and what will she find in the places she left behind?

I consider myself to be at the same time these three children and the older woman sitting next to me. What am I expecting to find? I have spoken with Congolese, watched documentaries, read books about its history, politics, fauna and flora, etc. But nothing comes close to physically experiencing a country. And in the case of the DRC – as so many have told me – this is not just one country. It is one of the biggest countries on the African continent and from left to right, north to south the differences are said to be so big that travelling through it feels as though several borders are crossed.

I get off the plane. Go through customs and into the baggage claim area. If the rest of the country is anything like the free fight at Kinshasa's N'Djili airport baggage claim..., well, then I consider myself to have been warned.