Retracing My Mother’s Footsteps: A Journey Through the Democratic Republic of Congo
When I told my mother that I was taking my younger sister to the Democratic Republic of the Congo, she was ecstatic. Three decades ago, our mother had arrived in Goma on a Bedford truck, carting a group of young adults from London. Back then, the region was known as Zaire, and civil war had yet to tear it apart. Today, the Congo is one of the riskiest countries for foreigners to visit, with most travel insurance policies refusing to cover it.
Nonetheless, my sister and I were determined to reach the peak of the Nyiragongo volcano that our mother had climbed years earlier. We found ourselves in the company of Virunga National Park rangers, who stuck with us at all times, and “no firearms” signs tacked to ATM booths. My sister, who had never travelled outside of New Zealand or Europe, and I were not permitted to walk alone.
As much as our journey paid homage to our mother’s past, it also reflected a shared wanderlust. Growing up, my mother recounted stories of her Jamaican father’s travels, which filled her with a deep curiosity about the world. Similarly, I was inspired by my mother’s sepia-toned photographs, depicting her youthful self feeding an okapi, standing atop Mount Kilimanjaro, and posing on a volcano.
These tales planted a seed in me that drove me to seek out new horizons beyond New Zealand’s small borders. As soon as I was old enough, I went overseas on a one-way ticket, emptying my bank account over and over. When comparing notes with Mum, I realized that our travels echoed each other without intending to. I stood at the foot of Kilimanjaro, crossed the Serengeti, made it to Indonesia, and landed on the Pacific coast of Mexico.
While many things have changed since my mother’s travels, the lure of travel remains as compelling as ever. Perhaps it is a restless spirit that runs in our family. Who knows what risks the road ahead holds, but for now, I will keep collecting stories to share.
